Usually, after tea parties, Isobelle reclined in a languid fashion upon her daybed until her head was in good working order. Now, she was in the worst possible shape to be discovering a drawback to recruiting a fit, strong blacksmith as your partner-in-crime: they’re fast. By the time Isobelle completed her barely controlled descent of the stairs, both hands grabbing at the wall, she caught only a flash of Gwen’s skirts as she disappeared around the corner at the end of the hallway.

Isobelle hurried after her, but when she rounded the corner, there was no sign of which way Gwen had gone next. A particularly stern-looking portrait squinted down at her in disapproval, and Isobelle rested one hand on the wall to catch her breath and return his glare. “You know,” she muttered, “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

She had very little brain available for thinking through what had just happened as she commenced her search for her friend. Almost all of it was taken up with the combined tasks of guessing where Gwen might have run to and keeping herself upright.

There was no sign of her errant blacksmith down in the stables—though Achilles was very pleased to see her. She had no apples in her pockets to feed him, so she gave him a caress on his velvety nose.

She crossed into the wing of the castle that housed the ballroom, venturing into Madame Dupont’s territory, hovering at the door to see if she could spot Gwen hiding among the rows of young children currently learning their first carole.

And eventually, having managed a full lap of the castle, she was forced to drift back up to her own quarters. How could I have miscalculated so very badly?

She was about to drop onto the edge of her bed, defeat and confusion dragging her downward, when she saw a silhouette against the sheer curtains of the window overlooking the balcony stretching from her room to Gwen’s. Isobelle’s blood thundered in her ears as she eased the heavy door to the balcony open enough to peek through.

Gwen had her head bowed, both her hands braced against the stone railing, and she was taking long, steadying breaths. It wasn’t quite sunset yet, but the sun was low in the sky, bathing Gwen in a golden light. She seemed almost to glow.

Isobelle, having given up on the pursuit completely, pulled up short at the sight of her quarry, simply gazing at her. Gwen looked like a painting, a goddess or queen whose every detail had been lingered over by a master’s delicate brush. Suddenly, Isobelle felt something very close to . . . shyness? This was a new experience for her.

“Gwen?” she ventured, hovering at the open door. “May I join you?”