She knew. Somehow, this airheaded noblewoman with her pink dress and perfectly sculpted hair knew. The people in Gwen’s village pretended not to notice that Amos’s daughter had taken over his smithing tasks with increasing frequency these past years—with her dad unable to work with any consistency, it was either accept Gwen or live without a blacksmith at all. Don’t ask about the blacksmith girl, and we won’t tell you about the blacksmith girl.

It wasn’t technically against the law for women to be tradesmen, but men didn’t find the idea particularly comfortable. A lot of female crafters tended to find themselves thrown into debtors’ prison after guards confiscated their “ill-gotten” wealth by calling it stolen.

Panic interrupted the rising blush, threatening to drain all that blood away again.

Then Lady Isobelle smiled, delight radiating from her every perfect pore. “I’ll take five of them,” she said. “How much?”

Gwen was beginning to feel like a fence post in a raging tempest—clinging to the tiniest scrap of dry ground while the hurricane that was Lady Isobelle threatened to tear her loose and swirl her all about.

“That’ll be five . . .” she began, but then stopped. Behind Isobelle, the lady’s maid—Olivia—was shaking her head and signaling to catch Gwen’s attention. While she watched, the other woman stuck out her thumb, turned it upward, and bounced it. “Uh, I mean, ten . . . ? Ten pen—” The thumb bounced again.

Gwen hesitated again, unwilling to raise the price more than double what it ought to be.

“Ten pennies?” Isobelle asked. “Or ten shillings?”

The bottom dropped out of Gwen’s stomach.

Isobelle flashed her that radiant smile. “Ten shillings it is.”

Olivia cleared her throat again. “And we’ll need nails to hang them on,” she reminded her lady.

Isobelle nodded vaguely. “Oh, yes. Add another five shillings onto that, would you, Liv? Thanks.”

While her maid dug in a fat purse jingling with coins, Isobelle leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, and beamed at Gwen, who’d lost all ability to move or speak.

“It’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you and perusing your wares,” she said. “Your father’s wares, I mean.” The smile turned decidedly impish. One of the other ladies made an impatient sound, prompting a roll of Isobelle’s eyes. “Oh, all right. Olivia will pay you, and I’m sure Sir Orson will be only too pleased to carry the horseshoes back.” Then she paused, winked—actually winked—at Gwen, and whirled away, the storm sweeping on across the market, the other ladies following in her wake like bits of colored fabric swirling in the gale.

Gwen stayed where she was, standing utterly still, staring down at the handful of coins the lady’s maid deposited into her hand.

It was enough to buy her way into the qualifying round of the tournament.