In the bright light of the morning, Isobelle wasn’t sure what she needed, except to talk to Gwen. Whatever had happened the night before, now their heads were clear, and she would fix it. Isobelle’s greatest strength had always been her ability to select a course of action and then simply believe her way to success, and that was what she would do now. She would fix this hiccup with Gwen, and things would go back as they were.

So she rolled out of bed and set about strapping on her own armor.

The right clothes always fortified one against difficult situations. She chose the deep purple dress with yellow trim that reminded her of an iris, and, wondering vaguely where Olivia had gotten to, wriggled into it on her own.

Leaning into the botanical theme, she bound up her hair with green ribbon, pinched her cheeks to make them pink, and headed for the door to the living room—only to find the world had begun its morning without her.

Olivia had a map spread out on the table and was leaning over it with Gwen and Madame Dupont, their three heads bowed together as Olivia traced out a route with her finger. Saddlebags were sitting in a heap in the middle of the floor, and a pile of bread and cheese presumably constituted breakfast.

Gwen glanced up as Isobelle emerged. Her gaze lingered briefly, then dropped to the map again.

You can hide behind cartography for now, Sir Gwen, Isobelle told her silently, trying not to examine too closely the stab of disappointment she felt at Gwen’s unwillingness to meet her gaze. But we have a conversation waiting for us.

“Good, you’re up,” Olivia said. “The three of you can get on your way.”

“To?” Isobelle asked, heading for the bread and cheese. Mental and emotional confusion was no reason to skip breakfast. In fact, Isobelle had discovered that breakfast often helped sort out such things. Or at least provided a helpful distraction.

“I’m sending you to an old friend of mine,” Olivia replied, stepping in behind her to tighten the laces on her dress. “He may be reluctant to assist you—if he objects, give him this.” She pressed a small round token into Isobelle’s hand. It bore a worn depiction of an owl in flight, each feather individually engraved into the metal.

Isobelle eyed Olivia askance. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking what this is about?”

Olivia shrugged. “He’s an old friend. This will remind him of a debt he owes me. It should take you half a day’s ride to reach him—Madame Dupont will escort you.”