“When you’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he continued, looking them over, “you’re always prepared. Might be the day comes, you can only rely on yourself. Now, who are you?”

“I’m Lady Isobelle of Avington.” Isobelle slid down from her saddle, biting her lip against a yelp as her thighs and . . . upper thighs screamed a protest after the long ride. “These are my companions, Madame Dupont and Lady Céline. May I say, sir, your farm is a delight—very well prepared for the fall of civilization.”

The man squinted at her, but Isobelle was on solid ground and waited with a bright smile. She was very much accustomed to people looking at her like they didn’t understand what was happening and wanted it all to stop.

“What is it you wanted?” he asked eventually.

“We were told you might be able to assist us in the creation of some documents,” Isobelle said, with her best dimples yet.

His expression cleared. “Me? No. I can’t even read, much less write. Who told you that nonsense?”

Isobelle dug in the purse at her belt, pulling out the small metal token Olivia had given her. “My maid, Olivia,” she said.

The man took it from her, inspecting its owl engraving and turning it over in his callused fingers. He barked a laugh. “So she’s calling herself Olivia now?” he asked, glancing up.

“Indeed,” Isobelle agreed, intrigued by the news that Olivia hadn’t always been Olivia.

“All right then,” he said, handing back the coin. “You’d better come in.”

The inside of the house was crammed tighter than Isobelle’s wardrobe. Bales of cloth were tied with string, crates were stacked to the rafters, barrels jammed into corners. A series of large cupboards ran down one side of the room, their doors ajar, probably because they couldn’t be closed. Oddities and canvases and jars and boxes and scrolls covered every surface, including the floor. A couple were marked with stamps or seals bearing the mark of the owl that had been on Olivia’s token. Madame Dupont took one look and announced that she’d go tend to the horses, and made a hasty retreat from the chaos.

The man, who introduced himself as Archer, peppered Gwen with questions, taking notes in some kind of shorthand that didn’t resemble any language Isobelle knew. Gwen scrambled to keep up, explaining the need for patents of nobility for her “brother,” showing him the pennant on the Sir Gawain figurine, and then—so easily and quickly that Isobelle could only stare—rattling off an entire imagined lineage for Archer to note down on the patents.

Was that what Gwen had been doing on the ride here? Inventing Gawain’s backstory, while Isobelle was mentally composing and discarding whole speeches that sought to explain what had happened between them, and apologize for it?