Below in the barn, the horses and a couple of sweet, but rather fragrant, donkeys occupied the stalls. Isobelle sat with her feet dangling over empty space, basking in the narrative glory of it all and nibbling on a piece of straw. She felt delightfully rural, and she thought the straw probably made her look quite like a philosopher.

“What?” Gwen looked up from where she was trying to kick a bunch of hay into something shaped like a mattress.

“That’s where they always sleep in tales,” Isobelle replied. “The hero out to seek his fortune, forced to seek refuge in a humble hayloft.”

Archer had a single spare bed in his cottage, and—aware there were also stories hinging entirely on the predicament of there being only one bed, for she had read many of them with great relish—Isobelle had insisted Madame Dupont take it. The last thing she wanted was for Gwen to think she was being flippant again about being close to each other. Still, something in her had wilted just a touch when Gwen agreed quickly and firmly. Isobelle wondered if by chance she had read the same stories.

Beneath her dangling feet, one of the donkeys shifted its weight and let out a little rumbling sigh. Isobelle wrinkled her nose. “I wonder if we should fetch some of the dried herbs,” she mused. “To scent the hay.”

“I think we might be beyond the help of herbs,” Gwen said, dumping another armful of hay on the pile and then spreading her cloak on top of it.

“Maybe we could wash the donkeys,” Isobelle suggested brightly, abandoning her perch to see about her own hay bed.

Gwen gave an explosive huff of badly restrained laughter. “I’d kind of love to see you try.” She sighed, eyeing their nest. “Dress it up how you like, a hayloft is smelly and itchy and uncomfortable.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were in a ballad,” said Isobelle, spreading her own cloak and then dramatically collapsing onto her makeshift mattress, flinging out her arms.

Gwen was silent as she blew out the lantern, and Isobelle’s senses magnified every small sound and movement in the dark. She heard the soft pad of Gwen’s footsteps, the rustle of the straw and the soft rasp of the cloak as she found her spot to lie down. She felt the way the two cloaks shifted against each other every time Gwen moved.

Here was the chance Isobelle had been waiting for all day—to talk to Gwen. She drew a deep breath and then immediately sneezed violently, her whole body curling around itself.

“Are you all right?” Gwen asked cautiously once she’d subsided.

“I think I might be allergic to straw,” Isobelle admitted.

There was a muffled sound suspiciously akin to a snort.

“They might have left a few details out of the ballads.” Isobelle sighed. “I should have known.”