All she needed now was the courage to show up among the knights and ladies and pageantry—and enough luck that no one would notice she could never really belong in that world. To hide long enough to prove to herself, just once, that she was good enough.

Chapter Two
Ridiculously, fabulously pink

Most of Lady Isobelle’s attention was currently devoted to a particularly good slice of cheesecake on a stick. The vendor had tried to market it as being dragon-shaped and impaled on a knight’s lance—everyone was merchandising around the tournament—but if it had ever resembled that legendary beast, that resemblance had ended when she’d nibbled its head off.

The others had wanted one of those potato-on-a-stick snacks, where they cut it into one enormous spiral, impaled it (quite the theme, she mused), and fried it. It was outrageous that the superior cheesecake had the shorter line, but it did mean she had time on her hands. Even dear old Orson, slightly puzzled to find himself weighed down by a bag holding five horseshoes, was lining up with the ladies, listening with a polite expression to Hilde’s firm opinions on the proper treatment of potatoes.

Isobelle’s maid, Olivia, was watching her back away into the crowd with a stern eye. Isobelle wrinkled her nose in reply, wordlessly signaling that she wouldn’t go far, and ducked behind a passing wagon.

And so Lady Isobelle of Avington, jewel of her absent father’s eye, setter of fashions, center of the castle’s famed gossip network, and most eligible bachelorette of the king’s court, vanished into the bustling crowd.

As much as she could ever vanish, anyway. The owners of the stalls and carts tended to track Isobelle’s progress, recognizing instantly that she had wealth to spare. Isobelle often imagined someone would be able to follow her all throughout the hubbub of the market, just by listening for the rise and fall of voices from the merchants.

One voice penetrated the din, sweet but demanding, and Isobelle found her steps turning toward the stall even before she realized what she was doing.

The woman behind the counter was a hedge witch. Her plump cheeks creased in a smile as Isobelle approached, and stretched even wider when Isobelle stopped, frowning. It was never particularly clear how much magic a witch actually wielded, if any at all. Had Isobelle turned toward this stall because of a spell, or simply because the woman had honed her vocal instrument to such a degree that she could derail just about anyone?

“A charm for the lady,” said the hedge witch, the offer far more command than question, gesturing to an array of attractive baubles made of wicker, braided wire, and polished stones.