Isobelle, however, failed to notice Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm. Or, if she had, she was trying to make up for it with a surfeit of excitement all on her own. “Oooh, Gwen, we’ll have such a blast!” She still wasn’t quite meeting her eyes, addressing Gwen’s collarbone instead. “It’s a great party every year, but this year they’re pulling out all the stops because the tournament is here. You’ll love it, I promise. The food, if nothing else. Oh, and the dancers—you’ll see.”

Gwen summoned up a weak smile. “Sounds great, then. Maybe we ought to slip off for some more jousting practice, though, Madame—”

“Non,” the older woman interjected. “You must rest. The truth is . . .” She paused, clearly struggling with whatever she was about to say. She too seemed to be having trouble looking directly at Gwen.

Gwen looked over at Isobelle to find the other girl finally willing to meet her gaze, if only to signal her own confusion at Madame Dupont’s uncharacteristic hesitation.

Dupont glared down at the reins she had clenched in one hand, still wrestling with whatever she wanted to say. Finally, she let her breath out in a quick, sharp sigh, and looked back up at Gwen, her gaze frank. “The truth is, you are a natural on horseback. It is hard to believe you have not been fighting this way all your life. I envy how easily it comes to you.”

Gwen could not move or think, distantly grateful for Achilles’s solid body holding her up. Dupont was sparing with praise—Gwen usually had to find validation in between the lines of her critiques, and in the way she’d ramped up the difficulty of her training exercises so quickly. She glanced at Isobelle, only to find the other girl staring at Madame Dupont with her mouth open.

Dupont’s eyebrows lowered and drew together in one of the most fearsome scowls Gwen had ever seen from her. “Don’t gawk at me! Elles me regardent comme si c’était moi la folle!” She wheeled her horse around and went cantering up the road and through the gate, muttering to herself in French as she moved out of earshot.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Isobelle gave a soft laugh. “Gosh,” she said, turning her horse to watch the Frenchwoman depart. “That was unexpected.”

“Tell me about it,” murmured Gwen. Beneath her, Achilles stamped his foot impatiently. He could see the stables where he’d be allowed to take off this ridiculous side saddle—and, more important, get hand-fed last year’s carrots and apples by his new best friend, the stableman—and Gwen was sitting here doing nothing as far as he was concerned.