Isobelle waited for her to hand Achilles off to Jeffers, who was already rummaging in his pockets for treats and gazing at Achilles with his heart in his eyes. Together, the girls made their way toward Isobelle’s suite of rooms. Was this an awkward silence between them, or an ordinary one?

Gwen was so distracted by her own thoughts, as turbulent and chaotic as a summer storm, that she scarcely looked at the girl seated in one of the chairs by the hearth, waiting for them.

It was Isobelle who stopped short in surprise. “Sylvie? What’re you doing here?”

Gwen blinked and refocused on the figure she’d first taken to be Olivia.

Sylvie rose gracefully to her feet, inclining her head and smiling a small, spare smile. Her eyes, however, glowed with a keen, curious satisfaction. “When Olivia told us you were unwell last night and not accepting company, I assumed you would still be feeling poorly this morning. But I see you’ve been out riding with Céline—has Lord Whimsitt rescinded his restriction on your movements?” Her gaze took in their rumpled riding frocks and flushed faces.

Gwen fought an instinct to reach for a nonexistent sword at her belt. Though Sylvie’s tone was faultlessly polite and solicitous, the sharp interest in her eyes told Gwen to be wary.

Isobelle gave a sigh and cast an unconcerned smile at Gwen. “Well, Céline pointed out this morning that some fresh air and gentle exercise might help me feel better. And she was right, the clever thing! We never left the sight of the guards, so I wasn’t technically breaking Whimsitt’s orders.”

Gwen wished she could lie so easily.

Sylvie’s measuring gaze swung over toward Gwen and stayed. “Clever indeed,” she murmured. “Is fresh air and riding a common remedy for such ailments where you come from? Toussaint . . . that is in France, isn’t it?”

Gwen nodded, forcing a slight smile to curve her lips, trying to relax her shoulders. “Yes, northern France.”

Sylvie’s smile widened, and Gwen had only time to brace herself before the other girl murmured, “Ne vous sentez-vous pas seule, loin de chez vous? Quelle chance qu’Isobelle vous ait prise sous son aile.”

Gwen could sense Isobelle stiffening at her side. This was, at least as far as Isobelle was concerned, the one flaw in their masquerade. Gwen was not French, and a peasant girl certainly would have no reason to be taught the French language the way a well-bred noblewoman would.

Gwen had been right about Sylvie—she had been suspicious of Céline, and now . . . now she was testing her in the most direct way she knew how.