Isobelle’s fair eyebrows drew in. “Why do you always do that?” she asked, a flicker of genuine distress in her face. “If I compliment you on your riding or your smithing, you’re fine. But god forbid I should say you look nice, or you start scowling and rolling your eyes at me.”

Gwen blinked at her. Moments ago she’d been standing there, reflecting on how uncomfortable all the finery made her feel, and Isobelle had seen through her in a heartbeat. “I . . . I don’t know,” she managed, fighting the inexplicable urge to tell Isobelle absolutely everything about herself, her past, her heart. “But you’re right, I do do that. I’m sorry.”

The scowl smoothed away, and the gleaming lips curved a touch. “Why do I get the feeling you’re telling me what you think I want to hear? Never mind. Just say ‘thank you, Isobelle, you look gorgeous, too.’”

“Thank you, Isobelle.” Gwen let her breath out as Isobelle came up beside her to link arms and steer her over toward the festivities. A shiver ran up Gwen’s arm from the point where Isobelle’s hand rested against her sleeve, and Gwen ruthlessly halted the rather foolish smile threatening to spread across her features. “You look gorgeous, too.”

“Good girl,” said Isobelle, her tones velvety with smugness. “Now, we can either catch up with the girls—they’ve got a spot not too far from where the speeches will take place—or we can explore.” Isobelle’s eyes swung up and to the side, watching Gwen through her lashes.

Had Gwen imagined the slight, barely perceptible trailing off, a sign of reluctance, when Isobelle mentioned joining the other girls? Or did she just want Isobelle to be reluctant, want her to wish for Gwen’s company over that of the others? She’d never had a close female friend before—was it normal to want to keep her all to herself?

“Gwen?” The blue eyes widened a touch in concern as Isobelle turned toward her more fully. “You okay?”

“Uh.” Gwen cleared her throat. “I’ve never seen this version of the dragon bonfire before—it’s different in the village. Let’s explore.”

The concern evaporated, and Isobelle flashed her a look of pure delight. “Excellent, that’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

Isobelle led her through the makeshift festival streets, with tents set up in rows along the hillside selling food, drinks, and knickknacks. One stall owner was painting faces with a most spectacular level of skill—Isobelle proposed Gwen get a knight’s visor painted on her face, and then burst into silvery laughter at Gwen’s expression. Musicians were stationed at regular intervals, all playing their own music, so the tunes shifted as they walked—spritely fiddle morphed into soulful flute into a drum circle into a quartet playing a waltz.