“We could dance?” Isobelle’s offer was a touch hesitant. The only couples moving around the quartet were composed of men and women. In the village, no one would care too much to see two women or two men dancing together, even in a partnered dance such as this one. But perhaps the rules of high society were stricter about this—they certainly were about far more trivial matters, like which fork to use and how deep to drop into a curtsy.

“I don’t know how much more dancing I can take after Madame Dupont’s endless drills,” Gwen admitted ruefully, giving Isobelle’s hand a squeeze in the crook of her elbow. “Though, between you and me, I actually rather enjoy it.”

“Anyone who doesn’t enjoy Dupont isn’t paying attention,” Isobelle replied airily, moving along from the quartet. “That woman could defeat a dragon all on her own.”

“Gosh, how marvelous would it be to see that?” Gwen’s mind had filled with the most fantastic image of the stately middle-aged woman in armor, astride a war horse, javelin tucked under her arm as she faced down an enormous, craggy bronze dragon. “It’d almost be worth having dragons around just to witness it.”

Isobelle laughed, evidently not nearly so captivated by the image as Gwen, and led them on through the festival.

Scents of grilling meat and frying dough filled the air, along with wafts here and there of spices and caramelizing sugars. Music continued to float by, tugging Gwen’s attention this way and that. Though the big bonfires had yet to be lit, smaller fires had been laid, sending their sparks shooting skyward like ephemeral fireflies trying to court the stars.

Suddenly, the only thing Gwen could think of was the night before, in the hayloft, when she’d interrupted Isobelle.

But what I want to say is—

Isobelle, please.

As Gwen kept her eyes resolutely on a floating ember until it vanished against the indigo velvet above them, she could have kicked herself black and blue for not letting Isobelle finish that sentence.

Then a gust of flame shot out inches from Gwen’s face, close enough that the heat struck her before she knew what she was witnessing. A lithe young dancer, his chest bare and his leggings leaving little to the imagination, bounced around in front of them, sipped from a flask, and then shot another jet of fire up into the sky.

Belatedly, Gwen realized she was clutching at Isobelle, and her throat was raw from some sort of shriek. Isobelle, for her part, seemed rather more collected, and was doing her damnedest to hide the way the corners of her mouth wanted to dance.

Gwen carefully loosened her grip on Isobelle’s arm. “Whoops.”

Isobelle raised an eyebrow, her grin positively lascivious. “Hold on to me all you want, young lady,” she said in a low voice. “I’m sturdy, I can take it.”