Isobelle fished out one of her bright, cheery smiles and bobbed a respectful curtsy of greeting. It never hurt to be polite to a hedge witch . . . just in case. “Oh, they are lovely. But there’s nothing I need right now.” Nothing you can help me with, anyway.

The witch’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Isobelle’s face, gaze shrewd enough to make even Isobelle fight the urge to step back. “Ah,” said the witch, her fingers moving to indicate a bracelet made of woven blackberry brambles. “Here, lady . . . a love charm. Not always effective unless a seed is already planted, but for you . . . yes, you will make it sing.”

Isobelle felt herself stiffen. “Thank you, no.” It was all she could do not to visibly recoil. The last thing she needed was for any of the knights in the tournament to do something so inconvenient as fall in love with her. She hurried away, uncomfortably aware of the hedge witch’s eyes following her.

She made her way through the market, passersby bathed a dusty gold by the sunset. The merchants of the day were beginning to wind down, packing away wares and shutting stalls in preparation for the evening’s celebrations. She, unfortunately, would be back up at the castle by then.

It was only as she made her way past a line of horses tethered to the old wishing tree, a town guard patiently pinning parking violations to their bridles, that she realized where she was headed.

Up ahead, the ridiculous swordsmith with the unfortunate facial hair was still swishing his noisy blade around for a new pack of admirers. Across from him, the old smith was already gone, and his daughter was packing up their stall.

Gwen. That’s what he called her.

She had green eyes and fair skin and a generous helping of freckles. A black braid hung over one shoulder, and a streak of soot on one eyebrow lent her a sardonic appearance. During the knife demonstration, Isobelle had felt the oddest impulse to lean in and wipe that smudge away.

Then Gwen looked up and caught her staring.

Isobelle paused. She couldn’t very well melt away into the crowd—not in this dress, anyway. It was ridiculously, fabulously pink. So, lifting her chin, she set sail toward the stall.

Gwen’s eyes widened, but Isobelle had long ago concluded that she couldn’t pause her daily business for people to get over their surprise and confusion, or she’d never get anything done.

“I’ve been thinking about the horseshoes,” she said, launching herself into the conversation without much idea of where she’d take it next, but interested to find out.