“Astreta!” she squealed, and the dancer—still shedding her shimmering silver knight’s costume—turned to greet her with a laugh and seized her to plant a kiss on each cheek, then returned for a third where she’d begun.

“Isobelle, moja droga!”

Isobelle turned to see Gwen’s expression melting from one of wariness to a shy pleasure at seeing their reunion. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of the tent, a smile slowly curving her lips.

“Gwen, this is my friend Astreta—her troupe just arrived from Poland. I thought you’d like to meet a woman who can do a man’s job as well as he can. Astreta, this is Gwen, who is a blacksmith of great skill.”

“As well as he can?” Astreta asked with mock outrage and a strong Polish accent. “Please, no man can leap as I do.”

“Of course not,” Isobelle agreed, some part of her mind concentrating on Gwen, who’d gone quiet. “We have brought you sweets.”

She handed over the little bag, and Astreta held up a hand in a gesture that informed them they would have her attention again very soon, then pulled it open to inspect what was inside.

“They’re from a place in Paris she likes,” Isobelle told Gwen as Astreta nibbled on one and made extremely happy noises in the background.

“How do you know each other?” There was a carefulness in the way Gwen asked the question, setting the words out like she was laying a table with particularly fine porcelain and didn’t want to break anything.

“I bluffed my way backstage last time the troupe was in town,” Isobelle confessed, tilting her head as she tried to parse that caution. What was Gwen really wondering?

Again, that pressure inside Isobelle that demanded an answer—that demanded she look at its questions directly and understand what they were—pushed to be released.

“Hard to believe you’d do something like that,” Gwen replied with her customary wry sarcasm, but again, there was that layer of . . . something. Could Gwen be . . . ? Isobelle hardly dared whisper the word to herself. But if she didn’t know better, it would almost seem as if Gwen was jealous.

“I wanted to talk to the costume designers,” Isobelle pressed on, like one who had been traipsing through the woods, then heard a concerning noise, and was now proceeding with considerably more thoughtfulness. “But then I met Astreta, and we got to talking about dessert . . .” She gestured to the sweets, which the dancer had already half devoured, but was now packing away. “I promised I’d come back this time with her favorite.”

“And so you did,” Astreta replied with a grin. “I must save a few for my husband, or he will be, what do you say? Cranky. He is already not pleased he had to dance the part of the dragon’s behind.”