That caught Gwen off guard—enough to make her eyes widen—and then her solemn expression cracked into a smile. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader?”

Astreta laughed merrily. “I dance alongside a dozen others every night. We leap over, under, through. Of course I am a mind reader.”

Gwen echoed that laugh with a quiet one of her own, and Astreta drew a deep breath before continuing briskly, “I must see to the company, and make sure nobody plans to make any foolish decisions tonight. Isobelle, I shall write to you next month, from Spain.”

Isobelle had been so absorbed in the exchange that she startled at hearing her own name. “It was good to see you again, Astreta.”

Astreta flashed a smile at them, then poked her head into the other half of the tent to check the way was clear. “Matthew, put away your naked body!” she shouted. “There are ladies present.”

Isobelle made what felt like the obligatory disappointed sound, and led the way back out, turning her face up to the cool night air as she and Gwen left the tent.

“She was extraordinary,” Gwen breathed. “I’ve never met anyone like that in my life.”

“I suppose not,” Isobelle agreed, finding rather uncomfortably that now she might be the one experiencing a twinge of jealousy. “I’ve been trying to learn some Polish, to be polite, but it’s awfully difficult. Do you speak any?”

“Me? No.” Gwen sounded surprised at the idea. “Why would I?”

“You spoke lovely French,” Isobelle replied with a shrug. She didn’t want to make any assumptions about Gwen’s education—the French had been a surprise, and had reminded her that she didn’t know what commoners were taught. Maybe it wasn’t strange at all for Gwen to burst into another language as easily as she spoke English.

“French? Oh, yes.” Gwen sounded uncomfortable, then pressed on, letting Isobelle guide her through the crowd. “I think she’s right. Astreta, I mean. That’s what I have to learn, to fight in this thing. When I’m smithing, I can do it. It’s like being somewhere else, present but utterly focused. I don’t know how to do that with a sword in my hand, or a lance against my shoulder.”

“Perhaps,” Isobelle said slowly, “it’s not so different. When you’re smithing, you’re creating. Whether it’s something for yourself, or for someone else, you’re repairing, you’re bringing into being. It’s an act of . . . of love.” For some reason, Isobelle found her cheeks heating, and she kept her eyes on the ground.

She could feel Gwen’s eyes on her. “And you think that’s not so different from jousting? I wouldn’t call it especially loving to knock a guy off his horse with a big stick.”