She pasted on her best imitation of Isobelle’s flighty smile and joined the other girls. They all looked spectacular—Sylvie was in a saffron gown that contrasted with her hair and her complexion like the yellow and brown petals of a pansy. Jane too drew the eye in a dress that loved her curves—Hilde was teasing her about her cleavage as Gwen approached.

Once she sat, the aromas of fried dough and grilled meat hit her nose, and she half forgot her qualms. Hilde gave her arm a kindly pat and then handed her a metal cup.

“Dragonsblood punch,” the German girl said with a wink. “Nowhere near as strong as the tea, ich verspreche.”

Jane gave a cheerful laugh and downed her cup, and all was normal again. Well, all except for Sylvie, who regarded Gwen with a flat, expressionless stare as she sipped her punch.

Though that, Gwen supposed, was becoming normal, too. She wished she could tell whether it was just that the other girl didn’t like her, or that she could tell something wasn’t quite right about “Céline” and her cover story.

Gwen took a cautious sip of her drink—it was sweet and dark, mulled wine mixed with berry juices, liable to stain her whole mouth a charming maroon—and surveyed the food as the other girls regaled Isobelle with bits of gossip they’d picked up from around the festival.

The main bonfire, some distance down the hill from where they sat, was being lit. Workers carried bundles of sticks and straw to the giant pile of wood, where a torchbearer set them ablaze before they were thrown, streaming sparks, onto the heap. The whole thing leapt to life, changing the colors of the night from violet and azure to smoldering orange and gold.

Isobelle had seated herself beside Gwen. “I’m excited for you to see the ceremony,” she said, leaning back with a grin. “Even if most of it is boring speeches about the days when the villages hit by dragon attacks would send representatives to the castle seeking aid and shelter.”

Sylvie cocked her head in their direction, one eyebrow rising. “Do they not have dragon relief ceremonies where you come from, Céline?”

“Hmm?” Gwen blinked at her, pretending she hadn’t heard to buy herself time to think. “Not in Toussaint, no. The dragons tended to stay farther north, and at any rate we are a small enough province that the—the peasants”—Gwen choked the word out—“were dealt with one on one.”