A fanfare erupted down by the bonfire, and the girls turned toward the action, sparing Gwen any further interrogation about the homeland she’d never been to. Lord Whimsitt had arrived to a smattering of halfhearted applause, and was starting to give a rather predictable speech about the trials of ages past, when dragons roamed the land. Rolling her eyes, Hilde began quizzing Jane on the latter’s newest boyfriend, a lowly squire to one of the visiting knights—But he’s so strong, girls, if you could see him without his shirt, my goodness.

Whimsitt’s speech wrapped up, and a visiting nobleman took his place to give his own speech. Others began to circulate among the clusters of society scattered along the hillside. Whenever they stopped at Isobelle’s miniature court, she would introduce Gwen as Céline and mention her fictional brother—doing exactly as Madame Dupont had instructed her. Fortunately, Gwen was not required to contribute much at all to these conversations. It seemed perfectly acceptable for her to smile shyly and say nothing.

A familiar form passing some distance away caught her eye, and Gwen had to stifle a laugh. When Isobelle glanced at her, Gwen leaned in and whispered, “There is Sir Evonwald. He’s still limping.”

“How tragic for him,” Isobelle whispered back, her lips close enough to Gwen’s ear to stir the hair there, and making Gwen lose track of her amusement altogether.

“Don’t look now, Isobelle,” said Sylvie sharply, her tone for once devoid of the knowing languor that so often marked it, her eyes fixed on someone amid the crowd.

Isobelle’s gaze snapped over, and she gave a swift gasp, her face paling. “Oh, crap. Hide me, girls. Quick—”

There was a flutter of activity and a hissed, “No, no, it’s too late, he’s seen you,” and then all was serene again, as a middle-aged man in a rust-colored doublet approached the blanket.

“Ah, Lady Isobelle,” he said slowly, coming to a halt a step closer to their blanket than was strictly necessary.

His proximity made Isobelle crane her neck a touch to look up at him—which she did, with a brittle, fully dimpled smile.

“Sir Ralph,” she replied. “How nice to see you.”

Gwen froze, unable to stop staring at the man towering over them. So this was the Sir Ralph who was favored to win the tournament—and thus, win Isobelle? This was the man she would have to face in the lists in order to win Isobelle’s freedom.

He must be three times Isobelle’s age, but where other men might have put on some fat and lost some muscle, he looked solidly built. His face was angular, and it would have even been handsome but for an undefinable miserly quality to his expression. The eyes were a pale hazel, narrowed, piercing, like those of a bird of prey.

Or a dragon, thought Gwen.