“Enjoying the informality of the festival, I see,” he said, gaze sweeping across their rumpled blanket, the remains of their feast, and the semi-reclined forms of Isobelle’s friends. His voice had an uncomfortable thickness to it, like something—phlegm, perhaps—was permanently lodged in his throat. “How fortunate Lord Whimsitt decided to permit you to attend.”

“Indeed,” said Isobelle, allowing her smile to fade now the greeting was over. “What is tonight for, if not for relaxing the restrictions of conventional society?”

“I heard,” said Sylvie brightly, “that in Spain, their dragon bonfire ceremonies are masked, and it leads to all sorts of bad behavior. Though I’m not entirely sure I know what they mean by that.” That last was with an innocent, puzzled flutter of her lashes. Sir Ralph’s gaze slid toward her, allowing Isobelle a moment to breathe.

Sylvie was taking the heat off her friend, if only for a few heartbeats.

Gwen could have hugged her just then.

Sir Ralph’s piercing, raptor-like gaze swiveled back toward his intended prey. “I have brought you a gift, Lady Isobelle.”

Isobelle was a beat too late in responding. Gwen could feel the other girl’s flare of panic. A gift, from someone like Sir Ralph, was little more than a transactional loan.

Isobelle would be expected, eventually, to pay him back in whatever way he demanded.

“How kind of you,” she said finally.

“I seem to recall you being fond of dragonscale sweets,” said the man, reaching for a pouch hanging from his belt and unhooking it. “I thought I would bring you a bag, so you wouldn’t have to knock anyone down to get them this year.”

“Knock anyone . . .” Isobelle looked blank for a moment, until a wave of realization swept through her, and she pressed her lips together as though she might be sick. “I was seven years old when that happened, Sir Ralph.”

The man smiled, though it did little to dispel the predatory set of his eyes. “Yes, I distinctly remember remarking on it to my wife, may she rest in peace. Seven years old and already such a beauty.” He inclined his torso in as courtly a bow as any girl could wish from a suitor and placed the bag of sweets in front of Isobelle on the blanket. “Enjoy your evening, Lady Isobelle.” A glance toward Sylvie, even the slight pretense at a smile vanishing. “Ladies.” This, uttered in the same tone one might say “boils” or “fungus.” And then he was turning to move on toward a group of dignitaries.

Nobody spoke until he was out of earshot.

Hilde broke the silence with a vocalized shudder, extending one leg so she could kick at the bag of sweets and knock it off the blanket. Then she looked over at Isobelle, who was sitting stock-still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes distant. “He will not win, Isobelle,” said Hilde softly. “I know it in my heart.”