When Gwen woke up, she knew she’d had the dream again—and that she’d been loud. She knew she’d had the dream because she was feeling exhilarated, loose-limbed, and a little flushed in the face; she knew she’d been vocal about it because Agnes, the dark-haired lady-in-waiting who slept in the adjoining chamber, kept biting her lip to keep from laughing and wouldn’t look her in the eye.

“Agnes,” Gwen said, sitting up in bed and fixing her with a well-practiced and rather imperious look. “Don’t you have water to fetch, or something?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said Agnes, giving a little curtsy and then rushing from the room. Gwen sighed as she stared up at the bed hangings, lush velvet heavy with embroidery. It was probably a mistake to send her away so soon—she was young and flighty, and would likely be off gossiping with anybody she encountered. At least Gwen’s nocturnal exploits wouldn’t stay top billing for long. Today was no ordinary day; tournament season was finally upon them. Any mortifying morsels Agnes slipped the other ladies-in-waiting would be forgotten in all the excitement by noon.