Chapter 20
TWENTY
CALLAHAN
It’s strange to have a girl in Camlann House.
We didn’t speak on the way across campus, and now that we’re standing inside the house, I feel obligated to break the silence. Kingston didn’t give me many instructions—he never does—but I am supposed to show her around.
She’s staring—staring up, which is the first place you’d stare if you’d never really taken this place in before.
I know I did when I came in here last year.
Even after however many years in churches and Catholic schools, having archways and columns and chandeliers in the place you’re supposed to live is something different.
And I don’t mean to be staring—not at her, not at anything around Camlann House—but it’s hard not to.
Because it is strange to have a girl in Camlann House.
Especially a pretty one.
I don’t know why I notice or even can tell that she’s pretty, but she is. Even when she’s clearly exhausted and wearing Lanz’s sweats. Something about the set of her lips, the curve of her throat, the long hair streaming over her shoulder.
It’s nice .
“This is the front hall,” I say after a moment, just to say something.
She—Gwenna—looks at me. Draws her brows together. “So I see.”
Right. Obviously. She’s a girl, not an infant , Callahan . I mentally smack myself in the forehead.
“Lots of swords,” she observes, eyes flitting from one set of crossed blades to another, the displays mounted on the paneled walls.
“Yeah,” I agree. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. Give my head a shake.
I’m supposed to be showing her around, I remember.
I take a few steps forward and indicate the room to our left. “Living room.”
She follows my lead, drawing closer and peering into the space, taking in the heavy leather armchairs and sofas, the Persian rug, the massive stone mantelpiece. Then she fixes her gaze on me.
Her eyes are really green.
“Are we just naming rooms now?”
“What?” I say, taken aback.
“Front hall, living room,” she echoes. “No offense, but…I can tell that’s what these are. And I have been here before.”
“Right.” I nod, breathe in. I’m not used to giving color commentary or context, but I suppose I can try. “Of course. Um, this is where we hang out, usually, if we’re not in class. Or studying. Or practicing.”
“So basically never?”
The joke catches me off guard. “Ah, yeah. We are…pretty busy, I guess.” I scratch the back of my head. “But it’s a nice space. And sometimes we’ll light a fire if…”
Too late, I realize what I’ve said. I feel my face go red. “Sorry. I?— ”
“It’s fine.” Her tone is polite, distant. I kick myself.
“Let’s, uh…” I escort us out of there and try to stay on task.
We cover the library, the kitchen, the dining room?—
“Breakfast is at seven,” I say, gripping one of the high-backed chairs as light streams through the leaded-glass windows.
The table up here is simpler than the Black Table.
Still an expensive antique, but nothing showy.
“Lunch at noon. Although usually we all take it to go or just grab something on campus. Dinner is…whenever practice is over.”
“You all eat here, too?”
“We have a chef.” I wince as I say it. It’s still a little foreign, even to me—sure, I’ve lived at Camlann over a year now, but I’m still the kid who spent summers bussing tables at the Milton Hoosic Club. In my mind, I work for the chefs, not vice versa.
Gwenna just nods. But frowns as she does it.
“Sorry. Just…this is a lot,” she says. “You all just…live here? Like this?”
I shove my hands back in my jacket pockets. “We don’t have a choice.”
Confusion colors her features.
“It’s just how the team has always been,” I say—the simplest explanation I can offer. “And Luther Pendragon makes sure we get what we need.”
She nods.
“We won’t really be around to bother you,” I reassure her. “Most of the time we’re in the salle. The fencing hall,” I add, when her confusion lingers. “Where we practice.”
Gwenna blinks. “You don’t practice in the gym?”
I shake my head. “The salle’s here, on the ground floor—the walk-out level towards the lake.”
She looks over her shoulder, to the hall that connects us back to the kitchen, the two closed doors that lead downstairs.
“So that’s the salle,” she says .
“On the left,” I agree. But as soon as I say it, her gaze drifts to the door on the right.
The door down to the lowest level of all.
My chest seizes.
“That’s nothing you need to worry about,” I say quickly. “Here. Let me show you your room.”
There are more bedrooms than there are swordsmen, God knows why—the house is just too big for only four residents.
We’ve already laid claim to the best rooms—Lanz and I on one side of the landing, Kingston and Kai on the other—but the smaller one, the one Kingston said to give her, isn’t bad by any means.
Silently, I open the door for her. She enters silently, taking it in.
“Small,” I say, “but there should be plenty of room for your stuff.”
From her place at the window, she shoots a look at me.
“What?” I say. Did I say something wrong?
“ Stuff ,” she repeats. “ What stuff? My room burned down, remember?”
I shuffle my weight from foot to foot. “Kingston…said he’d take care of it.”
I nod at the closet, and her mouth falls open in surprise.
I may be a Knight, used to living here with all the luxuries and conveniences of Camlann House. But I’m still not used to this —money, gifts, like it’s nothing.
And neither, apparently, is Gwenna.
It’s a full wardrobe. Perfect. Complete. More than complete. And definitely top-tier stuff. Sweaters and pants, tidily folded. Blouses and skirts, hanging smooth and unwrinkled. A dozen or more pairs of shoes, still in tissue-paper-filled boxes.
Slowly, she puts a hand to her mouth.
“This is…” She pivots to me, slowly. “It’s too much.”
I swallow. “It’s from him. ”
She blinks. Peers at the closet again. Tiptoes to the dresser, opens a drawer. Widens her eyes. Shuts it again.
“So does he…know my bra size?” she says, tipping her head at the dresser. “Or just guessing?”
“I…”
I have no idea. I don’t even know what sizes bras come in. Small, medium, large?
“He might have asked Morgan?” I guess.
That makes her smile. And it feels nice to make her smile.
Except it’s not just that.
It’s…her.
I’m just doing what Kingston asked. Ordered. Get her here, so we can protect her.
But she’s not some scared, shy little thing. She’s not little at all, actually, maybe five-eight or five-nine. It’s more that…compared to us, our stuff, she almost looks small, in the space of one of these high-ceilinged rooms. Delicate among all the sturdy masculinity.
And that’s…different.
Powerful, in its own kind of way.
Gwenna’s back at the closet. She lifts a blouse by its hanger, surveys it. Replaces it. Takes out another.
“You don’t like it?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that.” She says it without looking at me, turning her attention to the shoes. Picks up a boot, studies it: black, leather, thick soles and buckles. Good for a New England winter. “More practical than what Kai got me, that’s for sure.”
She drops it to the floor, starts to ease in the toe of her left foot, but winces and stops.
Without thinking, I step to her side, offer her an arm. She looks up at me, quizzical.
“I thought…you were losing your balance,” I manage.
She laughs a little, tucks hair behind her ear. “I’m stable. Physically.” But she still clasps my forearm, steadies herself as she lowers her body to sit on the desk chair. With her settled, I instinctively duck down to retrieve her shoe, dropping to one knee to reach for it.
“Thanks,” she says, and it’s only once I follow her gaze that I realize I’m still holding the boot, still kneeling at the foot of her chair. Another little smile. “You…planning to help me with that?”
She’s kidding—I’m pretty sure she’s kidding. But when I look up, I almost lose my balance, even kneeling.
Because she’s watching me. Not like Lanz. Not with hunger.
With expectation.
“Well?” she asks. Calm. Measured.
Like she knows I’ll obey.
And the worst part is…
She’s right.
“Sure.” I nod.
Just to be helpful. Just to be efficient.
Just—
My fingers tremble as I undo the buckles, tug at the zipper, my throat is dry.
Her foot—bare, delicate, pale—is warm under my palm as I ease it into the shoe, her ankle lightly shaded with bruise.
I can smell the clean edge of her soap, maybe even her skin, and I’m so worried I’m hurting her, but she doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch. As if I’m just…supposed to be here.
Kneeling.
Touching.
Serving her.
God.
I blink. She’s saying something, and I’m not listening.
“Sorry?” I say, my heart hammering at the front of my ribs. The shoe. I finish up the fastenings, quickly and clumsily.
“It’s…nothing,” she says. “A joke. I was just asking if you always take such good care of your guests.”
“I…don’t know,” I say. “You’re my first. ”
Heat creeps up my neck before I even realize what I’ve said. What it sounds like.
Oh, God.
But if Gwenna notices it at all, she doesn’t show it. Just thinks for a moment.
“So yes, then,” she says at last. “By definition, you do.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I suppose she’s right.
“If the shoe fits,” I say.
Her whole face lights up when she laughs. “And, in fact, it does.” She presses her lips together. “Thank you, Callahan.”
I nod. Nod again.
Then remember I’m meant to speak.
“My pleasure,” I say.
And it is.
Even if I don’t know what, exactly, she’s thanking me for.
An hour later, the air in the salle is thick and heavy, the stillness only broken with the swipe and clash of metal on metal.
Late-afternoon sun pours onto the piste as we spar back and forth. Lanz’s hits are sharp, aggressive; his footwork quick and deft. My parries are solid, but my feet feel like lead in my shoes, almost dragging along the piste, and my focus is everywhere and nowhere.
En garde, allez, halt.
“All good?” Lanz lunges, thrusts the epee tip right for my shoulder, but I dodge.
“Fine.”