Chapter 33
It must have been late in the morning for the way light streamed through the bars of her open window.
Fresh white flowers adorned the table by the fire, which had burned down to smoldering embers.
She liked that contrast when sleeping; a heated room with an open window to let a cold blast zip through when the wind saw fit.
And, as promised, she was not alone. Arthur sat in a chair next to her bed, reading.
He looked different when he thought no one was paying attention to him.
His brow pulled together slightly more than was natural as his eyes followed the page left to right and back quickly like a silent typewriter.
There was one instance when his lips moved the slightest bit, half forming the words he read as the corners of his mouth ticked up.
Whatever picture the passage painted must have pleased him.
She’d have liked to watch him longer, but his eyes flicked up to her. Arthur set the book down and leaned toward her. “How are you feeling?”
“Not nearly as poorly as I’d expect.” She scooted to prop herself in a seated position. Her voice was raspy, and Arthur passed her a cup of water from the bedside table.
He stretched his neck from side to side, failing to stifle a yawn.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“A little.” Before Vera could begin to feel bad about his discomfort of a night spent in a chair, he went on. “How do you feel about allowing Gawain to treat your wounds?”
The cup was halfway to Vera’s mouth when his words stopped her. “But—Merlin will know. Gawain will tell him, won’t he?”
“He might,” Arthur relented. “But not any time soon. Merlin’s already gone.
I can tend a wound well enough on the battlefield, but it would be better for Gawain to examine and heal them.
It might sound foolish, but Lancelot thinks he’s trustworthy, and that is enough for me.
” He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Speaking of, he’s eager to see you. When you’re ready.”
“Who is?” Vera sat up straighter. “Lancelot?”
Arthur nodded. “He doesn’t mind waiting until your wounds—”
“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt badly,” Vera insisted. “I’m ready.” The last words she’d shared with Lancelot were horrid. She was eager to say new ones.
She assumed he would have to send for Lancelot, but Arthur had barely opened the door to their chamber before he charged right in.
“Were you sleeping in the corridor?” Vera asked through a disbelieving laugh.
He didn’t answer. He rushed to her side, pulled the chair Arthur had slept in as close to the bed as he could, and sank into it.
“Vera?” Arthur said, drawing her attention and causing her heart to somersault. “I’ll return soon.”
She nodded and held her breath as she watched him go, like she could hold in how it felt to hear him say her name.
“You’re … you’re still here,” Lancelot said. His eyes searched her face and landed on the bandage on her shoulder, peeking out from the neck of her nightgown. Trancelike, his hand drifted up to touch it—so gently. She could barely feel the brush of his fingertips through the bandaging.
“I’m here,” Vera reassured him.
“I—I was an ass yesterday morning. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop. You don’t even need to apologize—”
“Yes, Guinna,” he snapped back, grimacing, and she knew it was only at himself. “Yes, I do. You had endured a sort of torture I can only imagine—and that was before what happened last night.”
Unbidden, her eyes shifted to his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
She knew the way it would look if he were stabbed in the neck, how it would heave and stutter.
Knew the way blood spurted from an artery with force at each slowing beat of a heart.
She met his eyes again. He’d seen the way her face changed.
Two lines carved down the middle of his brow.
“I saw the chapel,” he said. “And the body.”
“I killed him.” It was the confession she’d been bearing like a leaden weight. She’d killed Thomas. It didn’t matter that it had been born of self-defense. All she could remember was the fear in his eyes as his life left him.
Lancelot lay a hand on her knee. “I know.”
The way he said it … like he understood in a way no human should. But it was the gentleness in his voice that undid her. Vera’s tears came quickly after that, tumbling into racking sobs that shook her sore body.
“Oh, love,” he whispered. Lancelot climbed onto the bed next to her and gingerly wrapped his arms around her. “I know. I know.”
Vera clung to his shirt and cried into his shoulder.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked.
She did. And when she tried to apologize for struggling to say it through tears, he hushed her, insisting she take all the time she needed.
He held her closer as she explained how Thomas pulled her to the floor when she finally (stupidly, belatedly) tried to run away.
He rubbed her arm as she finished the story with the bloodied knife in her hand.
“Why did he do it?” Vera asked as her breathing steadied. “Even if he was right about you and me, was that enough for him to try to kill me or control me or—I don’t understand. He was only ever kind to me before that. A friend, even.”
Lancelot’s chin had been atop her head. She pulled back and craned her neck to look up at him, hoping he could explain it. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know. People can be awful, and sometimes there’s no reason for it.”
Vera curled back into his shoulder, as comfortable with him as she’d ever been with anyone and absolutely certain that there was no intention in it beyond care.
But she wasn’t a fool. She knew what even the appearance of their affections had wrought and was grateful for the privacy that allowed it now.
For the privacy Arthur had given them. A mad huff of a chuckle escaped her.
“What?” Lancelot said.
“Last night, when Arthur told me about everything, he suggested I take up with you.”
“Did he now?” His pitch lifted with his amusement.
“Mmhmm. And when I insisted I wasn’t interested,” Lancelot scoffed in mock offense, “he suggested Gawain.”
He laughed loudly at that. “What an impeccable pairing.” He untangled his arms from Vera and got her settled, propped against her pillows.
But he didn’t move to the chair. He nestled back to sit against the pillows beside her.
“It will be interesting to see how Gawain handles the lead mage role while Merlin is away.”
Merlin. Shit. Vera regretted disappointing him the way she would her own parents, yet she couldn’t believe the pain he’d inflicted on her.
“Do you think Merlin regrets what he did?” she asked.
“I certainly hope so,” Lancelot said with a grimace. “I’ve never been his biggest admirer, but I admit he was very good to you—to Guinevere—before. He was her closest confidant, often the only one who could lift her from melancholy.”
“They were that close?” Vera asked. Though she’d felt the truth of it in Guinevere’s memory, it was hard to reckon with now.
“They were,” Lancelot said. “I think that’s part of the reason Arthur trusts him—because of how Merlin cared for her.
He wants to fix things so badly …” He shook his head.
“The mages are an especially fucked up bunch, usually with some savior complex. Have I ever told you that my mother was a mage?”
Vera’s eyebrows shot up. “No, you did not.”
He knew he hadn’t. She would remember that, and he would remember telling her.
“It’s a lonely life. I think that’s why I get under Merlin’s skin so much,” he said with a grin.
“I’ve got his number better than most. When I was little, I always tried to get my mum to play some stupid games with me to divert her from her work and studies.
I usually failed miserably, mind you, but when she’d play—Gods, she was so much fun.
And she was creative and silly. She came up with the best stories.
I wish she’d have used her gifts to be a great storyteller rather than … ” he shook his head.
“Did she die?” Vera asked.
He smiled sadly. “Yes. Some time ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I miss her.”
“What about your father?” Vera asked. “Is he alive?”
“No idea. Never met the man. I am fully a bastard. Most mages end up alone, I’m told. It was rather extraordinary for my mother to have a child at all. Tell me about your innkeeper parents,” he said much more brightly. And it was Vera’s turn to be uncomfortable.
“They’re … they’re the best. My mum, well, you’d have a difficult time finding anybody kinder than her.
She’s the sort who’s never met a stranger.
We have people who stayed at the hotel for two nights a decade ago who still call around Christmas.
And Dad …” Vera laughed. “I don’t think the word ‘shame’ is a part of my father’s vocabulary.
He’s never once worried about what somebody else thinks. Not for a second. He’d love you.”
Lancelot smiled wistfully with her. “I wish I could meet them. You must miss them.”
“I do. And,” her breath hitched, “my dad is quite ill, which makes it, er—” She didn’t know how to put it into words, but she didn’t need to.
“That makes it harder,” he said softly.
“I have deliberately avoided thinking about them as much as possible since I got here,” Vera said. “I thought I’d fall apart if I let myself dwell on them too much.” It wasn’t untrue. The sting of speaking a word of their stories and letting herself sink into their memory was immediate.
“You can fall apart with me.” He had a deep crease between his eyebrows as he watched her. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“We’ve never talked about serious things.” Vera picked at the blanket’s seam, embarrassed to say the next bit. “I was afraid you’d decide I wasn’t any fun.”
“Not any fun?” He clicked his tongue. “I don’t love you because you’re fun. I love you because I love you.”
Her heart was so full that it felt on the edge of bursting. “It’s that simple, hm?”