Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Her nights with Arthur had them staying up late, reading and dreaming. And, come morning, Vera didn’t want to get out of bed when he was next to her. She felt a little guilty because she and Lancelot were running markedly less, though he hadn’t seemed to mind. Vera suspected there’d been something else—someone else—occupying his hours. Perhaps the lady he’d snuck off with in Glastonbury was a Camelot local?

He didn’t pry about the status of her and Arthur’s … whatever this was, so she abided by the same courtesy. And he’d found quite a friend in Gawain, of all people. Their pairing actually worked astoundingly well. Lancelot acted as Gawain’s social interpreter as the mage got to know the gifted of the town and started training them.

Vera and Arthur arrived at the stables one morning to fetch their horses and found Grady seated with Gawain in the grass outside, a single log hovering between them, rotating slowly. Grady’s forehead crinkled in concentration, though Vera had seen him juggle about eight sticks of wood at a time, all far larger than this one that hung low in the air. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the ground beneath him harboring a silvery kiss of frost.

“That’s it,” Gawain said. “Very good, Grady!” It was a low bar, but Vera felt a surge of affection for the mage at the kindness in his voice and for the simple fact that he used Grady’s name.

“Do you know what he’s doing?” Arthur murmured to Vera, but the noise was enough to draw Grady’s attention. The log froze in midair before it tumbled to the ground.

“Your Majesties! I—I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” He glanced eastward at a beam of shining pearl running up the length of the castle wall like an iridescent stripe of paint. Only it wasn’t paint, it was the same material as all the orbs and lights throughout Camelot. And beside it were distinct markings: the first one a third of the way up signaling daybreak, another third for midday, and at the top, sunset. It was a clock—one of Gawain’s many additions to Camelot over the past four weeks in collaboration with none other than the castle priest, Father John.

Vera hadn’t thought to wonder how Father John could time chapel services perfectly with the sunrise each week, but it so happened that was his gift. He knew the sun’s position in the sky at all times—how many hours it would be visible overhead and how long before it returned overnight. The pearly strip was lit from the ground up to between the first two notches, signaling it was midmorning. There was a magic clock down in the village and two at the castle.

The boy scurried into the stables, shouting apologies over his shoulder. Gawain held the log in front of him with one hand as he stood and examined it.

“What were you doing?” Vera asked.

He handed her the log as if that was an answer. It was lighter than it should have been and felt hollow. She passed it to Arthur as Gawain said, “Grady removed almost all the moisture from that log.”

“Grady did that?” she asked. “Did you give him that power? I thought he just had the power to move wood.”

Gawain eyed her with scathing suspicion, extending his hand to reclaim the log. “I didn’t give him anything. Most gifts are more complex than they seem and can be used in far broader ways than their recipients appreciate. People haven’t been taught to explore the boundaries of what their gift can do, and seldom few figure that out on their own. You look at Grady now and think he has multiple gifts when he’s simply learned to use his one power to greater benefit. Outside of studying at the Magesary where we mages are trained, there’ve not been opportunities for anyone to learn about that. The select few young people who are identified as having multiple gifts and sent to train as mages usually only have one power to start … but those few happen to have a more thorough innate understanding of their single gift’s breadth—not because they truly have more than one. That comes later.”

Vera had so many questions to ask, but Gawain carried on, hardly pausing for a breath.

“Grady can now control the amount of moisture in the wood: he can ring it out like a wet cloth. He can also increase its porousness and absorption, compress any piece of wood, split it in two … If he continues to practice and hone the skill, I don’t see any reason why he won’t be able to shape and sculpt any wooden material as finely as a carver with a sharp knife.”

“That could be an impressive weapon,” Arthur said with a frown. “Shaping spearheads and having the power to send them flying through the air …”

“Hm,” Gawain said. “I hadn’t thought of that, Your Majesty.”

“What did you have in mind?” Vera asked.

He blushed and swallowed heavily. “Erm … very fine flutes.”

Collaborative creation guided Gawain’s every move, and the ripples from it crested into a tide that swept through Camelot. The town had never been a stronger community. And Vera and Arthur followed suit in ruling, which they very much did together.

Arthur held to the ideals he’d had since they formed the kingdom. His ultimate aim was for the power that came with lordship to not be based on riches and instead on merit. But the structure had already been built atop a foundation when the lords were made such because they had the money to fund building a kingdom. Altering course would be a slow process. Through many hours of idea sharing and discussion—even bringing in the other members of court and trusted townsfolk, they came up with a first step. They would create a new position of power. Akin to knighting a soldier who has performed beyond the highest standard of expectation, they would do something similar for citizens who served their local communities especially well, bestowing upon them the honor of town steward.

They wouldn’t rule their town. Instead, they would oversee the popular election of a local council. The lords could maintain their position of oversight while the crown discreetly dispersed more power to non “noble” folk.

Between ruling, jousting lessons, running with Lancelot (albeit less frequently), and training with the king’s guard, Vera grew stronger by the day. None of it happened as quickly as she would have hoped. She liked to arrive early to her sessions so she could catch the end of the proper king’s guard drills. She learned loads just from watching these men who had been fighting and training all their lives.

Arthur usually came to escort Vera to the training field, so he was never a part of the sparring matches. Today, though, Vera met with Randall before her lessons to be sized for her own armor. He worked especially quickly as she gushed about the perfect Yule gown he’d made her, and the attention made the armorer visibly uncomfortable. He hurried her out and led the way over to the training field, leaving her more time than usual to watch the king’s guard.

Each knight was recognizable by their armor’s variations or the small ways they’d personalized it. There were two soldiers locked into an intense sparring match. Vera recognized Lancelot’s form and shining helmet straight away, even from a distance, but it took her a second to realize that the fighter in the darker armor opposite was Arthur. She hurried to close the distance and stood next to Percival.

She’d only seen Arthur teaching before today, his pace slowed, but this was different. Damn, he was good at this: faster than his bulkier frame would indicate, strong, and very skilled. When both must have been exhausted after minutes of carrying on at top speed with heavy swords and cumbersome armor, there was an opening, and Arthur lunged a shoulder into Lancelot, sending him toppling onto his back. He pinned Lancelot’s sword arm to the ground with his knee and simultaneously thrust his sword into the dirt directly next to Lancelot’s face before rising without any fanfare and offering a hand down to his friend. Lancelot yelled a growl of frustration from the ground. He accepted Arthur’s hand to help him hop up and pulled his helmet off, already shaking his head as he grinned.

“Dammit!” he yelled, dropping his hands to his knees while he caught his breath. The rest of the king’s guard, who’d spent plenty of time being bested by Lancelot, were quick to pile on in good-natured ribbing. Arthur said nothing as he set his helmet aside, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yes, well …” Lancelot tugged at his gloves, plucking them from his hands a finger at a time. “When you’ve watched a person fight their whole life like Arthur has with me, you’ve got a bit of a leg up.” He fixed them with a smug smile.

“Haven’t you watched him fight his whole life, too?” Vera asked slowly.

Wyatt, the oldest and also most enthusiastic member of the king’s guard, positively howled. Lancelot stared at her in stunned silence as Percival clapped him on the shoulder. Even Randall let out a full-bellied laugh.

Arthur looked at Vera appreciatively. “What’s that thing you and Lancelot do?” He took a few steps toward her and held up his hand for a high five.

“Now that is some horseshit!” Lancelot scrambled between them, grabbing Arthur by his upraised wrist and holding an arm out stiffly behind him to bodily keep Vera back. “That’s our thing, Arthur, and you can’t have it!”

The next two months were, unquestionably, some of the best days of Vera’s life. She had never been in a situation where she so constantly ran into people who knew her and wanted to talk with her. Whether it was Margaret from the kitchen, who was thrilled by Vera’s interest in available ingredients; Father John, who checked on her with somewhat regular frequency; townsfolk enjoying their queen’s attention; or one of her many friends.

Many friends … and more by the day as she grew closer with the members of the king’s guard. She wasn’t used to it and expected that any moment, she’d pass Percival, Wyatt, or any of the others on the road, and they’d see her as a stranger.

And then there were the evenings. One night, Arthur came back to their room after meetings to Vera and Matilda rolling with laughter amid a game of Never Have I Ever. He started making an excuse to give them privacy, only to have both shouting so emphatically that he couldn’t possibly understand a single word of what they were saying—and only by their excitement and gesticulation knew that they wanted him to stay. Two became three.

This lasted approximately two nights’ worth of gatherings before Lancelot got wind of it and showed up at the next one. It wasn’t long before they decided to move to the mostly unused chamber downstairs with a fireplace the size of a washroom and ample chairs and sofas for a proper party. At least once a week, all the local king’s guard and even Gawain with his lute in tow gathered in the big room (Vera’s name for it—but it stuck) to … hang out.

New buds adorned the trees every morning. The spring tournament was less than a week away, and the joust was all anyone in Camelot could think about.

“And all of our knights will be here,” Percival said one evening as they lounged in the big room in the comfiest seats pulled close to the fireplace in a semicircle. “The jousting tournament will be the largest it’s ever been.”

Gawain sat in the circle, strumming his lute and trying fruitlessly to teach Lancelot how to play. Even Randall stayed this evening, his head bent close to Matilda’s, listening intently with a dreamy smile as she told him a story. Vera grinned before she turned her attention back to Arthur and Percival, still on about the joust.

“You have a title to defend, don’t you?” Arthur asked. “Have you been preparing?”

Percival shrugged modestly. “I may not take the prize, but I’m confident I’ll put in a good showing.”

Arthur gave Vera a look as if he was considering something. He slid his hand onto hers as he said, “Guinevere’s been learning to joust.”

She wasn’t bothered by Arthur calling her Guinevere in company with others who didn’t know her story, but she was taken aback to hear him proudly sharing this trivia.

Percival’s interest was thoroughly piqued. He leaned toward her. “Are you really? How’s that going?”

“Mm, it’s a mixed bag.” She laughed nervously. “But I can consistently hold up a full-sized lance now, so that’s something.”

“You’re being modest,” Arthur said to her before he turned back to Percival. “She doesn’t believe me when I say it, but she’s doing incredibly well. I think she’s ready for an opponent.”

It was the second time he’d said that aloud this week. The first was at their most recent training session, and Vera brushed it off as a bit of hyperbole for the sake of encouragement. As Arthur looked pointedly at Percival, she started to realize his comment this evening wasn’t simply for the sake of conversation. Percival tilted his head in question. Arthur nodded.

“I could do it,” Percival said, his eyes gleaming as he leaned forward.

“You have the best aim,” Arthur said.

Percival beamed. “It’s the one thing I can actually best Arthur and Lancelot at. His Majesty is stronger, Lancelot’s better at … well, every single other thing. But I’ve mastered the lance. Bit useless in anything that matters, but I’ll take it. Do you want to?” he asked her.

Vera straightened in her seat. “Seriously?”

Their rising voices drew Lancelot’s attention. “What are we serious about?”

“Arthur’s been teaching Guinevere to joust,” Percival said. “And I’m going to be her first opponent.”

The smile hadn’t fallen from Lancelot’s face, but it darkened significantly as he looked each of them in the eye, landing on Arthur, who he fixed with a scathing scowl. “Are you out of your mind? That is so dangerous. No. Absolutely not.”

Vera’s eyebrows shot up.

“All right, all right,” Percival conceded, raising his hands apologetically in front of him.

Lancelot nodded, apparently mollified. As soon as he’d turned his attention back to the lute, Percival leaned across Arthur to Vera. “He doesn’t have to know.”

Before their run in the morning, Vera had decided that she wasn’t going to tell Lancelot that she, Arthur, and Percival had made plans for her first official jousting bout a few short hours later. But the damn man read her face like a children’s book. He knew she was hiding something less than a mile in. And after he chipped away at her resolve for the better part of an hour, peppering her with annoyingly earnest concern, Vera’s guilt won out, and she came clean.

He went silent for a few tense minutes.

“You’re angry with me,” Vera said, surprised to realize it.

“I’m not—” He stopped. “All right. Yes, I am. This is foolish. I’m angry with all three of you. I’m not going to allow it to happen.”

But it wasn’t up to him, and he ultimately knew that.

He was methodical in his attempt to peck away at the jousting plan as they walked to the practice arena in the woods. “You can’t use that ill-fitted armor she’s been wearing for an actual match. It will have to wait at least until she has her armor,” he said reasonably.

Vera pursed her lips as Arthur said, “That’s true, but Randall’s already finished it. She’s been using her new armor for two weeks now.”

Lancelot huffed and turned on Vera. “And what do you intend to do if Percival misses his mark, and you are seriously injured?”

“Well,” she began calmly, only serving to make Lancelot’s brow furrow deeper. “Thankfully, you had the good sense to bring Gawain. He can fix us right up if either of us gets injured.”

“But not extensively,” Gawain piped in unhelpfully. “If either of you is impaled, that’s far beyond the scope of my magic. You’d be fucked.”

Percival turned slowly to glare at Gawain as Lancelot threw a similar but more pointed look at Arthur.

“She’s not going to be impaled,” Arthur said patiently. “That’s why I’m not doing it and why I didn’t ask you.” He didn’t mean it as a jab; it was the truth. “Percival’s aim is as steady and true as they come.”

They arrived at the clearing, and Arthur and Percival started helping Vera get her armor on. She loved how it fit and the way it made her feel like a proper warrior. But despite her feigned confidence as she argued with Lancelot, Vera privately had many of the same misgivings.

She and Percival mounted their horses, and with the imminent joust now seeming inevitable, Lancelot turned his rage on Percival. “This is an awful idea,” he said, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he snatched the reins of Percival’s horse to force him to listen. “If you tip your lance and hurt her, as your commanding officer, I will have you executed.”

Was this really Lancelot speaking? The same Lancelot who told Wyatt not to help Vera when she struggled in training, who goaded her into swinging from a rope into a dark pond, who—for God’s sake—the same Lancelot who brought Vera to a roadside shakedown of teenage thieves the first night she’d met him. And now, when she was adequately trained and armored and her opponent steady and trustworthy, Lancelot was out of his mind. Percival looked cowed by his threat because he sounded like he meant it.

“Lancelot,” Vera said, “if I happen to accidentally be injured by Percival, I order you not to execute him. And,” she added, having only recently gotten a good grasp of hierarchical statuses, “in the matter of ordering executions, I’m fairly certain I outrank you.”

“She does,” Arthur called from behind them.

Lancelot wheeled on him and yelled a wordless roar before marching over to stand next to Gawain, his arms crossed as he mumbled and shook his head. With a sigh and an apologetic smile at Vera, Gawain patted Lancelot’s back. The role reversal might have been comical had Lancelot’s fervor not rankled her deeper than it ought to.

Vera and Percival were nearly ready. They met in the middle, approximately where they would soon collide in the joust.

“Don’t you dare pull your lance,” she told him sternly, worrying that Lancelot’s threat may have shaken him too much.

But Percival flipped his visor up, and his eyes glinted. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty.” She couldn’t see his mouth but knew from his cheeks bunched up against his eyes that his smile matched her own.

Arthur met Vera at her starting point to help her get her lance situated.

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

“A little bit,” she admitted.

“That’s good. Keep some fear, but don’t let it be in charge. You are well-trained, capable, and ready. Tuck your lance tight.” He mimed the motion, pulling his elbow into his side. “Head down a fraction to keep your helmet steady and do your best to stay horsed.” As he instructed her, Arthur patted her horse’s neck. If he was nervous for her, he wasn’t showing it. “Ready?”

Vera nodded and flipped her visor down, making much of her vision go dark and leaving a slim slit through which to see.

“I’ll wave the flag, and that’s your signal.” He brushed his fingers along the one unarmored place on the back of Vera’s leg. She held her breath at the touch—and the way he smiled at her. “You’re ready.”

Every so often, Vera had experienced moments of existence when time went extraordinarily fast and simultaneously moved at a snail’s pace. She felt Arthur would never reach the center point where he was to wave the flag. He seemed to be walking in slow motion. And then, her heart thundering in her chest and her legs shaking enough that she could hear the faint rattle of her armor quivering at its joints, the flag was high in the air and rushing toward the ground. Time overcorrected in the other direction, and everything began happening too quickly to take note of it all.

Vera set her horse to a full run, her weight in her feet in the stirrups to steady her body. She was intent on keeping her lance aimed right at the breastplate of Percival’s armor as her horse thundered across the clearing. She would never be able to say if anyone cheered or yelled encouragement, or if there was any noise other than the pounding of hooves and her breath echoing strangely in the narrow cavern of her helmet.

She had a split second of appreciation for Percival, who, as he neared, she could see was a man of his word. His lance was tipped toward her, and he leaned forward in his saddle. This was not someone about to lose his nerve or decide his opponent couldn’t handle the blow.

There was no more time to think. When she felt the distinct impact of her lance on Percival’s chest (she thought it was his chest but couldn’t be sure), a millisecond’s worth of euphoria rushed her extremities.

And, dear God, as his lance slammed into the center of her chest, a burst of splinters exploded in all directions. Some distant part of her marveled at the satisfying crunch and shatter of the massive weapons.

The rush transformed into being bodily jarred as Vera felt more things at once than she might have recognized as possible. Adrenaline thrummed through her and drove her determination to, above all, stay on her horse. The blow sent her whole upper body reeling backward. Vera clinched her legs on her horse’s flanks as her torso flattened back against the rump. It took everything in her to keep her legs from flying over her head and sending her tumbling off her horse, but somehow, when the world went back to its normal speed and control and calm were restored, she was still on her horse.

Vera sat up and whipped her helmet off. She realized she clung to what remained of her lance (scarcely more than a jagged handle now) and dropped it. She turned to see how she’d done.

Percival practically jumped from his horse and tore his helmet from his head as he sprinted to her, whooping excitedly, his fist in the air.

She dismounted, and a stabbing pain surged through her wrist, making her wince, but she ignored it.

“That was good!” Percival said, staring at her in awe. Arthur tore past him, his face all pride and excitement. He hugged Vera so enthusiastically that he lifted her from the ground, armor and all.

“You were incredible,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I barely stayed on my horse.”

“Well, me too, Guinna!” Percival exclaimed. “That was bloody good!”

Not knowing what to do, Vera looked at her hands, her cheeks hot from the attention. There was a wooden shard sticking out of her metal glove. Right where it disappeared into the gauntlet was where her hand now throbbed. To make matters more complicated, the tingling sensation all across her skin was creeping toward a burn.

Lancelot and Gawain approached from the middle of the field. Surely Lancelot wouldn’t panic over such a minor injury. Still, Vera hastily yanked the sizable shard out and dropped it before crushing it into the dirt with her foot. No one seemed to notice. Gawain was his ordinary sullen-faced self, which was something of a comfort. Lancelot, however, was pale as he exhaled a long breath and only managed a thin smile at her.

“You’re bleeding,” Arthur said.

Vera opened her mouth to respond, but he was speaking to Percival, not her, who had a trickle of what was unmistakably blood dripping down the silver armor on his chest. She’d injured him.

Percival glanced down with an appreciative frown. He hadn’t even noticed. Vera held her breath as his chest plate was removed, revealing only a minor cut at his shoulder where the edge of his armor must have dug in and broken the skin under the force of the lance’s impact. Percival shrugged, and Vera exhaled a low laugh.

Then, very suddenly, it was like she’d been plunged into boiling water. It was the hottest her skin had ever burned. She doubled over and braced her hands on her knees.

“Are you hurt?” Arthur asked. She couldn’t see him. The pain had her clenching her eyes shut.

As quickly as the sensation started, it was gone.

“No,” Vera said, standing upright. Gawain still had a hand on Percival’s wound, but he watched her with narrowed eyes. Lancelot raised a white-knuckled fist to his mouth.

“I’m fine.” She didn’t understand why her skin sometimes burned like that. It started after her first memory session and had happened with increasing frequency since, even after the memory work stopped. It passed quickly today, as it always had, and Vera tried to brush it off as nothing. “Just—” She chuckled uneasily, searching for the lie. “Overwhelmed. Percival, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be!” He waved her off. His broad smile had yet to fall from his face. “You’re not quite ready this year, but keep training, and you could compete in the joust next spring!”

Lancelot groaned, bringing a full, heaving laugh from Percival. Vera and Arthur shared a glance. Neither’s smile faltered, though she saw the recognition in his eyes, too. She wouldn’t be here next spring.

She went back to her horse’s side to remove her armor. When she heard the movement behind her, Vera assumed it was Arthur, so she was surprised when it was Gawain who spoke. “Guinna?”

Some of the others had picked up Lancelot’s nickname for her, but it sounded bizarre coming from Gawain. “May I check you for injuries?” he asked.

Vera looked past him, noticing Lancelot ten steps behind him, chewing at his thumbnail and pretending not to notice them. “Is this Lancelot’s idea?”

“Yes,” Gawain said, very matter of fact.

“Oh, all right,” she relented. “I might have a cut on my hand.” Vera worked the metal glove free, and sure enough, a rivulet of blood ran out of it. The cut on the back of her hand smarted, but the gauntlet must have helped the blood coagulate and slow the bleeding. It wasn’t gushing the way she’d expect from being impaled by a six-inch splinter.

Gawain ran his fingers over the cut, back and forth, with increasing pressure as he examined it. The last time, he pressed so hard that Vera yelped in pain.

“Sorry.” Gawain’s fingers stopped, but his brow remained furrowed. “This is shallower than I anticipated.”

Vera expected the dreamy fog to come as he lay his right hand over the injury and closed his eyes in concentration. But her mind stayed clear. “Ishau mar domibaru,” he mumbled.

Her body hummed with a sense of release. Gawain inhaled deeply, audibly, and exhaled the same way. It was akin to how she’d been instructed to breathe by a doctor holding a cold stethoscope to her back, but Gawain did it with control and intention—as if it were the most valuable breath in his body.

“I know those words,” Vera breathed as Gawain’s hand lifted from hers.

He drew back, fixing her with his piercing stare. “You do?”

“I think I’ve dreamed them.” Already, though, Vera couldn’t remember what he’d said. She couldn’t find the words in her mind either. “Can you repeat them?”

He shook his head. “Some secrets of the mages are so important to keep that we are bound to them by magic. Most people forget those words immediately.” He surveyed Vera carefully. “But I’m sure Merlin would have used them when he saved you.”

“What are they?”

“Words of power. Passed down to the mages over generations. Most often spoken aloud when doing magic that pertains to lifeforce. There’s power in words,” he told her. “I can’t repeat them, but I can tell you about the end.” Gawain patted her hand in a funny, grandmotherly sort of way. He paused before he breathed in that audible, intentional way once more.

“The breath of life,” he explained. “It is the name for the source of all things.”

It reminded Vera of something she thought came from Hebrew scripture. “God?” she asked. Was that right? That the name of God was the breath of life?

Gawain shrugged. “That’s what some will say. Creator. God. It’s all the same, but the mages simply say ‘Source.’”

“The mages are religious?”

“Oh yes. The Magesary is its own religious order. We believe our power, our gifts, come from our Source. Whether that is a sentient being is up for personal interpretation. In any case, we all agree that magic is a gift to humanity, and it is our highest duty to continue the ongoing work of creation.”

“I can tell you take that seriously,” Vera said. If there was anyone who embodied that, it was Gawain. He alone had trained the gifted folks of town and had used magic to help revitalize Camelot in countless ways.

She peered over his shoulder and found Lancelot looking up at her at the exact same moment. He averted his eyes quickly. Vera scoffed.

“I’m fine,” she yelled at him. She expected him to relax and laugh, to come jogging over with some smart remark. Instead, he turned on his heel and joined Arthur and Percival.

“What is wrong with him?” Vera mused in exasperation.

“He couldn’t protect you. And it’s driving him mad.”

“What? That’s not it. We’ve done loads of dangerous things together. In fact, he’s usually the one encouraging it.”

Gawain raised his eyebrows. “Yes, but I’d guess he was also directly involved in those things. If something went wrong, he could intervene. That’s not the case in a joust. You were on your own.”

“I—” Shit. He was right. She glanced at Arthur, who carried on in his conversation. He seemed fine. Pleased even. She felt a pang. “You would think that’s how the king would react.”

“Of course not,” Gawain said, as if it were obvious.

“Why would you say that?”

Of the hundreds of ways Vera might have guessed the mage would respond, she’d have never gotten it right.

“Because he knew you didn’t need protecting.”

Vera had never believed that falling in love happened in an instant. It came about over time, as bonds were formed like a thread between two souls, a simple tether with affection that slowly thickened into a golden cable with love.

But it was in this exact moment when Gawain’s simple proclamation lodged in Vera as truth, and as Arthur smiled over at her (pride and ease and care—how was it she could see all that in one expression?) that Vera knew.

She loved him.