Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Don’t look back. Don’t look back, Vera silently instructed herself. She did not stop until she reached a bench in front of the old church a few buildings down. She didn’t dare turn around to ensure Merlin was behind her in case Allison had stepped outside, too. He drew even with her and didn’t stop walking but merely nudged his head, inviting Vera to join him.

She didn’t know anything about him. Nothing about where they were going. She hadn’t thought to ask what the accident was that brought Guinevere to the brink of death.

It was too much. There were too many pieces. Don’t fall apart, she coached herself. Stay in it.

“Have you visited the White Spring Temple?” Merlin asked, not unlike how a visitor at the George might ask about the town. Vera softened toward him in the kindness of casual conversation. Perhaps he knew how delicate an edge her sanity balanced on as the distance between Vera and her home grew.

She nodded.

“That’s where we’re headed. It’s … well, I suppose you could say there’s a portal there, but calling it a magically stabilized wormhole might be more scientifically accurate,” he said as if he were talking about what he’d had for breakfast.

Vera nearly snorted with mad laughter. On second thought, perhaps he’d overestimated her mental capacity. Nevertheless, if there were to be a portal (or wormhole or … whatever) in Glastonbury, White Spring was one of a handful of places that fit the bill.

The temple was in an old, unassuming well house at the Tor’s base, built atop the spring to serve as a reservoir. They’d not updated the 200-year-old building with electricity, instead opting to light it with candles and tenacious bits of sunlight that could find an entrance in cracks and pinholes in the stone walls. It set the mystical mood along with the ever-present sound of trickling water and steady echoing drips from unseen sources. In every corner, shrines honoring the Lady of Avalon were erected that suited all manner of religious pilgrims. Some would call her Goddess, others the Virgin Mother, and still the rest Mother Earth.

The water that flowed from the spring had never dried up in recorded history. It provided for Glastonbury through famine and disease, and visitors devoutly attested to its healing properties, though when they’d tried to pipe it through the city in the late nineteenth century, it had blocked up the pipes. Scientifically, it was clear that the spring’s high calcite content had caused irreparable damage to the metal. Others had their own answer: modern plumbing wasn’t built for magic. Still, even if it didn’t flow from their taps, anyone could visit the spring. Visitors were advised on a sign at the entrance to step into the shallow waters or fully submerge themselves in the deeper pools.

Oddly enough, White Spring was within a few hundred meters of yet another (and more well-known) ancient spring, Chalice Well. This one flowed red, reasonably explained by a high iron content to a rational mind but seldom seen that way by spiritual seekers. Christian lore purported that the spring and its healing powers were directly related to the Holy Grail. Legend held that the Grail was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea and, at one point, buried in a cavern beneath the spring. They’d contend that the red waters signified the blood of Christ, once caught beneath the cross in that same chalice. The pagans believed it to be the earth’s womb waters.

“I’m surprised it’s not Chalice Well,” Vera said, feeling compelled to say something. She took a right onto Chilkwell Street without even thinking about it. She’d walked this route so often that, were it not for the period clothing, she could almost convince herself this was an ordinary journey. They passed folks along the street heading in the opposite direction, but in an eccentric town like Glastonbury, where fancy dress was nothing exceptional, no one paid them any mind.

“Interesting you should say that,” Merlin said. “The waters of White Spring come directly from the Tor. And that’s where this particular kind of magic comes from. Vera.” He stopped abruptly. “I noticed you still have that bag I gave you. You’re wearing all the contents I provided, but it’s not empty. What did you bring in the bag?”

Vera pursed her lips and only half turned toward him. “A picture of my parents, some socks and underwear, and …” Should she bother lying to him?

“Yes?” he prompted.

“My running shoes.” She pulled her shoulders back and stood up straighter, daring him to argue with her about it.

He sighed heavily. “Nothing else? No electronics of any kind?”

“No.”

Merlin chuckled and shook his head as he resumed walking. “Very well. But you must promise me you’ll be careful to keep them concealed from anyone but those of us who know your situation.”

This time, it was Vera who stopped in her tracks. “Other people know? Who all knows?” It hadn’t occurred to her that others might be in on the scheme.

“Oh, Guinevere. I’m so sorry.” Merlin’s brow furrowed. “I should have said before. Arthur is aware, as is—”

“He knows?” She’d assumed she’d carry this secret alone, especially to be kept from Arthur.

“Of course. He also,” Merlin heaved a sigh as he rolled his eyes, “against my better judgment, I might add, told his closest confidant.”

“Who is that? Would I recognize the name?”

Merlin started walking again without a response. Vera ran the few paces to catch up with him. Now, she was intrigued. It was the first hint of frustration that she’d seen from the patient wizard.

“It’s not, like, Lancelot or something?” she said facetiously, but Merlin’s lips pressed together so tightly that they became a thin line.

Vera’s jaw dropped. “Shut up. It is Lancelot!” Maybe it was because Merlin had turned her whole world sideways and backward in the space of an hour, but she delighted in his annoyance with the famous knight. She laughed. “And you don’t like him!”

“I neither—” Merlin shook his head. “He is the king’s oldest and dearest friend. And I’ve never known him to be anything but fiercely loyal, and for that, I’m grateful. But Lancelot is … loud and foolish.” He opened his mouth as if about to add more but seemed to decide against it and clamped his lips shut.

It all felt distant enough to not entirely be Vera’s story. But her mind flashed to that Arthurian storyline. Guinevere had an affair with Lancelot. Did Merlin know that part?

“I know you said you don’t get too involved in our version of the legend, but there’s a pretty consistent thread about Lancelot and Guinevere that might—”

“Yes, I’m aware.” He waved her off. “Guinevere, you’ll be shocked to learn how wrong this time has gotten things.”

It took Vera a moment to realize that when Merlin said Guinevere, he was addressing her.

“About King Arthur?” she asked.

“About everything. Magic is commonplace in our time. It fuels our culture, our society—little will be as you expect. Magic leaves no archaeological trace, which is largely why you’ve grown up learning about this time as the Dark Ages.” He gave her a sidelong glance, and the smile that rose to his lips was one of pride. “My dear, you will find it is nothing of the sort.”

Merlin had stopped and looked across the street over Vera’s shoulder. She’d been too caught up in trying to imagine a history that the books had gotten so woefully wrong that she’d not noticed where they were standing. They’d arrived at the well house.

The Victorian stone building was nestled against the wooded forest at the Tor’s base. Foliage overtook it from above, giving the illusion that the building’s roof was made of lush, green vines. An ever-flowing fountain trickled out of a stone pillar near the front corner. Even when the temple was closed, any passerby had access to the sacred waters. A squat stone wall lined a courtyard on the front end, with an opening meant to serve as a pathway from the road to the building’s door—which wasn’t solid, but a delicately designed wrought-iron gate of swirls and three vertical almond shapes up the center.

The temple only opened for a few hours each day. It was closed by this time in the evening, and the gate was locked. “Do we—”

Vera didn’t have time to finish her question. Merlin fished a key from the pocket of his robe and moved past her to unlock the gate. He opened it enough for someone to slip through and politely gestured for her to go first. She started when she heard the key in the lock again and turned to see Merlin locking the gate behind them. Her throat tightened, and she tensed. She was trapped in here with a magical stranger. Vera clenched and unclenched her fist as she examined her situation.

What were the options? Decide everything to this point had been bullshit and that this was an elaborate scheme to murder her? Panic and demand he unlock the door so she could run home?

No. She’d decided to trust Merlin the moment she’d accepted the bag that now hung from her shoulder. That’s why she was wearing this dress. She was in it, and there wasn’t any turning back. Vera was either trusting a madman at her peril, or her life was about to become something she could have never even dreamed up. There was no in-between.

She squinted into the shadows, hoping her eyes would begin to adjust. The massive room was very dark, with the fading evening sun providing the only light through the doorway gate. Merlin waved his arm, and candles that had previously only been dark lumps to unadjusted eyes sprang to life all across the room: in dozens of candelabras, pillars on small shelves, candle arrangements surrounding shrines, and tea lights on any ledge wide enough to hold them. The room danced with a flickering glow set to the music of water over rocks.

Stone pillars rose from floor to ceiling, holding the building together while creating mystery, too. The room had nooks and crannies at every turn, each with more candles, pictures, statues of saints or deities, and glowing shrines that poked through the darkness. The floor was wet throughout, but stone basins caught the flowing spring.

Right in the center was a round pool where the water collected deep enough for someone to wade in up to the knee. At the back left corner was a three-tiered stone basin, the topmost of which was the size of a resort hot tub. It was here that visitors could fully bathe in the spring’s waters.

“What now?” Vera asked, and her voice echoed through the chamber, feeling far too loud though she’d whispered.

By way of answer, Merlin carefully picked his way to the back corner to the three-tiered basin. “We’ll need to climb into the submerging pool—”

“Why did I bother changing first?” Vera asked.

“It won’t be an issue,” Merlin answered as he gingerly stepped onto the first tier at the height of his knees. He climbed with the agility of a much younger man to the top of the basin.

Vera sighed, remembering she’d decided she was too far in to turn back, and followed him. It wasn’t terribly high, not two meters to the top. She clambered awkwardly to sit atop the wall, her dress catching under her. She grunted with the effort as she spun her feet toward the waters. Clutching the bag still slung over her shoulder, Vera remembered the photograph tucked away.

“Merlin?” she said tentatively. She didn’t see him at first. It was darker this far back in the room, and there was only one small candelabra lit up at the far end of this pool. After a moment, though, she saw that he had gracefully paddled to the center. “I’m not sure what to do with my bag. There’s … there’s the picture of my parents in there.”

She couldn’t see his face but could tell he’d turned back toward her. “It’s all right. Your belongings will be fine.”

She hesitated only another moment and then, clutching the bag to her body, lowered herself in. Half gasp and half yell escaped her when the cold water rushed over her skin. She’d never dipped in the spring herself but knew the waters were famously frigid year-round. Vera stumbled toward Merlin at the center of the pool, her soaked gown growing heavier with each step and catching around her ankles.

It was deepest in the middle. When she drew even with Merlin, their heads were the only parts of their bodies not submerged. Even as a disembodied head in freezing waters, he looked composed and stately. Vera, on the other hand, shivered violently and had to grasp Merlin’s arm as she stumbled on her hem. He helped hold her to her feet and kept his hand on Vera’s elbow to steady her.

“In a moment, I’ll ask you to go completely underwater. And then I’ll begin the spell.” Merlin spoke deliberately and didn’t break eye contact with Vera. “Once the spell begins, it’s imperative that you do not come back to the surface. Do you understand?”

She nodded and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. “Stay underwater. Got it.”

“We’ve only got one shot at this,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” She took a ragged breath. “Are you?”

“I am.”

His ease soothed Vera some, and she found herself grateful for his steadying hand.

“Want a count of three or better to press on?” Merlin asked.

“Just go,” she said.

“All right. And … go.”

Vera took one deep breath and dunked her head beneath the surface. He hadn’t specified how deep she needed to go, so she simply stopped fighting the drag of her dress. It pulled her down until her knees reached the bottom. She kept her eyes shut, and even had she not, it would have been too dark to see if Merlin was submerged, too. She felt his hand drift to her shoulder, pressing down firmly—not a shove, but a steadying tether to hold her in place.

It didn’t feel extraordinary. It felt … like being underwater. Vera hadn’t asked when to come back up or how long she’d need to hold her breath. The seconds stretched on, and nothing happened. She stayed perfectly still. After twenty seconds, the tickle of a burn bloomed in her chest. By thirty, Vera was beginning to panic. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer in water this cold. What would happen if she tried to come up too early? Not consciously bidden, a survival instinct drove her feet beneath her, and the urge to stand became irresistible. As she pushed upward, the steadying hand on her shoulder shoved down with surprising strength.

Oh shit.

Her eyes shot open, and she looked into the dark water above her, searching for answers she would never see. Even in the dark, she could tell her vision was threatening to collapse on the edges. She was on the brink of losing consciousness when the water around her changed.

It was no longer liquid. Instead, it became a thick gel. Her frantic movements ceased; she froze. Everything was motionless, and then it was like a vacuum opened beneath her. Vera felt a great lurch and screamed into the gelatinous water as her body was violently sucked down, but she never hit the bottom. One second, her mind was vividly present in terror that she was certain would never stop.

From everywhere and nowhere, a voice she’d never heard before filled her.

“Ishau mar domibaru.”

Then there was nothing at all.

Vera’s haze cleared as she stared at the sky, eyes already open, watching wispy clouds float above. There was one sound at her lips: ish. The sound of a summer breeze whispering through flowered fields. There’d been more words; she was sure of it. She chased it through her mind and tried to grab hold of it, but it vaporized into nothing as soon as conscious thought touched it. She sat up.

“Did you say something?” a man asked. She turned. Merlin sat on the ground behind her, looking as disheveled as Vera felt.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. Water. She remembered it changing and the sense of being sucked down, and then—what? Vera blinked. How had she gotten out of the water? Or the temple?

She sat on green grass in an open field. Vera heard flowing water before she noticed the stream to her side. Her left hand rested in its shallowest part, on smooth rounded stones that barely an inch of water trickled over. But her hand was the only part of her body that was wet. The dress and bag and shoes—everything that had been fully submerged was dry. Vera reached up and touched her head. Her hair wasn’t even damp.

The stream meandered down the hillside before disappearing into trees and lush foliage below. Vera traced the waters back up the hill to where they came from, a gap in the rock not twenty feet above her. “Where are we?”

“Can’t you tell?” Merlin asked.

She turned to find him on his feet, brushing dirt from his robe and adjusting his pockets. Vera began shaking her head, but the movement helped assemble the puzzle pieces.

The mouth of the stream on a lush hillside. She fumbled to her feet, and her eyes shot past Merlin to a forest grove behind him. There was no well house, and the trees obscured the view, but she was almost sure that, had there been a clear shot, she’d be looking right at the Tor.

“Oh!” Vera spun in place, trying to take in every detail. “Oh!” she repeated as she began to recognize the landscape.

Down the hill further on, the grass was well-trodden and formed a trail along what she guessed she used to know as the road. It passed in front of Vera and Merlin and curved around the trees where she assumed it wove to the top of the Tor. And in the other direction, Vera supposed it created the footprint for what would someday be the road leading into town.

“Shall we?” Merlin gestured to the path before them.

“Erm, I guess.” Vera shifted the bag on her shoulder. “So that’s it? We’re here? It’s the year like six hundred something?”

Merlin chuckled and patted Vera on the shoulder. “Precisely the year six hundred something. Now we walk down to Glastonbury, get our horses, and finish the journey to the castle.”

Vera had assumed the time travel would also take them to their destination, wherever that was. She hadn’t realized she’d get to see Glastonbury in its ancient form. Surely there’d also be people there, residents living their medieval lives. What did they do to fill their days? What did they talk about?

A prickle of worry pierced Vera’s thoughts. “English is different now, isn’t it?” she asked. “How will I be able to understand and communicate?”

“You needn’t worry—oh, watch your step there.” Merlin guided her around fresh horse manure in the path. “You’ll understand everyone perfectly fine. And they’ll understand you. It’s—”

“Part of the magic?” Vera finished for him.

“You’re a quick study,” he said with fondness. “Any colloquialisms you use will be understood in the common tongue. No adjustments are necessary. Though,” he added, scrunching his face as if he almost didn’t want to say it, “you may want to say ‘fuck’ a bit less. It translates well but is decidedly less appropriate for a lady of your status.”

“I’ll do my best,” Vera said as she cast a sidelong look at the mage.

He chuckled, seeming far more amused than annoyed by her antics. She was in awe of Merlin’s ease in the face of everything that had to go right to get Vera here. All that remained on the daunting list was for her to regain Guinevere’s memories. The travel itself hadn’t jostled any to the surface. She was working out a way to bring it up when the gurgling stream nearby, the breeze through the trees, and the evening birdsong began to mingle with other sounds.

They’d emerged from the wooded area, and the bustle came from further down the lane. It was a din of voices—a lot of voices. And there was music: strings, flutes, and singing carried on the wind. There was a cottage to the left, and the two windows flanking its door had their wooden shutters open. A child of seven or eight ran with screaming laughter from behind the home and bodily dove through the open window, her pigtail braids flopping over her head. Right as she disappeared, what must have been her younger brother rounded the corner with a five-year-old’s delighted roar. He had to work much harder to clamber through the window behind the girl.

It was comforting to see children behaving the same as they would in her time. A gust of wind carried the smell of food cooking over a fire. It was late evening by now, and Vera’s stomach groaned in response. She smoothed her windswept hair back and realized her ponytail had come loose in clumps. Vera stopped walking to remove her hair elastic and fix it.

“That reminds me,” Merlin said, fishing through yet another robe pocket and procuring a delicate circlet crown. It was made of thin metal woven together in a rounded pattern and finely shaped down to a point where there was a single oval-shaped moonstone. “You’ll want to wear this.”

Vera braided her hair and laid it over her shoulder. She wasn’t sure how seventh-century hair would be styled, but a simple plait felt right enough. Merlin helped her position the circlet so the moonstone sat at the center of her forehead. She marveled at how it perfectly contoured to her head. Probably, she realized, because she had worn it before.

Merlin eyed her and shook his head. “Perfect. You look … like you.”

The longer they walked, the more cottages were on either side of the ever-widening lane. Foot traffic steadily increased, too. Nearly every person who passed greeted them with reverent bows or curtsies, murmuring, “Ma’am” or “Your Majesty” as they did so. They whispered behind their hands and pointed from across the street. Vera’s palms were clammy despite the evening chill. There’d not been a single time in her life when so many people paid attention to her.

She fidgeted with her skirt, making sure it lay correctly on her legs. “Is this sort of attention normal?”

“It’s normal for you, dear,” he answered kindly, taking her hand and looping it around his elbow. “They know you. I’d even say they adore you. Arthur is a well-loved king. You’ve been to Glastonbury many times. It makes quite an impression on people.”

“Do I need to be responding in a particular way?” she asked, trying to move her lips as little as possible.

“You’re doing well.” He patted her hand. “Smile, say ‘good evening’ if you like. That’s all you need do.”

This must have been the heaviest residential section. Houses butted right up against one another with occupants scurrying in and out, cook-fires blazing, and groups sitting together at outdoor tables for their evening meal. Vera heard more laughter than she’d expected. The lane ended and she vaguely recognized that this was where the High Street would have been. They rounded the corner, and she was not disappointed.

Her feet stuttered to a stop. Disbelief stunned Vera into stillness. The lane was lined with buildings, all stone or timber, and quite a bit smaller than the structures of Vera’s time. But it wasn’t the structures that took her breath away. Glowing lanterns the size of footballs were strung merrily, crisscrossing above the dirt road and bathing the lane below in a soft warmth. There were carts and stalls every few feet. Vera smelled the spices before she saw them. Vendors were everywhere selling their goods: food, jewelry, clothing, and fine fabrics. And then, there were artists with paintings, sketch work, and embroidery. As the music started again, Vera searched for its source and found the troupe of performers past the spice stall, playing a lively song that quickly revealed itself to be about a mischievous fairy who snuck into homes and blessed children with magic.

And, indeed, there was magic.

On closer inspection, the lanterns that hung across the street were not suspended by string but bobbed in place of their own accord. And they didn’t glow with fire, but some source unidentifiable to Vera. Across the lane, a young boy manned a cart. A woman behind him roasted sweet-smelling nuts on a blue fire. Vera noticed another woman further down, taking payment and levitating the customer a foot or so off the ground.

Everywhere she turned, there was something amazing. Merlin guided Vera through the throngs of people who all peered at her with as much interest as she did at them. She dragged her feet past two singers, a man and a woman, who mystically built a harmony of four parts between them. The Glastonbury she’d loved her whole life would forever be a special place. But this Glastonbury’s evening market was the whimsical street fair of fairytales.

“We must keep going, Guinevere,” Merlin said. The name was going to take some getting used to.

She let him lead her on without tearing her eyes from the happy spectacle around her. Too soon, they’d reached the end of the magical lane where the lanterns stopped, and the crowd grew thin.

“Arthur will meet us over there.” He pointed to the end of the High Street, into the quiet darkness where Vera could make out a barn.

Her stomach flipped over on itself. Merlin must have seen her expression change.

“There’s no need to be nervous. Reconnecting with him will help to loosen your memories. I expect you’ll remember him before you remember the rest. This will be good,” he told her.

His reassurance only carried Vera so far. She took a steadying breath and nodded. As they drew nearer to the stable, Vera saw that someone was seated on the ground outside it, his back against the wall. It was dark enough that she couldn’t make out his features, but he must have also seen Merlin and Vera, for he stood up. It hit her in the gut.

It was him.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” Merlin said. “I’ll give you two a moment.”

That really wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t know how to make her feet work. How was she supposed to meet one of the most famous men in history as her husband? Jesus. Husband. She’d have laughed at the absurdity of it if it wasn’t also so terrifying. Vera didn’t have words or a voice to protest. She stood rooted on the spot. Merlin nudged her forward. She took a shaking step, then another.

Her heart thudded against her chest, and blood pumped so rapidly through her body that she’d swear she could feel it pulsing in her fingertips. She was sure the man could see how much she was shaking. Before she knew it, her feet were carrying her to him. He was handsome and tall, and his frame was neither broad nor narrow but lean, muscular, and fit. He wore a short beard cropped close to his chin, and his honey-brown hair was just long enough for a loose piece to swoop across his forehead. What she noticed more than all the rest was the kindness of his eyes.

As soon as their eyes met, a deep affection rose from her belly.

“Hello,” Vera said hesitantly.

She didn’t realize how rigid his mouth had been drawn until he relaxed at her greeting. The concern fixed into the lines of his face ebbed into relief, and his eyes glinted. He rushed to Vera and swept her into a hug. She tentatively let herself melt into it, experimenting with how it felt to lean her head into his shoulder and return the embrace, touching his back with one hand. He released his hands to her shoulders, bending his knees to drop to eye level with her. His brow furrowed as he carefully examined her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said with a nervous half-laugh. Though she had no memory of him, Vera instantly felt like she knew him. This might work.

“Goddammit!”

Vera jumped at Merlin’s voice, cursing close behind her. “Where the hell is Arthur?” His glare burned into the man.

Vera tensed and turned back to the man holding her shoulders. This was not Arthur?

The stranger saw the shock on her face. He dropped his hands from her arms and stepped toward Merlin. “May I have a word?”

Merlin’s steady demeanor, which Vera had witnessed only minutes ago, swung to palpable anger. She supposed, considering the gravity of the situation, it was understandable. The unknown man, on the other hand, genially guided Merlin away, an arm slung around his shoulders like an old friend. Vera couldn’t hear their conversation but could see from his gestures and posture that the man was working to diffuse Merlin’s ire. She watched them without any attempt to hide her interest. If there was some reason Arthur couldn’t show up for a horse ride after she’d left her entire life behind, Vera felt entitled to know it. She’d assumed she would be the only obstacle to this plan’s success, not anybody else. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder how Arthur felt about it, nor had she considered until this exact moment that Guinevere and Arthur’s relationship might have been an unhappy one.

When Merlin turned back to Vera, the other man tailing a step behind him, it seemed his efforts had not been in vain. Merlin still seethed, but the aura of fury had dissipated.

“It appears I am urgently needed. I’ll be riding ahead. Sir Lancelot will escort you to the castle. You’ll be safe with him.”

He wheeled about and hurried into the stable without another word, leaving Vera alone with Lancelot.

“Shit,” she said under her breath. She was as clueless as she’d ever been about herself and this world, a maddening combination of concerned and offended by Arthur’s absence, and wildly embarrassed by her interaction with the man she now knew to be Lancelot. He rocked from his heels to his toes, expression light and unfazed.

“Is something the matter with Arthur?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s fine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Are you hungry? We’ve got a decent ride ahead of us. Maybe three hours.”

Vera sighed, questioning if Merlin had intentionally couched the difficulty of this whole journey. To add to it, she actually was famished. After only toast and tea post-run and frantic bites of stew between serving tables at lunch, followed by having her existence called into question, Vera was wholly depleted.

“I really am,” she said.

“Good, because I’m starving.” He offered his arm to her, which she accepted before they walked back toward the evening market. “There’s a stall with good hand pies up here. Ale or wine?”

“Oh, erm, ale,” Vera answered. Water might have been a better option, but she wasn’t sure if it was even readily available, and the shame of naivety kept her from asking.

Lancelot guided her through the growing crowd beneath the magical lanterns. He made a beeline for a particular food stall. While he spoke with the old man preparing the food, Vera slipped away from him and back into the street, careful to keep Lancelot in eyeshot. This version of Glastonbury was scrambled up, brightly lit, and magically buzzing. It was clearly the town she knew so well, but now she saw it as if reflected in a jeweled looking glass. The instinct to grab her phone and take a picture was so deeply ingrained that Vera even reached for where her trouser pocket should have been before she remembered it wasn’t there. That was going to be stranger to get used to than the new name.