Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

It was only two mornings later that Lancelot led her through the cobbled streets of Camelot straight to the armory. Vera had expected some royal seamstress or a clothing shop. Instead, they were greeted with a sharp glare by the scruffy middle-aged man (who Vera felt unreasonably sure would ride a motorbike if he were born thirteen hundred years later) deftly weaving tiny metal circles into chain mail. He set his work down in front of him and scratched his mostly grey beard with thick fingers as his eyes searched Vera. She felt he could read every lie she was living as if it were written plainly on her face.

“Your Majesty. Lancelot,” he said, more grunt than words. He rose and picked up a neatly folded pile of garments and pressed them into Vera’s hands. Right to the point. She could appreciate that. “Change over there.” He pointed to a makeshift changing curtain in the corner.

After struggling to untie the strings of her dress, Vera pulled on the startlingly comfortable garments. The trousers were rust-brown with loose-fitting legs and buttons just below her knees to keep them from flapping about while she ran. The long-sleeved shirt was more fitted than the tunics she had seen but made of the same soft fabric as the trousers.

“How does it feel?” Vera started at Lancelot’s voice as her fingers fumbled with her new trousers’ buttons.

She stepped out from behind the curtain. “They’re perfect.”

It was no surprise. Lancelot had filled her in on their walk over.

“He made garments for me? In all of two days?” Vera had asked incredulously. “How did he know my measurements?”

“That’s Randall’s gift,” Lancelot had said. “It’s a sensory power. He’s never needed to take your measurements. He saw you at dinner the first night and instantly knew them. He can hear better, see better, smell from farther, and he’s got this thing with his hands, too. He has these massive sausages of fingers, but he weaves the finest, most intricate armor. Quickly, too. It was all dead useful in battle, even the smell part. He’s a bit rough about the edges, but don’t let him fool you. Randall’s one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, and he might be the sweetest man to walk this planet.”

Vera couldn’t speak to the armor nor to Randall’s sweetness, but Lancelot’s assessment of her new running kit was certainly true. Randall made a circle about Vera, eyeing her as he rubbed at his beard. “The shirt’s based on what our soldiers wear underneath their chainmail. The whole set’s a wool and silk blend. It should handle moisture well.”

“That’s good,” Lancelot said, “because she sweats loads. Buckets, really.”

“It was a heavy shirt!” Vera protested, glaring at him. He was seated at a workbench, bent over Randall’s chainmail with metal tools in hand, grinning in satisfaction as he worked. “I sweat a normal amount,” she added to Randall.

He continued his inspection, checking the seams of Vera’s sleeves. “You’re very bad at that,” he growled, and Vera only realized he wasn’t speaking to her when he glanced over his shoulder at Lancelot. “Yes, you,” he added when Lancelot looked thoroughly scandalized. “Going to have to redo all of your work. And you’re slow, too.”

Randall lifted his gaze to Vera’s face for the first time, and his left eyelid flinched just enough for her to realize he was winking at her as he joined the banter on her behalf.

She smiled. “I can’t believe you made these so quickly. Thank you.”

She touched his arm, and Randall awkwardly ducked his head in a bow, color rising above the whiskers on his cheeks. Perhaps Lancelot had been right about Randall’s gentle spirit, too.

Lancelot guided Vera via a different route back to the castle: a winding footpath through a section of town where the structures thinned out and gave way to a lush green field speckled with purple heather and with benches along the side. Between the benches were practice swords, spears, and shields hung on wooden racks.

“This is our training arena,” Lancelot told her. “We run drills with the castle soldiers every day.”

An enclosure caught Vera’s eye on the farthest end of the field. It reminded her of a petting zoo pen she’d once visited on a day trip during school, made of picket boards and the height of her hips.

There were no goats bleating their demand for children to feed them, but the pen wasn’t empty. There must have been a dozen people corralled in it: boys barely old enough to have scruff on their chin, men who could have easily been their fathers, and two teenage girls—all running, laughing, and shouting. Onlookers crowded the picket board wall, cheering them on.

Vera heard a loud THUNK, and soon she could see a roughly sewn-together football. They were playing some sort of keep-away game. Players could kick the ball or smack it with their fists, but when it bounced off the wooden pickets and whacked someone in the leg, or when a player took a directly kicked ball to the bottom, they’d hop the wall, and the game continued with those who were left. It ended when one person remained, who was clapped on the back in congratulations of their victory before anyone wanting to join the next game clambered into the pen.

“That’s the pit. The game is rather a favorite in town.” Lancelot eyed her. “Do you want to play?”

“What? Me?” Vera looked around her as if expecting there to be someone else that he was asking. “Is that even allowed?” There were plenty of women joining in the game.

“Sure,” he said. “Granted, I’m probably not the best judge of propriety, but … I don’t see why not.”

Lancelot didn’t wait for an answer. He took Vera’s hand and escorted her to the pit, where they both joined the gathered players. Nobody spoke directly to her, but a general hum of excitement rippled through the crowd as they took notice of Vera and Lancelot’s presence in the game. The winner of the previous match had the honor of kicking the ball first, and then they were off.

And it was riotous fun. Lancelot jumped high to dodge a particularly well-aimed zip of the ball, and Vera held up a ready hand to congratulate him.

He looked at her fingers and back to her face. “What’s that? What are you doing?”

“A high five,” she explained, tickled that, to the best of her knowledge, she was performing the first ever high five with the legendary Sir Lancelot. “You slap my hand with yours.” She mimed it for him, clapping her raised hands together. “It’s like a ‘Well done!’ sort of congratulations thing.”

“Oh,” he said as he gamely slapped his palm to hers. He grinned. “I like that.”

Play carried on around them, and Vera was caught with a ball to the shoulder while still laughing about rewriting the high five’s history. The players grew rather quiet in the seconds following until she threw her head back in playful frustration and climbed over the wall. That was permission enough for the fun to resume. She mercilessly rooted against Lancelot, and when he was pegged by a poor bounce off the wall, she roared with glee, and he rolled his eyes in the first sign of annoyance she’d yet seen from him. This delighted Vera even more. Her new friend evidently liked to win. But he wasn’t a poor sport and was soon cheering on the remaining players.

During the next game, with luck and a hefty amount of hiding behind larger competitors, Vera found herself one of four remaining. She vaguely noticed that the crowd grew quiet but was too focused to try to figure out why. The ball was in her area, and she kicked it as hard as she could. She’d been aiming it at one of her opponents, missed, hit the wall, and it ended up ricocheting conveniently off two remaining players, leaving only Vera and a sturdy man across the pit vying for victory.

The ball stopped near her opponent, meaning he would start the volley. His eyes darted from the ball to Vera and back to the ball before he lobbed the most pathetic kick at her. She pursed her lips as if that could contain the indignation coursing through her. Vera marched forward, picked up the ball that had stopped rolling not halfway across the pen, and went over to the man.

Murmurs rippled through the surrounding crowd, but one voice carried to Vera’s ears above the rest.

“What’s she doing?” It was familiar, and she would have turned to look, but Vera had recognized her opponent. In fact, he wasn’t a man at all … just a boy in a man’s body.

“It’s you!” she said. It was the boy she’d stopped at sword point on the road—only he’d clearly had a bath and haircut and was no longer dressed in rags. One feature from before remained: the fear on his face. If it was possible, he was more petrified now than he had been during their first encounter.

“You’re the queen! I can’t play against you, Your Majesty.” He said it so softly that Vera had to lean in close to hear him. And his eyes darted up every few seconds.

“Of course you can,” she said. If only he knew how very insignificant she was.

“Not in front of Sir Lancelot … and definitely not in front of the king.”

Vera’s neck would hurt later from how quickly she whipped around. Next to Lancelot, who leaned casually against the wall, stood Arthur. Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t caught more than a passing glimpse of him since her first night. He wasn’t dressed formally, but his hair was pulled back at his neck, and he wore a gold crown. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he watched. At least he was in the same vicinity as her, and Vera noticed he wasn’t scowling. She turned back to the boy, very much needing not to think about Arthur’s presence.

“He’ll kill me,” the boy went on. “Especially after what happened—after what I did,” he corrected himself, his words dripping in shame.

His eyes were pained, tortured even. She smiled sadly at him, wondering exactly how young he was. “What’s your name?”

“Walter,” he said, staring at Arthur.

Vera lowered her voice and moved closer to him. “Look at me, Walter.” She waited for him to tear his eyes from the king. “He doesn’t know about that. But if you let me win this game in the name of some misplaced chivalry, I will march right over there and rat you out.” She said all this with grave severity, but she ended it with a goading grin. “Come on, now. Show me what you’ve got.”

She pushed the ball into his hands. Vera wished she could convey to Walter that she was as nervous as him. Arthur stood precisely at the spot on the wall opposite Walter, which, of course, was the place it made most sense for Vera to stand in front of. She could feel his eyes on her back as Lancelot’s voice joined with the crowd’s cheers. “Stay in it, Guinevere!”

When Walter smacked the ball into play, Vera jumped out of the way and heard a resounding thud behind her as the ball slammed into the wall. He wasn’t holding back this time. Good. She gave a good show of it, successfully dodging a handful of strikes and even getting in a few solid whacks at the ball, but she wasn’t much of a match for Walter. Vera was off balance and distracted after catching a glimpse of Lancelot and Arthur, their heads inclined toward one another. Lancelot was talking quickly and gesturing at her as Arthur’s lips pressed flat together into an unreadable line.

Walter swiped at the ball, and amid her preoccupation with Arthur, it bounced off the wall behind Vera and nailed her forcefully, dead on in the middle of her back. She fell gracelessly forward onto hands and knees in the dirt and heard a collective gasp from the crowd as Walter launched into a stream of horrified apologies.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!” He rushed to her side and reached out toward Vera’s shoulders, then pulled back, then reached out, apparently unsure whether he should touch her. Vera grabbed Walter’s hand to settle the matter, and he pulled her to her feet.

Her dress must have been filthy, and strands of her hair had escaped her braid’s valiant attempt to restrain them. Vera also felt the heat in her cheeks. There was no scenario in which falling in the dirt in front of strangers, let alone a real-life mythically famed king, was not humiliating. She’d forgotten they’d all keep looking at her once the game was over.

Nevertheless, Vera could sense that this moment was precarious for Walter. She beamed at him and raised his hand to signify victory. The tension in the crowd broke as the onlookers cheered and clapped with more enthusiasm than before.

“Thank you,” Vera said to Walter. “That was great fun.”

The soft-spoken boy in a man’s body blushed scarlet and bowed to Vera while backing away.

As many from the crowd clambered over the walls to join in for the next round, Vera made her retreat. The crowd had grown, no doubt, due to Vera and Arthur’s unexpected presence. Having spent her whole life being markedly, even unnaturally forgettable, the attention heaped upon Vera made regret swirl within her at having played in the first place, especially after insisting on a competitive end to it. She’d no sooner swung her feet to the other side of the wall than, everywhere she turned, she found someone vying for her attention.

“Welcome home, Your Majesty!”

“Quite a fall. Are you all right?”

“Fine game, Ma’am. Well played!”

She smiled sheepishly at the well-wishes, but there were whispers from some, too. She distinctly heard “inappropriate” and “shameful” as she made her way through the crowd. Vera felt a hand on her elbow and turned to find Lancelot with Arthur a half step behind him.

Lancelot bestowed Vera a slack-jawed chuckle. “I was not expecting that,” he said.

She chanced a glance at Arthur and was relieved that he didn’t look angry. He wasn’t smiling, though.

“Are you injured?” he asked in his stony way. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the night she arrived. A tight flutter shot through Vera’s chest.

“Only my pride,” she said, managing a smile.

She thought Arthur’s mouth twitched at the corner but surely must have been mistaken, for his face remained cold.

“I didn’t know you were here,” she said.

He tilted his head in a gesture toward the training field. “I’m training with the soldiers today.” Arthur looked Vera up and down and opened his mouth as if to say something, but a bent old man with a cane beat him to the punch.

“Your Majesty,” the little man said in a squeaky voice, bowing low.

Arthur instinctively reached out to support the man at his elbow and smiled kindly at him. It was jolting to watch Arthur’s expression soften so dramatically. She’d only seen his face set and cold, controlled as a granite statue.

“I had no idea the queen was such a fierce competitor!” The little man said with no small measure of pride.

“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, turning his warmth toward Vera but only looking as high as her shoulder. Still, it nearly toppled her. “She was quite impressive.”

The old man waggled his cane at Vera. “I’d hope for nothing less from you, Your Majesty. And we are all glad you have returned to us.” He patted her arm and hobbled off with impressive agility. Watching him was a good cover for figuring out what she should say next to Arthur. This was her opportunity; he was right here and warmer than he’d yet been.

But when she turned to Arthur, it was to see his back as he strode away toward the training field.

Perhaps the one had nothing to do with the other, but it had been their friendliest interaction yet, and that night, Vera stopped midstride on her walk through the great hall when she saw Arthur’s seat occupied. There he sat, dressed far less formally than Vera expected. Nonetheless, his presence noticeably changed the room. There was an electricity in the energy of everyone present. And it was louder. The prior evenings when Arthur was absent, she’d been uncomfortable speaking much above a whisper. Tonight, a pleasant hum of conversation and bawdy laughter surrounded her.

Vera’s eyes flicked to Merlin, wondering if he’d had any hand in this. He smiled encouragingly.

From how Arthur was seated, angled toward Lancelot, who sat in the chair on his left, Vera’s approach around the table had her facing him. He kept his eyes on Lancelot, who was talking animatedly.

“And it wasn’t the only way we might have—” Lancelot stopped midsentence, diverting his attention to Vera as she stepped into his view. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said, and it forced Arthur to acknowledge her presence, too. He turned in his seat and inclined his head in a bow of greeting, stiff and formal.

As soon as she sat down, though, he bodily turned to Lancelot, his back an impassible wall that shut her out, leaving Vera to soak in her frustration—but not for long. As the meal was being served, a trumpet blared, and a melodic voice took command of the room.

“Our king welcomes this evening, for our courtly entertainment, the North Wind Players, performing The Most Tragic Tale of Dorchester.” The castle’s herald stood at the back of the hall and took a great step aside as he opened the door with a flourish, and an acting troupe entered to polite applause.

The room went silent as the actors took their places in the open space between the two tables. They held their poses for nearly too long, and precisely when the first antsy audience member shifted in his seat, they all began moving. The two on their knees in front pattered the floor with their fists. An enchanting woman in all grey with streams of fabric tailing behind her swirled through the room, and as she passed, a true sound of wind, the kind that meant rain was coming, followed in her wake. One actor jumped atop a table, holding a glowing yellow orb high above his head before he heaved it down at the floor. It shattered not into shards but with a final bright flash and a puff of vapor. The accompanying sound was the real rumbling crash of thunder. The vapor swelled and rose, darkening and expanding until the great hall’s ceiling was covered with a blanket of storm clouds.

The clouds continued to rumble above their heads as a scrawny girl emerged from the chaos and began to spin the tale. She was the lone survivor in a village massacred by a young mage gone mad.

As she told the story, the actors performed around her, bringing the sad tale to life with striking beauty. The entire audience was captivated, more than one with tears on their cheeks as the young girl was hidden by her brothers in their animal feed trough before watching them be slain by the mage through cracks in the boards. It was a fairytale trope, one with a moral lesson pasted on at the end, lauding how Arthur’s rule brought unity and an end to violence against the people. They held their final poses in perfect stillness. The clouds above sank toward the audience’s heads.

Since they were seated higher than everyone else, the blanket of clouds first reached the royal table. Vera glanced at Arthur, who was grinning as he reached up and touched them with his fingers. Like he’d sensed her gaze, he turned to her. His eyes didn’t have time to darken, and Vera knew her expression mirrored his amazement. Her skin prickled. It was almost intimate—and gone in a flash as the descending clouds reached their foreheads and obscured Vera’s vision entirely.

A murmur rose around the hall with surprised oohs and ohs, and a scant few who sounded genuinely frightened. After the clouds reached the floor and faded, leaving only the faint smell of rain, Vera noticed that the acting troupe had risen and arranged themselves together under the cover of the descending storm clouds. They bowed, and the court followed Arthur in his enthusiastic applause.

“That was most impressive,” Arthur said when the applause dwindled. “I’m honored by your telling of my part in this. Forgive me for my memory, but the massacre of Dorchester was twenty years ago, was it not?”

The ensemble looked at one another and nodded.

“I was a boy of ten and, humbling though it is to admit, probably convincing my father I was more likely to create havoc than ever unite any kingdom,” said Arthur modestly.

The actors’ eyes flitted back and forth among one another until the troupe’s leader, the woman in grey who could make the sound of wind with her body, stepped forward with a flourish and bow. “My liege, we believe the spirit of the crown moved among us before it found you. But it was you all along.”

The gathered court applauded once more.

“That’s lovely,” Lancelot said graciously to the performers. Then, leaning forward so Vera and Arthur could see him, he spoke much more quietly. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

Arthur was more equipped to absorb his friend’s humor. His lips merely curled up further on one side, and he inclined his head in a bow to the departing performers. Vera, on the other hand, snorted with laughter. The nobleman to her right glared at her. She quickly turned away from him to find Arthur watching this exchange, the glint of a laugh in his eye. No sooner had Vera caught his gaze than his eyes flitted downward, and he was rising from his seat.

“Pardon me,” he said. Without a nod or bow or another word, he abruptly walked away. She was left staring at Lancelot, his eyes wide and the corners of his mouth dipped into a frown.

“I take it that’s not normal,” Vera said.

“Er.” His eyes followed Arthur as he exited the hall. “No,” he said.

Vera let out a single, ridiculing laugh.

After a long moment, during which Lancelot twiddled his fingers and scrunched one eye shut with his mouth in a nearly comical grimace, he looked up at her brightly. “So,” he said, “Do you want to run tomorrow?”

Now fully outfitted, rising before the sun to run was the one constant between Vera’s life before and her life as Guinevere now. This time, though, she had company. Like tonight, Lancelot would confirm at dinner whether they’d run the following morning, and most days they did. They met at Vera’s door, ran for the better part of an hour, flopped onto the grassy hillside by the castle’s back wall, and talked until the sun rose.

Routine took its course in many aspects of Vera’s life in the early days of her new normal. Run with Lancelot. Household duties with Matilda. Dinner. It was the ample amount of idle time in between that prodded Vera’s anxiety awake. Merlin was scarcely around the castle. He was almost constantly in a neighboring village, fixing their magical problems. Vera was eager to begin the work of recovering Guinevere’s memories. She couldn’t possibly pull off this ruse for long—a nobody draped in the body of a queen. But when Merlin summoned her to his study after nearly two weeks, her relief was short-lived.

“What are you—?” Vera started, but it was obvious. Merlin already wore his traveling cloak as he carefully tucked potions into his saddle bag. “Why are you packing?”

He sighed as he glanced up at her. “There is trouble in Exeter.” At Vera’s blank stare, he explained further. “It’s a two-day ride from here. Larger towns have mages. In places like Exeter, however, they rely on the gifts of the many, pooling the collective resources of all born with a gift in that area. Exeter supplies grain to Camelot and the next four towns. But the reason they could claim that role was down to the gift of a woman who crafted a rather ingenious irrigation system.

“The complex turbine system that rerouted the water came from her magic. She died shortly after its construction, and, for the most part, the town’s folk have been able to maintain it and repair it when it broke. But now the whole system has stopped. There’s no water flowing, no one with a suitable gift nearby that can fix it, and the late harvest is in imminent peril without intervention. So …” He shook his head as he continued shoving tomes and bottles into his bag.

Crestfallen, Vera dropped into the same chair she’d sat in during their first conversation. “Why did it stop working?”

“When a person has made something with their gift, they obviously can’t sustain it once they’re gone.”

“The magic dies with them?”

Merlin rushed to the baskets of scrolls and began rifling through them. “Not exactly,” he said as he plucked two rolls of parchment from the bundles. “The work of the magic will fade from what they touched without that individual’s force sustaining it, but the gift itself returns to circulation. In theory, babies are born all over the world with gifts every day. It should stand to reason that somewhere, a child was born with her gift the day she died. As long as we’ve studied it, magic functioned like air, a resource we use that recycles itself.”

She nodded. “But not since Viviane?”

Merlin stopped packing and looked at Vera in earnest. He seemed older than she remembered. “Not since Viviane,” he confirmed. “I’ve spoken with Arthur, but …” He shook his head. “I’m sorry that this is on your shoulders, but he needs to hear it from you. If you tell him you need him, I don’t believe he will refuse you.”

“I hardly see him. I don’t know how to even get a word in—”

Merlin dropped to his knee in front of Vera, his eyes rent with desperation. “Please,” he said. “Please try. The situation is being gravely underestimated.”

Vera swallowed, alarmed that the plea was as evident in his face as it was in his words. “I will. But what if he says no?”

Merlin sighed as he rose and resumed gathering his things. “We’ll consider magical intervention when I return.”

Under different circumstances, the lengths to which Arthur went to avoid speaking with Vera might have been amusing. She’d thought dinners might be her best option to corner him now that he attended them. After all, they were in the same room and right next to each other for at least the length of a meal. But the performance from the acting troupe hadn’t been a one-time visit. Every subsequent evening brought yet another performance, which would have been infuriating if each wasn’t as wonderful as the last, some with magical elements and some without.

A minstrel who sang the kingdom’s legends. A band of musicians who ended up playing far beyond the dinner hour. More acting troupes. Dancers. The night Merlin left for Exeter, there was a storyteller who painted while he regaled them with legends. Vera felt this had to have some kind of magic to it, though she couldn’t pinpoint the mystical quality. There was a lull when the storyteller grew quiet to make adjustments to his painting, and Vera made a snap decision that this was her chance.

“I have to unlock those memories.” She said it quickly, leaning closer to Arthur. She didn’t wait for him to acknowledge her; she knew he could hear. “Merlin thinks that connecting with you is the best way to start remembering.” She hesitated, embarrassed to say the next part. But she thought of Merlin’s plea, and the words tumbled out. “I need you.”

Arthur flinched. He hadn’t turned toward her as much as he’d angled his head in Vera’s direction. He opened his mouth to interject, but Vera put a hand on his arm and plowed on even as she felt his muscles stiffen under her fingers.

“Just listen, please. I won’t try to replace her—”

She stopped—because he looked at her. But it wasn’t with interest or even politeness. He was furious.

“Guinevere.” He snarled the name. “I can’t.” His voice was strained and low, and behind the rage in his face, Vera saw it in his eyes and a tremble through his rigid form: a flash of fear. The performance wasn’t finished, but Arthur stood and left the hall, an action which didn’t go unnoticed through the room.

She tried to keep her face composed as if this was ordinary. Heads turned toward Arthur until he disappeared through the side door, and then they turned to her. Even the artist faltered and paused, looking at Vera as he stuttered to a stop. The room was uncomfortably quiet. Her palms went slick, and nausea swept over her. Did they expect her to speak? She wasn’t—she couldn’t pretend to be their queen. She was a broken projector of a memory. That was all. She stared down at her hands.

Lancelot leaned toward her. “Guinna … ?”

“Help me,” she whispered, hating how pathetic she sounded.

Lancelot’s brow furrowed. He turned to face the waiting watchers, plastering on a dazzling smile. “The king offers his apologies. He has been called away and requests that we all enjoy the remainder of this superb performance on his behalf. Carry on, good sir.”

Vera didn’t remember another second of the performance. As soon as the applause began, Matilda ushered her from the room, and Vera followed to her quarters in a fog. There had to be a reason for Arthur’s behavior.

As Matilda unlaced the back of her gown, Vera glanced at the closed door to his chamber. She knew he didn’t believe she was Guinevere; neither of them did. But was that enough for him to respond to her like this? There had to be more to it.

She was changed into her nightgown, and Matilda was two steps from leaving the room when Vera made a decision.

“Matilda?” she said, and Matilda turned toward her in surprise. “Would you like to have a drink and … talk?”

She stared at Vera for a long while, her eyes soft. “I would be honored.”

Vera gestured to the seating area by the fire, where Matilda sank into one of the comfy poufs. Vera fetched two glasses and the pitcher from the desk, which was always filled with fresh wine (presumably by Matilda herself). She poured Matilda’s and then filled her own cup. Matilda shook her head as she took her first sip.

Vera wasn’t sure where to begin. She had a plan for this conversation, but it felt unnatural to jump right to it. Her eyes landed on the vase of flowers on the low table. They were replaced with new ones at least once a week. When Vera left this morning, they’d been blooms of yellows and golds, and during the day, those had been swapped for large burnt orange blossoms mixed in with smaller white and cream flowers so lovely and perfect that Vera wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been made of silk. She fingered a petal in an unnecessary confirmation that they were real.

“Thank you for these. They’re lovely,” Vera said. “I always enjoy seeing the week’s bouquet.”

“I—” Matilda became keenly interested in her glass of wine. She stared down into it, swirling her goblet as she answered. “You are very welcome, Your Majesty. But you should know—”