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“Mother,” Gwen said seriously. “Call the guards. He threatened me with a knife.” “I told you not to say things like that anymore,” her mother said,
“I used to pray for all the usual things. For my family’s health, for the kingdom. And then one day I realized I’d been slipping other things in there too. Things I wanted for myself. Things I knew I could never have. And it got too … painful, I suppose, to keep asking and asking, knowing it was futile.
She was rewarded with a dangerous little half smile. If she had been an artist, she would have rushed home later that night and attempted to commit it to canvas; embroidering it would probably lose a lot in translation.
If Gabriel knew, and saw her, and didn’t mind, then it wouldn’t feel so wrong. It would ease some of the panic and regret she felt every time she thought about her mother patting her on the head and reassuring her that the horror of ladies who loved other ladies would never darken Gwen’s door.
She couldn’t tell which was winning out—her utter devastation at Gabriel’s lack of support, at the way he’d made her feel so monstrous, or the suspicion that she was monstrous; that it was somehow a dishonorable thing to look at Bridget the way she did,
Shame. That was the feeling. She felt flooded with it, like it was curdling the blood in her veins and taking root in the pit of her stomach.
“There’s no separating the two,” Gabriel said quietly. “I am England.” “And I’m your sister’s fiancé,” Arthur said meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve all got our crosses to bear—”
don’t you think you should meet people where they are?” “I like to meet people where I am,” said Arthur, as they got to their feet. “I’m already there. Saves on the commute.”
“You moon, I’m afraid. But she must find it endearing. Can’t say I understand the appeal. I like my men emotionally repressed and unavailable.”
Gwen just looked at him. She was always the one who spoke first; helped Gabriel fill in the gaps when he couldn’t find the words. It wasn’t her responsibility this time. He’d have to find them on his own.
“You—you got your lance wet, didn’t you?” Arthur said, probably not as quietly as he should have done; he was feeling a bit giddy himself. “You gave her the green gown! You ground her corn! You—”
In the lamplight, he looked strangely young—not like a future king at all, just a boy, being swallowed whole by the dust and the darkness and the thousands of words of history closing in all around him.
“Jesus,” Arthur said thickly. “I’m crying because I was just in a bloody battle. It was awful, I hated every second of it and I would not recommend it to a friend. And, yes, I suppose—I suppose I’m also crying because I love you and I’m so pleased to see you. Idiot.”
“Because … I wouldn’t mind, you know. If you did harbor expectations. In fact, I’d do my very best to exceed them.”
“Lucifer,” Arthur said sternly. “That one’s spicy.”
“That’s stupid,” Arthur said. “When we all know that Bridget is the second coming of Arthur Pendragon.”
“To be truly brave, first you must be afraid—and to be afraid, you must have something you cannot bear to lose.”
