Who took care of you when Merlin was with me all those years?
Merlin is not your father. You cannot even say it without stumbling on the words.
Magic runs through your veins.
You have stolen something precious from me.
She had so few memories. Everything else—her childhood, her life, her mother—had been wiped away like fog from a window. Someone had taken them from her so she would not know. So she would not ask.
Guinevere put her face in her hands, hiding from the stars and from the lake beneath them. “Lancelot. I think the Lady of the Lake is my mother.”
* * *
“Say nothing to Arthur.” Guinevere sat on the edge of her bed, taking deep breaths and imagining her face like her mind: easily wiped clean of everything inconvenient or painful or dangerous. “Until we know more, I do not want to trouble him with this.”
“But if she is your mother—”
“All I know—all I know in the altered landscape of my mind, damn that wizard—is that I believe in Arthur. That I chose him. I have known it from the start.” Not in the way she “knew” Merlin was her father—a fact that she knew but that never felt or settled right. Her belief in Arthur was part of her. Nothing could have placed it there, and nothing could take it away. “Right now, that is enough for me. There is the threat of the Dark Queen out there, and there is the threat of Guinevach right here. Those are the threats I am ready for. Those are the questions I can answer. And until we have answered them, I can let questions about myself lie.” She looked up, desperate for reassurance.
Lancelot offered her none. Her knight’s face was clouded with worry and something else. She seemed on the verge of speaking, but the door opened. Arthur entered, followed by Brangien. Lancelot gave a quick bow. “I will be outside if you need me.”
Guinevere did not want her to leave, but she did not have a chance to call her back.
“No reaction to the sword
.” Arthur gestured to his belt out of habit, but he had thoughtfully left the sword somewhere else before coming to Guinevere’s room.
It took several seconds for Guinevere to understand what he meant. Guinevach had not reacted badly to Excalibur. “How was she at dinner?”
Arthur seemed hesitant to answer. Guinevere waited for the bad news. If only Guinevach were a cursed forest. A possessed wolf. A magically venomous spider. All those Guinevere could fight.
“Charming,” Brangien said, rummaging through the chests in the corner. She was already planning and packing for their trip to Dindrane’s family estate.
“And by charming, you mean…”
Brangien frowned at a yellow tunic as though it had done something to personally offend her. “Excellent manners. Back as straight as a sapling, swaying gently toward whoever was speaking. Mouth like a rosebud and a laugh as pretty and sweet. Sir Gawain certainly seemed to agree. Even Sir Bors spoke with her.” Sir Bors had never had a conversation with Guinevere. At least, not one that was more than absolutely required to give or receive necessary information. “Why are we spying on her?”
“It is…complicated.”
“There is a chance she is in league with the Dark Queen,” Arthur said. It was the truth, or at least a sliver of it.
Brangien directed her frown toward Guinevere, holding up the yellow tunic thoughtfully. “She hardly seems the type. She wears a lot of pink.”
“Because she wears pink she cannot be in league with evil?”
“No, sorry. That was a separate thought. I like her in pink. It is flattering. But I do not think it would suit you.”
Guinevere turned back to Arthur, giving up on Brangien’s assessments. “And the sword did nothing? How did you unsheathe it? How close were you?”
Arthur watched Brangien’s actions with a furrowed brow. “Guinevere would look very nice in pink.”
“She does not have the coloring for it.”
“What does that mean? Guinevere always looks pretty.”
“Because she has a maid who is careful to dress her in colors that will flatter her complexion.”
Guinevere snatched the yellow tunic from Brangien and tossed it onto the bed. “Can we focus on the threat?”