“Go for the legs!” Lily shouted. Sir Gawain dove, narrowly missing the legs and getting a face full of feathers for his efforts. He laughed and tried again, with Lily giving useless advice. Guinevere doubted Lily had ever so much as touched a chicken, but it made her happy to see the girl so involved and delighted.
Guinevere had not had a chance to give Lily her gift. It was probably better to wait until they could speak someplace calm and quiet. Guinevere turned her back on Lily and Sir Gawain and looked for Arthur. They had been separated early on when Lily wanted to explore.
Sir Tristan was watching the woodcutting competition. Guinevere waved to him, but he did not notice, all his attention on the competitors. A man in the center of the contestants had taken off his shirt. His back rippled with his efficient, powerful motions. Guinevere felt a flutter low in her stomach watching him. There was something she loved about the broad span of his shoulders and the trim point of his waist.
“Oh, that is Arthur,” she said, putting a hand against her stomach and the giddy surge she had felt there. She felt almost guilty for being attracted to him before she had known it was him. But she did not stop watching him.
Lily turned to see what Guinevere was watching, and her cheeks pinkened as she realized what she was seeing. “He is almost naked.”
“Yes.” It was the most undressed Guinevere had ever seen him. And the rest of the kingdom was seeing it, as well, which felt unfair. Would she always have to share him? Her crown slipped and she reached up to push it back in place.
Anna weaved her way through the crowd, holding two cups. She handed one to Lily and the other to Guinevere. “Spiced wine!” she shouted over the noise. “I hate everything here except this.”
Guinevere laughed, grateful for the distraction. She glanced at Lily, but Lily was not going to abandon Sir Gawain. It looked like he would be chasing that chicken for a long time.
“Come, I know a quieter spot where we can rest for a bit,” Guinevere said. She did not want to keep watching Arthur. Or she did, but not in public. And she did not like the idea of being watched as she watched him. She sipped her drink as they walked. It was not hot, but something in the wine made warmth travel all the way down her throat and into her stomach. It was odd, but not unpleasant.
Behind the field and past several rows of market stalls was a space where farmers could bring extra produce for sale. Behind that was a section for showing animals for purchase or trade. Anna found a bench of rough-hewn wood and they sat. Anna, always busy, pulled some sewing out of the pouch she wore at her waist. It was a far larger pouch than the discreet one Guinevere had tucked under her belt.
Lancelot stayed several paces away, out of earshot. Guinevere drained her cup. She wished she were running through the festival, drinking and dancing and laughing, with Lancelot on one side and Arthur on the other. That their roles were not so set. She knew it was necessary, but it was also unfair.
“You seem unhappy.” Anna set down her sewing and turned her full attention to Guinevere.
“No, I am very happy.”
“Yes, people who are very happy always insist they are very happy with a tone that aggressive.”
Guinevere tried to laugh, but ended up sighing. “I have been thinking, and—”
“My queen!” Ailith bounded toward her, happiness in every step. “I bought a chicken!” She held up the creature by its ankles. It seemed resigned to its upside-down state, staring at Guinevere with round, blank eyes.
“So you did! Congratulations!” Guinevere’s whole body felt warm, as though she had bathed in the wine. But that made no sense. She would never bathe, and certainly not in wine. She cleaned herself with fire like a civilized person. Like a civilized witch. She was neither of those things. She squinted as her thoughts became as round and unblinking as the eyes of that chicken.
“Thank you! I— Oh, hello, Morgana! I did not know you were in Camelot now, too! The queen is very forgiving.” Ailith beamed at Guinevere, then waved goodbye, running toward Gunild’s waiting brother.
“Morgana?” Guinevere turned toward Anna. “Why did she call you—”
Anna had a knife pressed against Guinevere’s side. It was hidden by the angle of their bodies so that Lancelot could not see it when she glanced at them. “I prefer it to Morgan le Fay, but I have so many names these days. I did not expect to see one of Rhoslyn’s girls here. No matter. I am nearly finished with Camelot anyway.”
“You are—you are bad.” Guinevere’s tongue felt thick and unwieldy.
“Am I? Hmm. Tell me, dear, what are you really?”
“Changeling,” Guinevere said, then frowned. She wiped her mouth as though that would take away what she had said.
With her free hand, Anna patted Guinevere’s knee in a comforting gesture. “I made your wine special. Mordred tells me you w
ork mostly with knots. I prefer potions myself. What do you mean, a changeling?”
“I am not Guinevere. She died. Poor Guinevere. Do you think she would have liked it here?” Guinevere tried to be concerned about what she was saying, or about the fact that she was saying it to Morgan le Fay, but everything was so warm and sleepy in a way that made it impossible to care too much. The patch of dirt in front of them looked as inviting as her bed. She could imagine curling up in it, going to sleep.
“You are not Guinevere?”
“No. Why am I telling you this? Merlin is my father. Or he is not. It seems like he is not, but I remember that he is? Or he told me he is. I have maybe four memories of him as my father?” Guinevere held up her fingers, squinting at them, trying to count whether she was in fact holding up four. “The cabin. Sweeping. The falcon who brought us food. And…three? Is it only three? Lessons! That is four. Do I really remember any of them, though? I think the Lady of the Lake is my mother, though. I have dreams. About her. But I am also frightened of her. And water. Water.” Guinevere shuddered.
“What has he done to you, you poor child?” Anna took Guinevere by the chin, turning her head so they were face to face and so Lancelot could not see Guinevere’s expressions. “Listen to me. You are Guinevere.”
“No. I lived in the forest before this. I like the forest.”