She must have been quiet for some time, lost in her thoughts, before Gawain eventually asked, “Are you done talking to me now?”

Vera shot him a look, only to find Gawain grinning.

It was well after dark when they bumbled into their rather luxurious camp. Five tents were laid out like a circle of wagons around a crackling campfire—only these were fantastic, brightly colored silk tents three meters tall. The mages each had their own. Then, there was one tent for the soldiers and the two knights and one each for Vera and Arthur. She’d heard Arthur discreetly make the request to Naiam. She hated it. She’d have given anything for the comfort of his arms tonight.

Lancelot stood outside the soldiers’ tent, painstakingly suspending his orb with Merlin’s magical aid as Vera eyed him with a cocked eyebrow.

She laughed. “He can do that himself, Merlin.”

But Merlin glanced up from his work, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“The orb—” Vera said, then she stooped. Lancelot shook his head minutely behind him. “Erm. I thought you were—never mind. I was confused.” She was eager for Merlin to clear off so she could ask Lancelot what the hell that was about when a hand on her elbow turned out to be Tristan’s.

“May I visit you this evening?” he asked quickly.

“Oh, erm.” Vera tossed a glance at Lancelot, who was pretending not to listen as he tied his tent flaps back. “I can’t tell you about what happened with the mages,” she said apologetically, steering him farther from Lancelot.

“I know,” Tristan said. “I’m used to this job: here to be chivalrous muscle, and they’ll tell me more if it’s pertinent for me to know.” He laughed. “I wanted to give you some company. Only if you want it.” He squeezed her elbow, trailing his thumb in a circle there as he had on her thigh the other night.

“All right,” Vera heard herself say.

“All right,” Tristan echoed. “I’m going to get cleaned up a bit, and then I’ll come by.”

He trotted off, leaving Vera with Lancelot’s disapproving stare. He was quickly distracted by Gawain, who crawled out from behind the tent nearest them.

“Gawain, what on earth are you doing?” Lancelot asked.

The mage lowered his face to the dirt, examining it closely. “Checking the boundary line of our camp to be sure it’s safe.”

Lancelot sighed and shook his head, chuckling with Vera, his judgment apparently forgotten. He strode over to Gawain and offered him a hand up. “Come on, sir mage, I’ll bunk up with you tonight. Your own private security detail.”

Gawain stared at his hand disdainfully. “You are helpless against magic,” he grumbled.

Lancelot lay his hand over his heart and frowned. “That hurts my feelings. Hey!” He said more brightly. “Nobody’s ever died in battle next to me, remember? Didn’t you and Percival think that was my magic? There you have it. That’s that sorted. Now …” He shook his offered hand at Gawain, who glowered and reluctantly accepted it.

“Aw, there he is! That’s the Gawain we love!” Lancelot slung an arm around his shoulder and steered Gawain toward his tent, calling to Vera over his shoulder, “Let’s run tomorrow, Guinna. How often will we get the privilege of running under the Mages’ Cloak?”

She marveled at the nonsensical yet also somehow perfectly logical fit of them.

Vera went to her tent, on the other side of the soldiers’. Merlin’s was beside hers and then Arthur’s, directly across the circle. His tent flaps didn’t stir.

At least she could overthink things in comfort, Vera thought as she pushed through the entry. The camp set by Naiam put the finest glamping to shame. Lavish rugs carpeted the floor from one end to the other beneath furnishings as fine as any inn could offer. The bed (and it was a bed, not a cot, with a frame and ornately carved wooden headboard) only took a fraction of the space. There was a sitting area with wide-armed chairs and even a fireplace (did the tent have a chimney? She’d have to check in the morning), a desk like back in Camelot—and both hers and Arthur’s bags had been neatly piled by an armoire made from the same cherry oak as the bed’s headboard.

Arthur’s bags. Damn. Whoever delivered them hadn’t gotten the memo that the king and queen kept separate quarters. Vera sighed as she hefted his two saddlebags over her shoulders, partly glad for a reason to go to him, partly dreading another perfectly friendly and all-business encounter.

When she turned around, Arthur was already standing in her entry, framed in the light of the orb.

“Looking for these?” she said, with a cheeriness she didn’t feel. Arthur hurried to her side, taking the bags from her shoulders. Warmth rushed through Vera when he set the bags down rather than leaving immediately.

She seized the opening. “Would you like to sit for a minute?” Vera gestured awkwardly to the sitting area.

Arthur smiled. “I’d love to sit.”

He took the chair across from her, resting his elbows on his knees as Lancelot had done last night. It was funny to know them both so well now. One didn’t bear any resemblance to the other, but they were so similar in mannerisms, kin in a hundred tiny ways.

“How are you?” he asked.

She exhaled a laugh. “I don’t know where to start. Thank God for Gawain.”

Arthur nodded emphatically, his face serious. “Without him, I’m afraid you would have gone ahead with the memory procedure.” He smiled fleetingly and seemed to take an interest in the rug between his feet. “I’m glad it’s not on your shoulders anymore, and we can get you back home soon.”

“Oh,” Vera said. “Right. Yes, that’s good.” Her throat tightened. She willed her chin not to quiver as tears threatened from the back of her eyes.

“I should go … let you enjoy your evening how you wish.” He stood and collected his bags. His words were perfectly cordial, but Vera felt the meaning. Arthur meant Tristan.

“Stop,” she said before he’d made it more than a step. “I don’t—” Her voice caught and broke.

Arthur settled back into his seat and leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?”

Vera shook her head, questing for what to say, for how to cover this moment. A strange clarity took her. Arthur saw it and sat up straight, bracing himself. The stone mask slid into place across his features. Her tears cleared from her throat, and she began speaking before she had a chance to think better of it.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want Tristan. I want you, and it is driving me mad that you can be not fifty feet away and believe that I’m fucking him and be—” she gestured frantically at him, “and be fine with it!”

He listened to her, keeping his eyes trained on her and his face unreadable, barely moving a muscle. She had to watch closely to see his chest rise with his breath.

“Is that what you think?” Arthur asked in a whisper.

Vera nodded.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. A tear found the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. She flinched toward brushing it away or trying to hide it but stopped herself.

Arthur rose and pivoted away from Vera, his hand rubbing hard over his mouth. He turned back to her abruptly, and his face had transformed. No longer were his features the pool of calm. His face grew dark, clouded with an intensity of rage and passion.

“I am not fine with it,” he growled. “I did not sleep the night I thought you might be with him. I paced the room, and it took every ounce of control within me not to burn all that kept me from you to the ground.

“And the next day, I smiled at him when I wanted to rip his throat out for even daring to think of being with you. I promised never to trap you, but I’m a selfish fool, and I cannot let you go.”

Arthur knelt in front of Vera and pinned her forearms to the chair’s arms with his hands. “I want you with every breath that enters my body. I want—”