“No,” he said. “It’s not a transaction.” He kissed her softly on the lips, and Vera’s every insecurity melted away.

They fell asleep, enfolded together in bliss. She heard the ethereal words; this time, they were the drumbeat of her dreams through the whole night. One perfect and quiet night.

Vera nestled against Arthur’s side, relishing the heat of his skin through her nightgown. Though he’d held her through the dark hours of many nights before, this was different. This time, there’d been no pretense, no tension or wondering. She felt his steady breath on her neck and knew he was still sleeping.

She carefully slid out of bed and changed into her running clothes in the dark as she had so many mornings. She was three steps from the door when he called out in a groggy voice, “Where are you going?”

She glanced back. He was propped up on an elbow with bleary, halfawake eyes.

She went back and sat on the bed beside him, smoothing the hair away from his forehead.

“Running with Lancelot,” she whispered, pausing to kiss his brow. A hum of contentment rumbled low from his throat. “Keep sleeping.”

He laid back down, and she stayed there, admiring his handsome features freely: the sharp line of his jaw and his perfect lips, eyelashes splayed delicately onto his cheeks. She stroked his hair, and he opened one eye, accompanied by a raised brow.

“Having second thoughts?” he murmured.

She was. She’d loved the hours lying next to him. But Vera laughed as she stood and threw a pillow on his face. Arthur smiled and hugged it to his chest as he rolled back over.

There was only a faint hint of a glow on the horizon’s easternmost point. Lancelot hadn’t yet emerged from Gawain’s tent, so Vera sat on the ground and stretched, debating whether or not she should wake him. She didn’t want to disturb Gawain, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Lancelot keep sleeping. This run had been his idea.

He came out not a minute later. She started getting up to go to him, but Gawain followed. She had no place in this moment.

Vera couldn’t hear what Gawain said. She only heard Lancelot’s laugh in reply, an uninhibited sound as he turned back to Gawain and lay a hand on his cheek, gazing tenderly at him. Lancelot tipped his forehead to rest on Gawain’s and then kissed him. It was as natural as if they’d shared such a kiss hundreds of times before—because they certainly had.

But it wasn’t for her to see. She wished she could sink into the earth. Hiding wasn’t an option. If she got up, the movement would only draw attention to her. Gawain went back into the tent. He hadn’t seen her.

As Lancelot turned toward the soldiers’ tent, his eyes landed directly on Vera. She froze. The easy joy melted from his features. His shoulders slumped as he tucked his chin to his chest and ducked into the tent.

Vera scrambled to her feet. She was still trying to decide what to say when he reemerged. His hard, blank expression stopped her. He didn’t look at her as he said coolly, “Ready?” sounding nothing like himself.

They ran in stiff silence. Vera let it simmer for a few miles until they reached a grassy hill, and her steps stuttered to a stop. Lancelot ran a few paces further and reluctantly stopped, turning to face her.

“Let’s take a break.” She didn’t wait for him to agree. She stepped off the path and plopped down on the ground. For a minute, it seemed Lancelot would stand there, staring into the distance by himself. But he dropped to the ground next to her, leaving more space between them than he usually would.

She couldn’t let this stand. “Can I just say that you are both a great and a good man?” Vera said. “Has anyone told you that lately?”

His eyes were cast determinedly at the ground between his feet. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“Huh.” Vera shook her head. “There are so many things about this time that aren’t as I thought they’d be … but of all the things to be exactly as backward as I expected, this has to be the one.” She sighed. “I disagree. I don’t think there’s a damn thing wrong with you.”

Lancelot looked at her, a glimmer of hope in his eyes that snuffed itself out within a heartbeat. “Well, you are in the minority.”

“It won’t always be this way, you know. In a lot of the world in my time, it’s not this way. You get to be who you are. You could get married if you wanted.”

He scoffed at that. After a stretch of quiet, he abruptly said, “Do you think Arthur will hate me if he finds out?”

Vera inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring at the idea that knowing this about Lancelot could impact how Arthur felt about him.

“I love you,” Vera said firmly. “I don’t love who you’re supposed to be, or some idea of you. I love you. And if Arthur doesn’t or can’t, then I’m sorry, but he’s the one who’s broken and doesn’t deserve your friendship. Not the other way around.”

Lancelot’s chin quivered ever so slightly as a tear fell from the corner of his eye that he hurriedly wiped away. Vera felt a surge of loyalty.

“I wouldn’t want to have a thing to do with him, either,” she added.

She was surprised when that comment cracked the shell of Lancelot’s pain. He chuckled. “Those are harsh words from the woman who loves him.”

She crossed her arms stubbornly across her raised knees. “Well, I very much mean it.”

Lancelot reached to affectionately squeeze her ankle. Then her words sank in, and he jolted, his mouth falling slightly open in a lopsided grin as his whole posture perked up. “You didn’t deny it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So, you do love him?” Even in this vulnerable moment, Lancelot’s eyes twinkled. Vera thought he might have been relieved that the focus had moved away from him.

She sighed, and he wiggled his shoulders with a gleeful giggle.

“You don’t have to be so fucking smug about it,” Vera said, but she laughed, too.

The sun had broken the horizon. Lancelot reached out his hand to call in his orb, hanging readily over their heads. It zipped into his hand.

Vera nodded toward the pocket where he tucked it. “Why the bloody hell don’t you want Merlin to know what your light does? Wasn’t he the one who made it for you?”

“Ah, erm. No. Sorry.” Lancelot grimaced. “I lied before. I didn’t ever anticipate telling you my mother was a mage when we met in Glastonbury. She made my light. And she was rather cleverer than Merlin, not unlike our Sir-Mage Gawain.” Lancelot looked off into the distance toward their campsite with love in his eyes. It wasn’t just a casual fling between them.

His brow furrowed, and he stiffened.

“What is it?” Vera asked.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Something. Something’s wrong.”

She looked, too. Back toward camp, though it was too far to see the tents. Vera wasn’t sure what they were looking for.

“It’s just a feeling, and I’m probably being paranoid.” Lancelot tried to shake it off. “I—”

A flash brighter than the newly born sun on the horizon mushroomed from their camp. If there was any doubt that it was an explosion, the sound of the blast that followed, carried slower on the wind than the light, confirmed it.

Vera and Lancelot sprang to their feet. They were running before either acknowledged out loud what they’d seen. Vera felt ill. The creeping nausea of instinct whispered quietly that this would end her world. She saw Arthur’s peaceful, barely awake face in her mind. She could almost feel the surprising softness of his cheek, the sensation of her fingers twining in his hair. That interaction this morning could have been their last.