Arthur smiled at that. “Curses? Well. That’s not Guinevere.”

“Maybe not.” Lancelot clicked his tongue. “Maybe that’s a good thing. But I like her, and I trust her.”

Arthur liked the sound of all that. And he had a mission: Stay away. Keep this woman alive. Get her back home, so she could live her life. “We’ve got to get her through six months without …”

Without me destroying her.

Lancelot nodded. “And the memories?”

“If Merlin can help her recover them, fine. Otherwise, sod it. This is our mess, not hers. We’re on our own.” Arthur raised his cup to Lancelot. “And you’ll take care of her?”

Lancelot tapped his drink against his king’s. “With my life, Arthur.”

Arthur had climbed the stairs and entered his chamber without even thinking that she would be there. He’d grown so used to coming to this room alone, and his mind was still foggy from the wine. But as he turned into the room after locking the door, he saw her right away—in the center of his field of vision, seated on the foot of the bed. Fuck. Of course she was there. Where else would she be?

She stood up quickly, her eyes wide and desperate and fingers pressing hard into the book she held. He’d seen expressions so like this one on Guinevere’s face, and the panic that rose stole Arthur’s breath. All he could manage to do was set his jaw and stare at the wardrobe.

Just get there. Get to the wardrobe. Get clothing. Leave her be.

But when he stepped in her direction, she flinched away. He wanted her to stay away from him—not fear for her bodily safety in his presence. He needed her to know that he she need not fear … assault from him.

Fuck. This was awful.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He had to force his vocal cords to function.

He skirted a deliberate and wide path around her. As he dug through the wardrobe for the clothing he’d wear in the morning, he was certain he could feel her eyes on his back as goosebumps rose along his spine. Maybe he imagined that.

He wanted to turn around. He wanted desperately to talk to her, to ask her questions, to see what Lancelot had seen. Feel the assurance that she was living this happier life, but all of that was selfish, and he would not yield to it.

God. There was no way he’d sleep tonight. All right. He’d stop at the desk and grab The Hobbit. Something to read would inevitably help. What better than a grand adventure written for children?

But when he got to the desk, it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d left it somewhere, but … wait. She’d had a book in her hands, hadn’t she?

He turned, eyes darting to the tome. Now that he was looking, he recognized it as The Hobbit. Something warmed in him that it was the book she’d selected, and an alarming jolt of affection rushed through him. Almost instantly, she’d clocked his eyes on the book and offered it to him. A pang rattled in Arthur’s gut. She didn’t understand.

“They’re yours,” he said. “Merlin brought them. He thought they might comfort you.” Her eyes still shone with fear, but they searched him with curiosity too, that spark breaking through … No. Not good. He shifted his gaze to her shoulder. He wanted to stare at her, to know her. Don’t do that.

If she came to him, afraid and seeking comfort, he’d want to give it. He’d want to be there for her. He’d want to help her.

And it would all come to the same end. This woman who’d somehow found a way to claim the vibrance that had thwarted Guinevere would die like the rest.

No. He turned to the door to the side chamber. He was leaving. He. Was. Leaving.

But then she said one word. “Arthur?” Her voice, Guinevere’s voice, said his name. It disgusted him that he took pleasure in that.

Then she asked the questions he should have thought to answer. Could she drink the water? How would she turn off the light?

What would his mother say about what a cad he’d been?

The least he could do was provide some simple instructions about how she might be comfortable. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t offer anything extra. He adopted the focused demeaner of negotiating a peace treaty and kept his face carefully blank.

And then he lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, except when they darted to the crack beneath the door. Her light was still lit.

An hour passed.

It was still lit.

Two hours. Three.

Shit.

Fuck. Maybe Lancelot was right. Maybe this was worse, and he should talk to her. He’d never been this riddled with uncertainty in all his life.

He opened the door as quietly as he could. “Guinevere?” It was barely loud enough to be a whisper.

Silence answered. The panic that she was dead was immediate— irrational, but not—and he rushed to her side. She lay still, lifeless. He knelt, ready to give her a frantic shake, but he made himself wait and watch with his hand poised over her shoulder.

Her chest rose and fell steadily.

Then Arthur realized—she was sleeping on the side he always used to sleep on. The others hadn’t done that either. Her fingers still rested in the book, marking her page. Her arms and legs were both curled in close.

She was cold.

Very carefully, he slid the book from beneath her fingers and, not wanting to lose her page, found a scrap of parchment from his desk to tuck into it before he closed it on the table. She was on top of the blankets on the bed, so he went to the chest and drew out another and laid that over her, gingerly pulling it up to her shoulders.

Before he had a moment to think better of it, Arthur reached down and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. She did not stir. Her breath did not change. But her furrowed brow smoothed and for one fleeting moment, a soft smile rose on her lips.

Arthur was so stunned that he sunk down on one knee to be at eye level with her sleeping face. It had been so quick, but she had smiled. He was sure of it. And the crease between her brows had not returned.

His lips tugged up at the corners as he watched her because, just now, she did look a little bit … happy.

He decided right there, kneeling on the floor at her side: this was what he would do. Arthur would care for her in every quiet, invisible way he could find. He’d watch what brought her delight and silently deliver it. He’d notice what released the tension from her shoulders and shift castle life to bring that peace.

He rose, went to the opposite side of the bed, and lowered the light before he retreated to his room. Though he knew better than to think it anything other than a coincidence, he could not shake the whisper of hope that she had smiled at his touch.

Or perhaps it was merely wishful thinking.

Acknowledgments

This book exists because of a long line of support, care, and magic.

I could lay out pages of gratitude, but I’ll do my best to rein it in. From the bottom of my heart, thank you—to Mike, who didn’t know he taught me how to build the muscle of persistence necessary to write a book, and to Lochlyn, who is the smartest and most creative person I know and who inspires me with stories every single day.

To my family, especially Dad & Deb, Erin & Kyle (and the boys!), and Mom, who watched my starry-eyed delusions and said, “Go!”

To a wide crew of beloved friends: The Twelve and their endless alpha reading, proofing, and encouragement, The MoonBass crew, the Saturday Coffee Club, The Beavers, the staff and community of Peace Church KC, and The Incomparables. To Melissa Reynolds, who taught me how to try, succeed, and fail at scary things. To Larry Ivy, who brought me as an intern on the great adventure that planted the seed for this book.