“Oh shit,” Dunstan’s brother moaned, a flash of recognition lighting his pimply face.

Lancelot cocked his head and smiled ruefully. “Well said.” He looked over his shoulder at the largest of the three. “If you want to have any chance of keeping your hands, get over here now.” His voice was so commanding Vera almost wanted to hop off her horse and obey, too.

The large boy reluctantly trudged forward. Lancelot stowed the brothers’ daggers in his belt. They’d all shifted enough that Vera couldn’t see, so she edged her horse closer to the road. She wasn’t as hidden but had a much better view. It was nearly dark, and the boys were facing away from her now anyway. As Lancelot turned back to Dunstan, the largest boy stopped halfway between Vera and Lancelot. He bounced on his toes, hanging in the balance of forward and backward movement. Lancelot’s eyes shot up, sensing that something had gone amiss. The boy was about to do something stupid.

He turned and took off at a lumbering sprint down the road toward Vera. She didn’t pause to consider the potential consequences. Vera kicked her horse into a run, urging her out into the road, where she drew up the reins and stopped so hard that her hood fell back. She unsheathed Lancelot’s sword with both hands, wheeled it in a high arc over her head, and brought it down in front of the boy, halting his path forward. He skidded to a stop and fell back on his bottom, staring up at her in unbridled shock.

“I would reconsider,” she said.

The boy mouthed wordlessly, scrambling backward like a scuttling crab.

“Is that the queen?” the boy with acne asked in horrified awe.

Lancelot gazed at Vera with one corner of his lips quirked up. “Yes, it is.”

Vera thought she heard astonishment in his voice but decided she might have been mistaken as Lancelot shifted to glare at the largest boy. He lumbered back and joined the others.

“Sit.” Lancelot spat the word.

Unsurprisingly, they all did so. None of them dared move. They likely hadn’t even dared blink.

“I don’t know what your lives are like,” Lancelot began after an uncomfortably long stretch of glaring at them in silence, “but the mess you have created on this road has not gone unnoticed by your king. It will not continue.” He paced in front of them, pointedly meeting each of their eyes. “You have a choice. Show up tomorrow at the armory, swear your allegiance to your king, and join his forces. You will have a place to live and food to eat, and you will learn to become good men rather than thieving boys. Or, if you don’t show up, you will be found by the king’s guard itself, and you will not be treated with the leniency I offer today. Do I make myself clear?”

They all nodded vigorously, like anxious chickens pecking for worms.

“Good,” Lancelot said. “Now go—before I change my mind.”

The boys scrambled to their feet and took off back toward Glastonbury at a run. They gaped at Vera slack-jawed as they passed her, except for the large boy, who stared at the dirt. Soon, they were formless lumps fading in the distance.

Vera turned back to Lancelot. His stern expression remained, but it fell away when he met Vera’s eyes.

“Yes!” he shouted, thrusting both fists in the air. “You,” he said, pointing at her, “you were fucking brilliant.”

She was so caught off guard that she laughed. “It was a stupid thing to do,” Vera said, “and this sword is insanely heavy. I about dislocated my shoulder.” She held the sword out to him, both arms straining with the effort.

He accepted it, and where she’d had trouble wielding it with two hands, he easily sheathed it with one and mounted his horse as smoothly as if he were putting on a jacket.

“You were brilliant,” Lancelot repeated. He clicked his tongue, and their horses obediently began to plod along. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You always had a good tactical mind.”

“Tactical mind?” Vera stared at him.

He nodded. “You and Arthur were married mere months before the final invasion. You came up with a crucial part of our battle strategy.”

“I—I did that? You’re certain?”

He laughed though he eyed her appraisingly. “Very certain. You wouldn’t call yourself strategic now?”

“Hell no.” That was the last way she would describe herself.

Half a grin took Lancelot’s face, and he eyed Vera appraisingly for a moment. “You’re different than—” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “You’re different.”

She squirmed in her saddle. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Just … different,” he said, though he looked hopeful. “S’pose that’s only fair, though. What’s been a year for us has been a whole bloody life for you. What’s it like? In your other time, I mean.”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that. How could she explain the phone she’d forgotten not to reach for about twenty times in the last hour? Where could she even start in describing the future? “I help my parents run an inn,” she said.

Lancelot had loads of questions about how Vera occupied her time. She fumbled through a laundry list of interests, but when she mentioned running, he sat up straighter in his saddle.

“You run?” he said.

“Yes.” Vera bit her lip. Was that an extraordinarily odd thing to say?

He fixed her with a delighted smile. “I shouldn’t be surprised after that bit back near the stables. You looked comfortable running.”

She hadn’t thought about it, but Lancelot had seemed at ease, too. His stride and posture … Vera gaped at him. “Do you run? I didn’t think people ran in this time.”

“Soldiers do,” he explained. “We were at war for the better part of a decade and ran every day to stay battle ready. Most soldiers have scattered to their corners of the country and lead much slower lives—and well deserved, I might add. I train the local forces and the king’s guard, and I still run to keep fit. And I like it.” He shrugged. “It calms my mind.”

“Yes!” Vera nearly shouted it. “That’s exactly it. Actually …” She remembered her trainers stowed in the saddle bag behind her and made a quick decision to show him. He positively gushed, twirling the teal laces between his fingers, and his eyes widened as he felt the cushion on the inner sole.

“Guinevere,” his voice was hushed and reverent, “this has got to be the greatest invention of all time.”

She laughed. “It’s pretty high on the list.”

There was hardly a breath’s space of silence after that. Dark had fallen in earnest, and the velvety black night was bespattered with stars before it dawned on Vera that this was the easiest it had ever been to talk to someone other than her parents. This budding friendship was a pleasant surprise, but the more Vera warmed to Lancelot, the more her stomach churned. He watched her with a knowing look, his eyes kind.

“You thought I was Arthur when we first met, didn’t you?”

She hoped the darkness could cover the heat that rose in her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “Why didn’t he come?”

Lancelot searched Vera’s face. “I’m sorry. This must be impossibly difficult for you.”

Vera refused to fill the silence. He hadn’t answered her question.

“I don’t want to mislead you. We didn’t know today was going to be the day that Merlin brought you back. He only sent word by messenger this afternoon, and Arthur had reservations about Merlin trying to …” Lancelot paused, his mouth in a tight line. “Well, about Merlin taking such extreme measures to bring you back.”

He seemed to choose his words so deliberately. Vera might as well come right out and ask the direct question. “Does Arthur hate Guinevere?”

“No.” This Lancelot said with certainty. “It’s been … a difficult time.” He shot Vera a heavy glance. “It’s nothing to what you’ve been through, though.”

She tensed, and the memory of Vincent bloody and dying flashed in her mind. How could he know that?

But he saw her reaction and clarified, his tone gentler. “You left your whole life.”