Vera started toward the window, but Matilda cut in front of her. She hurried up the steps to snap the shutter closed and secured it with a metal pin at the top. Matilda’s anxious eyes flashed to Vera as she descended the stone stairs. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. That should have been closed. Would you like a fire to take the chill from the air?”
There was a great hearth next to the window. Vera was as enamored by the inviting fireplace as she was by the window seat. Poofy cushions surrounded a short wooden table in the middle of a lush fur rug.
“No, thank you,” Vera said when she realized that she’d been gaping with wonder at a space that Guinevere would have known well.
When Matilda offered to help her change into the nightgown that sat folded on the bed, Vera frantically said no, remembering her out-of-place undergarments. Matilda was rightfully confused when Vera backtracked and asked her to loosen her gown’s laces. Matilda stared at her with a keen eye before unconvincingly brushing it off as traveling weariness.
“I’ve laid some things out if you’d like to clean up after your journey,” she said, fingers working swiftly at the woven cords of Vera’s gown. She gestured to the corner nearest the door where they’d entered. There was a square wooden pedestal that looked bewilderingly like a tap.
“Are you certain I can’t help with anything else?” Matilda asked more slowly.
Vera shook her head, and Matilda did nothing to hide her disapproval.
“All right,” she relented with a sigh, hands on her hips. “My quarters have been moved up here until you feel more settled. I’ll be right across the hall.”
“Thank you,” said Vera.
Matilda stood in front of her for a few seconds longer, waiting—for what, Vera couldn’t say. Then she shook her head and left.
Vera waited, holding her breath, until she felt confident Matilda wouldn’t return. She first dropped her bag on the bed and changed into the bedclothes laid out. She was accustomed to a T-shirt and leggings, but the white tunic, not so different from what Matilda wore under her blue apron dress, came down to her shins. It was soft and thick enough to keep her warm.
Then she began exploring the room in earnest. She opened the wardrobe next to the bed to find gowns in gorgeous jewel tones with elaborate embroidery. Vera traced the intricate threadwork on the sleeve of one, took the fabric between her fingers, and held it to her face, breathing in the scent, searching for any hint of familiarity, and finding nothing.
This seemed as good a place as any to tuck away her discarded sports bra and the bag she’d commandeered from Merlin containing her other contraband. She shoved them behind the gowns, hoping no one would care to dig back there. Not sure what else to do with it, she hung the circlet crown unceremoniously from the knob on the wardrobe’s door.
Next, Vera investigated the pedestal. Sure enough, what she’d thought was a tap was indeed so, albeit a rudimentary one. The handle reminded her of a pump at an outdoor campground spigot. When Vera tentatively lifted it, a steady stream of cool water flowed from its mouth and into the smooth basin, where it swirled down through a drain at the bottom. Her mouth went dry as she let the water stream through her fingers. She was desperately thirsty. She grabbed the cup conveniently sitting next to the tap and filled it up but hesitated before she brought it to her lips. Was it even safe to drink?
Thirst nearly won out over caution, but Vera sighed and set the cup down. She distracted herself from her thirst by wandering over to the desk.
Wedged between a round rock on one end and a brass candlestick on the other was a neat row of leather-covered tomes lining the back of the desk. Books. She tried to remember when writing made the leap from papyrus and scrolls to books before it occurred to her that any information she could recall from what she’d been taught in history class was likely wrong anyway. After all, she was almost positive a sink and tap with plumbing didn’t belong in the seventh century. Yet the clothing had no elastic, and the window didn’t have clear glass. In fact, the only glass she’d seen was the stained window in the chapel. She couldn’t pin down when things were as they should be and when they diverted riotously.
Vera pulled a book from the middle, one with a mossy green cover. She flipped it open and choked on her breath as she took in two significant things. First, the words on the title page were typed, and second, the font at the center read The Hobbit. As if she needed more confirmation of the impossible before her, she read the following line in a smaller type: Or There and Back Again by J.R.R. Tolkien.
She laughed in disbelief as she snapped it closed and examined it again. The leather book cover felt right in this time period, but The Hobbit was over a thousand years out of place, much like herself. Vera pulled another book from the dozen or so and opened it. Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
She opened each one in turn. The Iliad and The Odyssey, All Quiet on the Western Front, Kindred, Death of a Salesman, Pride and Prejudice, Beloved, The Stranger, Frankenstein … Vera had read all of them in secondary school or university.
She knew The Hobbit best, so she flipped through the pages of it as she sat down on the bed, scanning for her favorite passages. Everything seemed in place. It was the familiar story she loved, and that she, Martin, and Allison made a tradition of reading aloud together every Christmas season.
Vera shut the memory out as she closed the book and instead paid attention to where she sat. The bed was inviting to her weary body, with space to sprawl out and plenty of pillows—
Her eyes flashed to the wardrobe filled with her clothes, and she scanned the room. There it was.
Another wardrobe. And there were stacks of parchments on the desk, too. A quill lay unceremoniously next to one. Of course. This wasn’t just her room, and it wasn’t just her bed. After Merlin reassured Vera that she was not brought here to bear a child, she’d put it out of her mind. But how had she not recognized before now that she wouldn’t be sleeping alone?
It was like her thoughts acted as an invitation. The door opened. Arthur came in, locked it behind him, and took two steps into the room before he noticed her there. She stood, feeling it somehow imperative that she not be on the bed at this moment. He looked nearly as surprised to see her as she did him, which made Vera feel slightly better on the whole.
His eyes were still glassy, and after the initial rush of shock, his face was once again a sheet of ice. She opened her mouth only to close it.
Arthur didn’t speak either. He collected himself and began walking toward her. Vera instinctively backed away from him, and Arthur stopped mid-step.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His voice came out in a low rumble even when he spoke quietly. He started walking again, giving her a wider berth as he went to the second wardrobe. He took out a few garments and draped them over his arm as he crossed to the desk and filed through the books. His finger ran down their spines twice before he selected one. Finally, Arthur turned to face Vera. His eyes flicked to The Hobbit, hanging from her hand. Vera held it out to him, suddenly feeling like she’d violated his privacy.
Arthur shook his head. “They’re yours. Merlin brought them for you from your time. He thought they might comfort you.” He looked at Vera’s shoulder rather than her face. “Leave the door to the hall locked through the night unless you need something. Go to Matilda if you need help.” The unspoken was also clear: don’t come to me.
Arthur turned to the door beside the desk, his fingers on the handle.
But she did need help, and she couldn’t ask Matilda. She didn’t know what to say to get his attention. Should she call him “Your Majesty” or “my lord”? Owing to necessity and rising panic that her only source of informed help was leaving, Vera found her voice.
