She inhaled sharply. Her eyes flashed to Merlin. Did he—was he implying something … physical? She was probably blushing.

Vera cleared her throat. “Why would that help me remember?”

“There was no one you were closer to than the king. That’s why this is so difficult for him.” Merlin smiled sadly. “He scarcely dares to hope he might have you back. His love for you is the core of breaking through to your memories.”

Vera had a hard time believing that the man she met last night, so cold and intimidating, would ever want to have anything to do with her, much less reconnecting. Still, she resolved to try.

At the very least, Vera could throw herself into Guinevere’s life.

Matilda took her to nearly every corner and crevice of the castle grounds throughout the afternoon. They started in the kitchen and caused a stir as Vera pretended to know the cook and the half-dozen kitchen staff members who flooded her with their welcomes. They visited the gardens, went to the stables, and met with the castle staff.

Matilda turned to Vera before each stop. “Would you prefer to lead the conversation, Your Majesty?” she’d ask. Or, “Please chime in as you like.”

Vera smiled politely but observed in silence, knowing she’d betray her ignorance if she opened her mouth to say more than greetings. And each time, Matilda’s offer became more of a formality.

When it was time for dinner, Vera let out a long sigh, assuming that Arthur would be there and that this would be her opportunity to finally speak with him. Her relief was short-lived. The great hall was the largest room in the castle, with two tables that ran the length of it on either side. They were already more than halfway filled with people.

A much shorter table was perpendicular to the rest at the front atop three short steps. There were only six seats at this table, and the two center chairs were more ornate than the rest, throne-like. They were all empty—save for the one next to the smaller throne. Lancelot occupied it. When he saw Vera, his eyes lit up. She nearly stopped in her tracks.

He remembered her. He wasn’t the only one. All the gathered diners’ eyes shifted to Vera as she took her place on the throne next to him.

But they remembered Guinevere. Lancelot remembered her.

“Good evening,” he said with a cordial bow of his head as he passed her a goblet of wine. “Arthur sends his apologies. He will not be here this evening.” Vera thought she heard frustration, even accusation, beneath his words.

So there it was. Arthur was continuing to avoid Vera, and evidently, Lancelot didn’t approve. Her affection for him bubbled. She scanned the room as she took a sip, and her eyes found Merlin, his mouth fixed in a frown as his gaze darted from Vera and Lancelot to the door.

“How was your first day back?” Lancelot asked, pulling her attention to him.

“It was fine,” Vera said, more a habitual response than an answer. He turned his whole body and squared up with her, his eyebrow raised.

“A bit overwhelming,” she said.

Lancelot propped his chin on his hand. “How so?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do, if you’re inclined to share.” He seemed to mean it, too.

“All right,” Vera said. Maybe it was loneliness that drove her, or maybe the warm tug of kinship with him. Either way, honesty came forth in a hurried whisper. Lancelot leaned closer. “I don’t think I have Guinevere’s memories and all of magic and the kingdom as you know it and likely even the future that I grew up in is going to be doomed. And I spent the afternoon behaving like a daft fool who doesn’t know anything because, as it turns out, I don’t know anything.”

“I see,” he said, matching her volume. “Why are we whispering?”

“I—” She hadn’t done it on purpose. Vera looked out across the hall, finding far too many pairs of eyes staring back at her. She swallowed and told him about how it had been before, how no one could remember her. “I’m not used to being known or even noticed by anyone. And who even are all these people?”

Lancelot let out a long exhale. “Overwhelming is an understatement,” he said gravely before he turned to the room, and his severity dropped away. “And these are all the noble folk in town. Most helped to fund our war efforts, some are successful merchants. And that man who just sat down over there …” He inclined his head toward the recently occupied seats on the other side of Arthur’s empty chair. “Don’t look,” he added a half second after Vera had turned.

“Sorry,” she said, whipping back to face him.

“It’s all right.” He grinned. “My fault. That man,” he went on more quietly, “has brought his daughter in an effort to tempt me to marriage.”

“You aren’t married?” Vera had assumed that people from the Middle Ages married young. She couldn’t exactly place Lancelot’s age, but she was sure he was at least a few years older than her.

“No. I was eighteen when the invasions started, and life became war for the better part of a decade. Ordinary things like getting married were postponed. You and Arthur only got married three years ago,” he added in a way that felt practiced, as if he’d mounted this defense before. “I haven’t gotten around to it. Most of the knights haven’t, for that matter.”

Much more nonchalantly this time, Vera adjusted in her seat as if she were merely repositioning herself while the food was being served instead of what she was actually doing: getting a glimpse of the hopeful lord and his dejected young daughter.

“There are three more planning to come this week,” Lancelot said through gritted teeth that he was somehow able to keep in the shape of a smile. “I am not being modest when I say that I am really not a catch.”

Vera battled the sudden urge to argue that point as she noticed the muscles in his neck tense and his teeth lock together. He hated this.

She leaned toward him seriously. “If one of the others this week catches your fancy, shall I sing the praises of Lancelot the loud and foolish?”

His eyes flashed to her, a surprised smile playing at one side of his lips.

“Or, perhaps,” Vera continued innocently, “I should tell them that, if the lady is lucky, he might bring her along to scare the piss out of some little shits at sword point?”

Lancelot laughed in earnest. “You may have noticed I left that bit out when we met Merlin last night.” He stared down at his cup, turning it in his fingers.

“I did,” Vera said, and before she had time to overthink it, she kept going. “And what about Arthur? Did you tell him?”

Lancelot grimaced. “I, er, hadn’t gotten around to that.”

This time, it was Vera who laughed. “A convenient theme for you, it would seem.”

Eating dinner on what amounted to a stage in front of a hall of courtly attendants, craning their necks for a view of the long-awaited queen, was a much more pleasant affair with Lancelot at her side, distracting her with courtly gossip. Vera didn’t even notice that the hall had begun to empty and even the seats on the other side of Arthur’s empty chair had been vacated by the lord and his daughter by the time Matilda was standing next to her.

“Matilda,” Lancelot said with a twinkle in his eye. “Will you please marry me and save me from the parade of lords desperate to be rid of their daughters?”

She pursed her lips, feigning annoyance, though a sly grin seeped through. “As tempting and romantic an offer as that is—no.”

Lancelot shrugged as he pushed out his chair. “Worth a shot. Good evening, lady Matilda.” He bowed to each in turn and winked at Vera. “G’night, Guinna.”