A minstrel who sang the kingdom’s legends. A band of musicians who ended up playing far beyond the dinner hour. More acting troupes. Dancers. The night Merlin left for Exeter, there was a storyteller who painted while he regaled them with legends. Vera felt this had to have some kind of magic to it, though she couldn’t pinpoint the mystical quality. There was a lull when the storyteller grew quiet to make adjustments to his painting, and Vera made a snap decision that this was her chance.

“I have to unlock those memories.” She said it quickly, leaning closer to Arthur. She didn’t wait for him to acknowledge her; she knew he could hear. “Merlin thinks that connecting with you is the best way to start remembering.” She hesitated, embarrassed to say the next part. But she thought of Merlin’s plea, and the words tumbled out. “I need you.”

Arthur flinched. He hadn’t turned toward her as much as he’d angled his head in Vera’s direction. He opened his mouth to interject, but Vera put a hand on his arm and plowed on even as she felt his muscles stiffen under her fingers.

“Just listen, please. I won’t try to replace her—”

She stopped—because he looked at her. But it wasn’t with interest or even politeness. He was furious.

“Guinevere.” He snarled the name. “I can’t.” His voice was strained and low, and behind the rage in his face, Vera saw it in his eyes and a tremble through his rigid form: a flash of fear. The performance wasn’t finished, but Arthur stood and left the hall, an action which didn’t go unnoticed through the room.

She tried to keep her face composed as if this was ordinary. Heads turned toward Arthur until he disappeared through the side door, and then they turned to her. Even the artist faltered and paused, looking at Vera as he stuttered to a stop. The room was uncomfortably quiet. Her palms went slick, and nausea swept over her. Did they expect her to speak? She wasn’t—she couldn’t pretend to be their queen. She was a broken projector of a memory. That was all. She stared down at her hands.

Lancelot leaned toward her. “Guinna … ?”

“Help me,” she whispered, hating how pathetic she sounded.

Lancelot’s brow furrowed. He turned to face the waiting watchers, plastering on a dazzling smile. “The king offers his apologies. He has been called away and requests that we all enjoy the remainder of this superb performance on his behalf. Carry on, good sir.”

Vera didn’t remember another second of the performance. As soon as the applause began, Matilda ushered her from the room, and Vera followed to her quarters in a fog. There had to be a reason for Arthur’s behavior.

As Matilda unlaced the back of her gown, Vera glanced at the closed door to his chamber. She knew he didn’t believe she was Guinevere; neither of them did. But was that enough for him to respond to her like this? There had to be more to it.

She was changed into her nightgown, and Matilda was two steps from leaving the room when Vera made a decision.

“Matilda?” she said, and Matilda turned toward her in surprise. “Would you like to have a drink and … talk?”

She stared at Vera for a long while, her eyes soft. “I would be honored.”

Vera gestured to the seating area by the fire, where Matilda sank into one of the comfy poufs. Vera fetched two glasses and the pitcher from the desk, which was always filled with fresh wine (presumably by Matilda herself). She poured Matilda’s and then filled her own cup. Matilda shook her head as she took her first sip.

Vera wasn’t sure where to begin. She had a plan for this conversation, but it felt unnatural to jump right to it. Her eyes landed on the vase of flowers on the low table. They were replaced with new ones at least once a week. When Vera left this morning, they’d been blooms of yellows and golds, and during the day, those had been swapped for large burnt orange blossoms mixed in with smaller white and cream flowers so lovely and perfect that Vera wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been made of silk. She fingered a petal in an unnecessary confirmation that they were real.

“Thank you for these. They’re lovely,” Vera said. “I always enjoy seeing the week’s bouquet.”

“I—” Matilda became keenly interested in her glass of wine. She stared down into it, swirling her goblet as she answered. “You are very welcome, Your Majesty. But you should know—”

“I was hoping you might call me Guinevere instead of Your Majesty,” Vera said.

Matilda pursed her lips. “It would be improper for me to address you so informally.”

“What if you just called me Guinevere in private?”

Matilda sighed a slow, deliberate breath. “I’ll try, Your Majesty, but it’s a rather big adjustment.” Vera smiled at the first lapse. “Your—Guinevere,” she said it stiffly, “your sense of propriety has been … relaxed since your return. And,” she shook her head as Vera refilled both cups, “you should not be serving me.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed many things that are different,” Vera said. She’d been thinking about this since her first night when she couldn’t ask Matilda her most pressing questions, certainly during all their work together around the castle. After tonight, it was unavoidable. Vera needed more help. More importantly, though, she needed to be less alone. Maybe there was a good reason Matilda had been left in the dark about all that happened to Guinevere, but they clearly trusted her to care for Vera and to be around her so much. She must have noticed the books while tidying up, not to mention Vera’s undergarments.

“Matilda, I need to tell you something.”

Matilda set her cup down and leaned forward. “I think I may already know.”

Vera blinked. “You do?”

“You have memory loss, don’t you? From the accident?”

“I—” Why hadn’t she thought of that? Come to it, why hadn’t Merlin or Arthur thought to feed Matilda that story? “Yes. That’s it. I do.”

“I’m not sure why anyone thought that needed to be a secret from me.” Matilda smoothed her skirt, somehow conveying her irritation with the gesture. “Arthur knows, of course?”

“Yes,” Vera said, noticing how easily Matilda called Arthur by his name.

“He hasn’t been the same since it happened.”

“Did I do something before the accident?” Vera asked. “To make him so angry with me?”

Matilda frowned as she lay a comforting hand on Vera’s arm. “No,” she said. “I was with you nearly always, and in the times when I wasn’t …” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what you could have done.”

“Then why does he hate me?”

“He—” Matilda went silent, and Vera thought she might not answer at all. She leaned forward to straighten the flowers. “I don’t get these, you know.”

Vera laughed in stunned discomfort. She wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “Who else comes in here?” Her eyes shot to the wardrobe where her bag of anachronisms was now carelessly tossed. Her photograph with her parents was on the bedside table, tucked into The Hobbit as a bookmark.

Matilda looked at Vera pointedly. Why wasn’t she answering? If there was someone other than Matilda and Arthur coming in the—oh.

They were the only ones who ever came into the room.

Matilda nodded as Vera’s eyes landed on her.

“Is that … has he …” She thought back on her chamber, on how everything had remained the same except the flowers, the only physical evidence in the room that time had passed these first few weeks.

“Every time?” Vera asked, her voice breathy.

“Every time.” Matilda finished straightening the flowers with a frown. “I don’t understand his behavior since you returned, but he has never, not once, hated you.”