Though his gaze had drawn goosebumps on more than one occasion, Vera made a point to give it little of her attention. She’d find the memories without him and never have to go any deeper to figure out what his problem was. After all, she had her newest plan to tend to. She scanned the hall until she found Matilda in the back corner. Matilda smiled knowingly as she wove her way to Vera, an unassuming bag hanging from her shoulder.

By all appearances, she was escorting Vera to her chambers. In truth, they crossed the grounds in long strides, raindrops beginning to splash off the tops of their heads and bursting in tiny explosions on the stone path around them. From the castle’s entry chamber, Matilda passed Vera the bag as she continued alone to the chapel. With a quick wave of confirmation from Vera when she got there safely, only Matilda retired.

She’d initially been hesitant when Vera pitched the idea, thinking it was unwise to send Vera off alone. But by late afternoon, Matilda had an abrupt change of heart. Vera was so pleased that she didn’t bother asking why.

After the first chapel service, the priest encouraged her to come to pray any time, that the chapel would be empty and unlocked in the evenings should she wish to use it, and indeed she did. Vera wasn’t sure if she would call it praying, exactly. But as soon as the idea took her, she knew she wanted to sit alone in that chapel and bathe in the jewel-colored sunset beams streaming through the stained glass, embroidering in the shadow of the exquisite Mary statue. It was all as lovely as she’d imagined.

After that, any evening not spent with Matilda, Vera rushed to the chapel where she embraced the benefits of solitude, of not having to worry about who was watching or listening. While she stitched, she sang whatever she wanted. Vera didn’t have a voice that would make anyone hold their ears, nor would it bring an inspired tear to anyone’s eye, but she liked music and didn’t want to forget the songs from her life before. She sang through the ones she’d loved with a broad catalog of whatever suited her in the moment: The Beatles, Adele, the Mamas & the Papas, Ed Sheeran, Whitney Houston—even the Spice Girls.

This night, Vera’s fifth of such a routine, a soft rain tapped a percussion on the high roof above her. She was so deep in song that her fingers fumbled, and she pressed the needle through the fabric with too much oomph, driving it deep into her thumb. Vera loudly yelped and hissed “Fuck,” as she wrenched the needle free.

And then she heard a noise from the front of the chapel. She sat stock still as fear pulsed in her gut. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.

Vera realized now that she’d never walked to the very front. There might have been an alcove off to the left. She hadn’t thought to check.

She stood and took a few wary steps forward. “Hello?” she called.

Silence, heavy and ringing, answered.

The sun had set by now. Vera bit her lip, remembering the marble tile controlling the lights on the opposite end of the room. She wished she’d set them brighter. Out of habit, she nearly reached for her phone (that wasn’t there) to use as a torch.

“Is someone there?” Vera called more forcefully.

“Good evening.” The man’s voice came from behind her. She jumped and spun so quickly to face him that she nearly fell over.

“Sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He stood just inside the door and was around Vera’s father’s age with mostly grey hair save for darker spots clinging to their youthful nut brown. “I saw the light and thought Father John might be here. My name is Thomas. I was appointed deputy treasurer during your time away.” She was relieved he’d introduced himself and that this wasn’t one more person she had to pretend to remember. “I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping Father John might scribe a letter for me, but it appears you’re alone here?”

“Yes,” Vera said. “Sorry.”

Thomas twisted his hands together, seeming torn between further entering the chapel or leaving. He bobbed for a moment and, with a deep breath, decided on the former.

“Would you pardon a moment of boldness?” Thomas asked.

Her curiosity stirred. “Gladly.”

He came toward her and happened to stop in a chink of blue light reflected from the stained glass. He did not notice that his face was awash in blue, and Vera did well not to chuckle at the sight. “It’s awfully heartening to see a lady spending her idle time in prayer,” Thomas said.

He meant it as a compliment. Vera murmured her thanks, curious what he would have said if he’d heard her cursing after stabbing her thumb.

“I know we choose with the grace of Christ to be tolerant of all,” he said hastily with a dismissive wave. “But with so many who follow the old pagan ways, I, for one, am grateful our king and queen follow the Christian path. You are the queen our people need.”

Vera had to consciously coach herself not to bristle at Thomas’s comments. Nearly everything about this time had been more free-thinking than she could have dreamed. And she was moved by his earnest conviction and generous compliments, even if she felt it was misplaced by being directed at her.

“You’re too kind,” she told him honestly as she searched for the right words to say. “I’m … not sure my prayers would satisfy the Lord.”

He beamed. In her attempt to be subtly truthful, Vera had unintentionally fit further into Thomas’s demure caricature of her. “You’re a sweet girl. It’s an honor to meet you, my queen.”

As she watched him leave, Vera remembered what Lancelot had said about her being alone with a man and wondered if the protocol breach registered with Thomas.

She never thought again about exploring the alcove at the front of the chapel, and she forgot to wonder: if not Thomas, what, indeed, had made the noise she heard on that rainy night?

In the three weeks since Vera’s first night in the chapel, she estimated that she and Lancelot had run more than one hundred and fifty kilometers over six different routes. They were both surprised when Randall was waiting for them on the outskirts of town as they returned to the castle one morning. Completely unprompted, he’d made Vera two more sets of running clothes, including one thicker shirt, which was much needed as the perfectly crisp mornings of fall had shifted to the biting chill of winter.

“I see you running nearly every damn day,” Randall said, pushing the bundle of clothes into her arms. “Having some extras might be helpful, and Matilda won’t need to collect the laundry as often.”

Vera thanked him profusely, which he waved off as he hurriedly made an excuse to leave.

“I like those shoes, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder. Vera and Lancelot stared at one another, wide-eyed.

The two had also gone back to play the keep-away game a handful of times, but they had not returned to the sacred grove. With December winds whipping up and rain pattering their heads more frequently, they moved their end-of-run chats from the hill to a well-shielded patch of wood near the castle wall with a perfect clearing for comfortable lounging.

Seated in the chapel, Vera completed three embroidery projects. Thomas stopped by at least once a week, always with polite conversation. He brought her a flower on two occasions, which she tucked into the bouquet in her room even when it did not match. He’d often wax on about her piety or purity, but he was kind to her, albeit slightly scathing about any other members of her sex. She cringed inwardly and reminded herself, magic or not, it was the Middle Ages, and politely tolerating him until he left was likely the least confrontational outcome.