The pettiest part of Vera relished that she might get to see him under pressure today. There could be a complaint about him that he’d have to answer, that he couldn’t turn away from with an icy glare.

But it was nothing like that. He was nothing like that.

She’d seen so little of him beyond a cold expression, and he’d said even less. Here, he was an entirely different person than the man who slept in the room adjacent to hers. This man listened to his citizens with interest and respect. It had no bearing if they were dressed in finery or rags, whether they approached Arthur with dire concerns about their farm’s survival, a dispute when the equivalent of pennies was owed, or even a baby’s birth announcement. Arthur asked thoughtful questions and engaged each in conversation. His voice, which Vera had thus far heard in only a few sentences at a time, was now the anchoring sound. She was startled when she realized that the sound of his voice, commanding, steady, and deep, soothed her.

Depending on the subject, Arthur consulted with each member of his gathered council. Lancelot and Percival provided advice about military matters, and the two citizens served as a catch-all for interpersonal and daily life issues. All were regularly included in the process except for Vera, who watched silently from Arthur’s side.

He never grew weary as the hours crawled on and person after person filed into the throne room. Vera’s mind would occasionally drift, and her eyes glazed over, but the low tenor of Arthur’s voice drew her back. The image that Merlin and Lancelot painted of him came into focus. Perhaps this was the magic they had described. Even Vera could feel it: Arthur was made for this. Made to build and rule and love his country. It was extraordinary to witness; here was a man who measured up to his legend.

The sting of it was immediate. Vera had done so well at burying fear and loss and any manner of unpleasant things. Even Vincent. Tucking his memory in an unreachable place was easier here, so far from the world where she’d known him. Vera had decided to detach from Arthur’s cold distance, and that should have settled it. Usually, she could master such a task, but this gnawed at her. Why didn’t he feel compelled to help her, or know her, or even show her basic kindness?

But now Vera had seen him. She’d seen him among friends, seen him interacting with his people: witnessed his softness, his easy smile, his warm face. He chuckled at a joke Vera didn’t hear and quipped a jovial response that brought a scattered chorus of laughter from everyone else in the throne room. This was the real Arthur—and he gave it to everyone but her. That was the piercing blow. It lodged in Vera like a forgotten axe wedged into a stump and left there to rust.

But court wasn’t simply Arthur getting to be a doting ruler. Issues with magic were prevalent. Mourners announced that a brilliant performer who’d had a gift of perfect vocal mimicry for any voice he’d ever heard had died after a lengthy illness. A sweet old man asked for assistance rebuilding the enchanted goat fence that his late wife constructed. Then, a bee farmer, afraid his hives might have contracted a disease. He hoped for a potion or spell to save his bees and their honey. The most alarming came next. Rumors of mage violence in France, which they called the Frankish Kingdoms.

Vera’s eyes shot to Arthur. The abruptness of her movement drew his attention—or perhaps the nature of the topic. He looked at Vera from the corner of his eyes before he addressed the man standing before them. “How did you hear this?”

The man swallowed as he fished in his pocket and procured a folded piece of paper. “My sister lives in Normandy. She sent word of the whispers in her letter. I wanted to tell Your Majesty straight away.”

The sister was most helpful. She’d heard various versions of attacks along the southern coast, each one slightly different from the last. All employed brutal usage of magic. All were devasting. But it was also all conjecture, and there was nothing to be done about it save for sending a scout to investigate and for the lot of them to feel uneasy in the meantime.

The next woman came forward so quietly that it took them all a moment to notice her as their minds drifted to imagined battlefields on foreign shores. She wore a black dress and veil to match, and it struck Vera with a jolt that her round face and kind eyes reminded her of Allison’s.

She took a shaking breath. “My son has died,” she said, and that was as far as she made it. She sank to her knees with a wail as if the weight of loss collapsed atop her.

Lancelot and Percival looked at one another, stunned. The two townsfolk whispered behind their hands. The treasurer stared all about the room, anywhere but at the woman. Vera turned helplessly from the observers to Matilda, whose expression mirrored Vera’s sadness for the woman, and then to Arthur.

His eyes set on the woman who sobbed alone on the cold, stone floor. He stood and went down the steps, knelt beside her, and tentatively wrapped his arm around her. When the woman leaned into Arthur and cried into his neck, he embraced her with both arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He spoke barely above a whisper. Arthur stayed on the floor with her, only ending the embrace when she initiated it.

“I know there’s nothing I can do to ease your pain,” he said. “Could we ease your burden? Are there things you need help with that your son used to do?”

The devastated woman nodded, and with tears streaming down her face, she told Arthur. “My husband has been gone for some time. My son tended our animals, and he harvested the grain. We have a crop that’s ready in the field, and I—I don’t know—”

“It’s all right,” he soothed her. “We can help you.” He looked to Lancelot, who nodded.

“It’s done. We’ll send men today.”

The woman choked back a sob as she accepted Arthur’s outstretched hands to help her stand up. He hugged her and spoke so quietly that Vera could only hear the low timbre of his voice, a hum with no words. Whatever he said, the woman smiled a little and patted his shoulder. And then, Vera saw the most remarkable thing.

Arthur cared for this mother with a tenderness as if he were her own child. It was like it all slowed so Vera could see it clearly. In this exact instant, she felt she was seeing Arthur for the first time. He was beautiful.

She hurriedly averted her eyes when he turned to come back to his seat and instead watched the grieving mother leave while another man was escorted forward. There was something familiar about his waddling frame, dressed in finery and with three attendants who trailed behind. Someone coughed from the seat just behind her. After a few moments, she heard it again and turned. Matilda glanced meaningfully from the man to Vera.

Vera whipped around to face forward.

“Shit.” She whispered it slow and drawn out, a sharp emphasis on the T.

Arthur’s head tilted in Vera’s direction, but she kept her eyes on the man. He wore a crooked, one-sided smirk that didn’t reach his eyes and read of smug satisfaction. He was only slightly less unattractive without the smear of manure across his face, because his cruelty was a permanent feature.

It was the man from the stable, and, as promised, it appeared he was ready to bring his grievance before the king.

Vera leaned toward Arthur. He mirrored the gesture, inclining in her direction on the arm of his chair.

“This is probably about me,” she murmured, moving her mouth as little as possible.