Vera stared at it, but Arthur was focused on her. With his uninjured hand, he took her shoulder, eyes searching her and the baby in her arms—blissfully unaware and still sleeping.

“She’s fine,” Vera said.

“She’s a witch!” The man screamed out through his tears as Lancelot tackled him to the ground. The man’s face contorted with his wild rage. “She’s brought a curse upon us! Burn her.”

He wrenched his arm from Lancelot’s grasp only long enough to point at Vera. And the faces of the listening crowd weren’t what they should have been on hearing the ravings of a mad man.

They were afraid—but they were looking at Vera.

They were afraid of her.

It was eerily quiet. They sat in the throne room, Matilda close at Vera’s side. Lancelot, on her other side, was uncharacteristically somber. He’d taken the man to the dungeon before joining them in the throne room and made a beeline for Vera when he arrived.

“You’re unharmed? Truly?” he’d said, his brow furrowed as he took her hands and studied her face.

“I’m fine.” She felt sick, and her skin prickled and burned in the wake of the shock, but she wasn’t hurt. Lancelot’s breath shook as he exhaled. He kissed each of her hands. Vera glanced across their circle at Arthur. He paid Lancelot’s brazen affection no mind.

It was only the four of them, with one empty seat left for Percival. Percival, who had all the information. Percival, who’d been sent to question the mad man. It would have been Arthur, but his boiling hand kept him from it. Camelot’s physician had insisted on treating it immediately as the rolling blisters inched up his wrist and threatened to overtake his forearm.

His hand and wrist were bandaged now, though the angry red blisters continued to spread. A new one was rising above the dressing. He had to be in agony, though his mastery over his expression nearly concealed it, except that his jaw had been clenched since he arrived.

There were guards outside the throne room. There never had been before. They flung the doors open for Percival when he arrived. He dropped into the one remaining seat and heaved a deep breath as Arthur inclined his head at the youngest knight in a clear invitation for him to begin.

“There’s some good news,” Percival said, though his face was grim. “Let’s start there. The work in Exeter is done. Our troops have already begun returning and should all be back by morning. Merlin will be with them. The harvest would have been exceptional. We’re lucky for it. They were able to salvage a decent amount. We’ll almost completely deplete our reserves when it’s all said and done. It’s a gamble that next season’s harvest will be good … but no one will go hungry over this winter. For now, that’s cause for celebration.”

Vera heard the nerves in Percival’s voice. Something had changed in him. And in Lancelot—a hardness that betrayed their fear. Arthur kept his face carefully blank.

“The attacker?” he prompted in a soft voice.

“He’s out of his mind,” Lancelot mumbled.

“He is,” Percival said. “But that doesn’t change the accusations that he levied. Dangerous accusations. And I’m sorry to say it, but they’re shared by others.”

A deep line formed between Arthur’s eyebrows as they drew together. “That doesn’t make sense.”

But Vera innately understood. She’d been thinking about it all morning. “The trouble started after I came back,” she said.

Percival nodded. “You’re different than you were before—though who could expect otherwise? None of our soldiers, present company included, were the same after the wars. Why should you be after you nearly died?”

“Of course she’s changed,” Matilda put in with a note of defensive pride. “And she’s the better for it. We’re all the better for it.”

“Agreed.” Lancelot’s eyes flashed to Arthur before they settled on Vera with his familiar warmth.

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she stared at her toes. She felt less flattered and more like she’d successfully run a con on them. She wasn’t brave enough to see how Arthur reacted.

“I feel I know more of you now after mere minutes of conversation than I ever did in the years of being in your presence before, Your Majesty,” Percival said. “You seem stronger.”

Arthur shifted in his seat, and Vera thought she saw a flash of anger blaze through him. Percival ignored it. “That’s one of the issues, though. They take offense that the lady is outspoken.”

Fuck. She’d not once taken this seriously enough. Vera had behaved like Camelot was a playground … all the moments she’d laughed inappropriately at dinner with Lancelot, that day when she’d made a scene playing at the pit. And then her sharp tongue, both with Lord Wulfstan and now with the man locked in the dungeon.

“By contrast,” Percival went on, “there have been the last few weeks when the chief complaint was that the lady doesn’t interact with the people. They perceive her as—” he paused with an askance glance at Vera.

Oh god. What else? “Say it plainly,” she said, her stomach churning.

“Standoffish,” he said. “That you feel your northern upbringing makes you better than them.” Percival gave a grim smile. The corner of his lips that were crossed by his scar didn’t lift with the rest. “It’s an unfair expectation, leaving you with a narrow corridor of acceptable behavior.”

“What about the infidelity?” Matilda’s voice was quiet and apologetic. “Do others think that, too?”

Percival dropped his elbows to his knees and clasped his hands between them. He looked like he was fighting to get the words to come out or like he was trying to keep from throwing up. “There are some rumors that the queen is spending her nights with other men. I’ve been unable to find the origin.”

Vera and Lancelot caught one another’s eyes. Their early mornings together. It had to be. It was exactly what she’d known to dread all along.

She was alarmed to notice that Percival had shifted his focus to Lancelot, too.

Lancelot actually laughed. “Oh, come on. She is allowed to have friends.” He knew better than anyone in this room that their particular friendship, though it wasn’t romantic, wouldn’t be seen as innocent by any suspicious party.

“She is always with you,” Percival said, his voice carefully even. Vera slumped in her seat.

“She’s also always with Matilda,” Lancelot shot back. “I don’t see—”

“That’s different.”

“Of course,” he drawled sarcastically, “because two women have never taken up—”

“Stop it,” Matilda said sharply. “Right or wrong, it’s different. And you’re behaving like a child to act like it’s not.”

Percival’s face reddened as Lancelot, not ready to give in, rolled his eyes and went on. “She’s with Arthur plenty, too. Every court. All the meals. For the Gods’ sakes, they go to the same chamber every night.”

“But she’s happy when she’s with you!” Percival barked back, his volume mounting with his frustration. “That’s what’s really at the heart of this. The queen—” He seemed to remember himself. Percival looked at her, then at Arthur, who’d listened in cold silence.

“Go on, Percival,” Arthur said with infuriating calm. “Tell me.”

Percival inhaled to begin but stopped himself.

“I mean it,” Arthur said. “Give me the truth. All of it.”

“She—” Percival paused and instead addressed Vera directly. “You look terrified at the king’s side. And Your Majesty,” he shifted to face Arthur, “you look like you’re being tortured. The people watch carefully. They watch everything you do carefully. And they have taken notice of your apparent displeasure with the queen. The people love you, and they will follow your lead when it comes to her.” He swallowed hard. “They have followed your lead.”