Arthur’s face changed for a shade of a second. From sitting by him, listening to him, diligently observing him all these weeks, Vera realized that she’d begun to be able to read the minuscule breaks in his carefully crafted exterior. She recognized the expression that rippled across his features. It was the same one she had seen her first night when she asked him if the water was safe to drink.

Arthur was ashamed.

Good, Vera thought with a savagery that only reached as deep as her hurt and perhaps was merely a placeholder for it.

“And there’s the accusation that she’s a witch,” Percival added.

Vera scoffed and surveyed all their faces. None of them took it lightly.

“But … aren’t there witches everywhere?” She’d assumed, apparently incorrectly, that any woman with a gift would be considered a witch. It was probably something she should have known. Percival’s raised eyebrow was confirmation enough.

Arthur covered it. “You use a different term in the north. In the south, a ‘witch’ is a woman who uses dark magic. Unsanctioned magic.”

Percival nodded. “The coincidence that the harvest’s wreckage came on the heels of the queen’s return …”

“Shit.” The light of Lancelot’s laugh and indignation was gone from his eyes as they fell on Percival. “There’s no way around this, is there?”

Percival shook his head.

“Arthur,” Lancelot said quietly, “ten years ago, maybe even five, that would have been enough evidence. She would have already been burned for it.” He looked to Percival, and Vera realized that they’d begun talking to Arthur in tandem. They were working to persuade him about something but what? To burn her? The thought had barely crossed Vera’s mind before she tossed it aside. It may have been naivete, but she trusted Matilda and Lancelot completely and was surprised to realize that she trusted Arthur not to harm her, either.

“I wish I could say this wasn’t an issue, Your Majesty,” Percival said, taking the thread of conversation he’d been passed, “but this belief goes deep. For some, it started while the queen was gone and festered there. Few gave it merit. But it planted a seed, and our current reality gave it roots. The people who believe this aren’t small in number anymore. And that man attacked her today. He meant to disfigure her.” Percival gestured to Arthur’s injured hand. “He told me a witch should be as ugly as the harm she’s inflicted.”

She didn’t need to know that. Vera’s head swirled. She’d begun to reckon with the hardship she’d brought on the kingdom, but she hadn’t understood before now that her life might actually be in danger, too.

“I have to do it,” Arthur finally said.

Lancelot let out a sigh. He and Percival had succeeded, though neither were pleased. “You do.”

“It should be done today,” Arthur said. He’d never looked like he carried a heavier burden than right now. “Belaboring it will only draw more of a crowd. I want to send a clear message without stirring up undue fear.”

“What are you—” Vera’s words came out so quietly that no one heard her.

“It’ll be the first in your reign, won’t it?” Lancelot asked with a frightening gentleness.

Arthur nodded.

“The first what?” Vera asked. Trepidation had driven breath behind her voice, making her question sound like a demand.

At last, Arthur met her gaze. He held it steadily. “Execution.”

She couldn’t make sense of the word at first. On her arrival to this time, she’d assumed a brutal society, a reality rife with cruel punishments. It was a notion she’d quickly been dispelled of. They’d built a different world. Arthur dreamed of a new sort of nation, and he’d made it and—

He was going to execute the man who attacked her.

It was all shattering, everything they’d fought for. Everything she was supposed to help them save. And it was Vera’s fault. That man was going to die because she hadn’t held her tongue. It was her fault.

A pained sound escaped Vera before she found any words. “No. No, you can’t.” Camelot was different. This England, it was better. It had been better … until she arrived. She would fix it. She would beg. She would plead. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m sorry. I should have stayed silent. I shouldn’t have pretended to be her—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Lancelot spoke over her, trying to cover her slip before Percival or Matilda heard it.

“There must be another punishment. He—” her eyes shot to Arthur’s wrapped hand, “he didn’t mean to hurt you. It wouldn’t have killed me—”

“You were holding the child, Guinevere,” Matilda said this, and gently. “If he had hit you, it certainly would have killed the baby.”

Conscious thought was gone from Vera’s mind, replaced by rapid bursts that didn’t quite connect with one another. She crammed her eyes closed, trying to shut it all out, but all she could imagine behind her eyelids was death. A dead child in her arms. The man. Vincent.

Her fault.

Arthur could fix this. He loved his people. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t—”

“It’s not your fault.” Vera thought Arthur said it. It may have simply been what she wanted to hear. Her vision went blurry. She couldn’t see him clearly.

“I don’t want this.” Her voice was rising, heedless of what she was saying. “I’ll leave. I’ll go back to Glastonbury—I should have never come here. I can’t be her—”

“It’s not about you!” She heard that. Arthur yelled it so forcefully, so furiously, how could she not? Vera sucked a deep breath in, and her vision cleared enough to find revulsion etched in the lines of his face. “It is my decision. That man committed treason. His actions are a threat to my rule and the kingdom we have built. He dies. You have no say in this.”

It wasn’t about her. It never had been. It was about his rule. Of course. That shouldn’t have made her angry. Vera knew she was nothing more than a placeholder for Guinevere.

She gritted her teeth and glared back. Anything softer than anger would have left her sobbing.

When Arthur spoke, his voice was quiet though startlingly stern. “It has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”

She’d break. She’d cry if she spoke.

“She does—” Lancelot began, but Arthur stopped him with a glare before turning it back on Vera.

“Do you?”

It was a lie. It had everything to do with her, and Vera despised herself for it. But in that moment, she hated him, too, and that made it easier.

“Yes, sire.” She threw the word like a dagger.

“Who performs the execution in the absence of a mage?” Percival broke the overlong quiet that followed. “Merlin won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it.” The response came from the door, startling them all. Lancelot and Percival rose automatically and assumed defensive postures, unmatched by the man who stood by the closed door with his hands clasped in front of his dingy brown robe. His eyes were deepset in his skull. It might have been this that emphasized the perturbed scowl carved into his features. His inky dark hair wasn’t long or short. It lazed about down to the middle of his ears, the distinct appearance of someone who meant to have short hair but couldn’t be bothered to maintain it. Coupled with the scowl, the eyes, and a sharp nose, Vera found him rather alarming.

Percival’s open-mouthed shock made Lancelot crack a half smile, though his sword was also half unsheathed. “Who the bloody fuck are you?” Percival barked. “How did you get in here?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he said flatly, “I’ll perform the execution.”

Percival’s lips moved in exasperation, though no sound came out.

“That’s a generous offer from an unidentified stranger,” Lancelot said with a quirked eyebrow, “but all executions must be performed by a mage.”

“I’m aware,” the sullen man answered, followed by more thick silence.

A hum of recognition came from Arthur’s direction. “You’re Mage Gawain.”