Vera jolted. That was a name from Arthurian legend. A knight, one of Arthur’s knights. She was sure of it. For the hundredth time since her arrival, she loathed herself for never taking enough interest in the legend to have read a single damn book about it. But this man wasn’t a knight.

Gawain stared at Arthur’s injured hand as he gave one curt nod, his hair curtaining his eyes with the motion. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“I thank you.” Arthur inclined his head. “And I’m sorry this will be your welcome.”

“Treason is the highest crime against you.” Gawain’s dark eyes scanned them and pointedly lingered on Vera. “It’s my duty in Merlin’s absence, but I must insist on seeing to your wound first.”

“It’s already been tended by the physician.”

Gawain shrugged. “If you’re content with being permanently maimed.” He offered no further explanation.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Percival stared at Gawain, aghast. “Please elaborate on what you mean.”

Gawain’s sunken eyes stayed on Percival for a long moment. “The wound was caused by magic. It must be healed as such.”

“You have a healing gift?” Lancelot asked with his head cocked to the side.

Gawain nodded. “They are rare. I am fortunate.”

They must have been extremely rare, for even Percival was cowed enough by the revelation to go slack-jawed with awe. It brought Vera’s dread back, though. The hands that would heal would soon perform the execution. She wanted time to slow down. She wanted his work on Arthur to take hours … something that would save them from what was to come. There had to be a way out of this.

But it all moved in a flurry. No one had to tell Vera that she needed to attend the execution, that Guinevere needed to stand by Arthur in the wake of Percival’s revelations. It was a foregone conclusion, though she couldn’t remember how she got to the town square. They didn’t have a designated site for executions, but the square was chosen for its logistics; a place for Arthur to oversee the act with Vera at his side (a raised box that had ironically been built for observing Camelot’s many celebrations) and ample surrounding space for … spectators. The square was nearly full, speckled with dejected and frightened faces who’d grown comfortable in a time of exuberant peace. At the very center was the man with his hands bound, knelt on a makeshift wooden platform.

She couldn’t see the tears from where she stood, but Vera heard his weeping. He was flanked by Lancelot in full formal regalia and sharply contrasted by Gawain on the other side in his dingy, brown robe. Vera also recognized Father John, the castle’s priest, who stood over the man, offering last rites before he backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

Soldiers were situated in a wide ring to make a bubble of space between the spectators and the main event. Percival and Randall bookended a cluster of soldiers guarding her and Arthur, their backs to them.

And then it was time. Vera’s legs shook so violently that it was a wonder she could stand. She clenched her teeth shut to keep them from chattering.

Arthur stepped forward to make the pronouncement. “Joseph, son of Cuthbert the carpenter,” he said, and Vera’s breath hitched. She hadn’t thought to ask his name before now. “You are unquestionably guilty of treason for attacking your king and queen, endangering not only their lives but those of countless witnesses present. You are hereby sentenced to death.” There was no direct mention of his verbal assault, but it was the reason that he would not be offered last words.

Lancelot’s face was taut and his expression hard as he stepped behind the man—Joseph—and held him by the shoulders. He nodded to Gawain.

It was going to happen. She caught Arthur’s movement in her periphery and felt the weight of his stare on her. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his hatred.

She told herself it was curiosity, but the truth was that loneliness had her turning to him. In his eyes, she found fear and was overcome with the unnerving sense that he needed her. No, not her—Guinevere.

But she reached for him on instinct and would have stopped herself short if he had not moved toward her at precisely the same moment. The fingers of his bandaged hand met her untarnished one and closed around it, holding tightly.

Joseph’s crying rose and shifted to shouts, and the tender moment was gone like mist on the wind.

Gawain looped his left arm around Joseph’s head, bracing his neck firmly in place beneath the chin. In his other hand, he held a thin-bladed silver dagger.

Vera gasped. When there’d been no guillotine, no rope, no massive sword, she’d assumed the mechanism for the deed would be magic. Never a dagger. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck, though the day was cool.

“Close your eyes,” Arthur murmured, his lips hardly moving. “Please don’t watch.”

Her shock at his gentle plea nearly stole her breath, but Vera had to watch. She couldn’t look away when that man’s blood was on her hands.

Gawain struck swiftly, piercing Joseph’s chest in the center, all the way to the blade’s hilt. Joseph screamed, and it was the sound of an animal caught and made prey. He gasped and squirmed beneath the mage’s grasp. With every pull and cry, blood spurted from the wound, but Gawain remained motionless for one long inhale and exhale before he jerked his own head to the side.

It was as if the motion pulled the thread of life cleanly from Joseph’s body. The tension collapsed from his muscles, and he crumpled from man to corpse in a single blink.

Vera hardly slept that night. Waves of anxiety pushed through her, followed by a sense of dread so overwhelming that she felt it in her pounding heart and pulsing through her skin. When even her blankets grew damp with sweat, she kicked them off.

The day had been awful, so nightmarish to even elicit pity from Arthur. Her mind flashed to his hand holding hers far too many times, but it was one of two things from the day that didn’t leave her staring at the ceiling in abject horror.

The other was the note on her bedside table. Matilda had crept through Vera’s door to deliver it just before midnight, needlessly worrying about waking her. It was from Merlin. He was back. Vera was to report to his study in the morning. Finally.

She’d been intent on waiting up for Arthur, somehow knowing that, after yesterday, he’d listen to her. She’d ached to apologize and, more than that, have one real conversation with him. But he never came back. Even when morning broke at last, and Matilda came to help Vera dress, the door to his sleeping chamber was a few inches ajar in the exact position as it had been last night.

It might all be done after today anyway. Vera hadn’t questioned whether she could survive here until spring when time travel would be possible again. Insulated by castle walls and the likes of Merlin and Lancelot and even Arthur, with her nighttime reading lit by literal magic and her dinners colored with spectacles of storytelling, she’d treated this more like being in a storybook than a real place on the brink of disaster—where her life was in real danger.

But of course, it was. Guinevere met her end here.

So today, she’d magically retrieve the memories and then … what? Actually go into hiding at some monastery in the countryside and wait out the winter? They could pretend she’d died. That would go over well. She shoved away the pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Lancelot and Matilda. Their lives would be better, and they’d forget her soon enough. And she would go home.