Vera hadn’t realized she was on the cliff too, but she jumped with him. It was an explosion within her as she kissed him in return, her yearning quickly becoming a sense of need. Arthur pulled her closer, his fingertips weaving into the hair at the nape of her neck as they embraced. She wanted more.

She wanted everything.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered in a hurry.

But she would not. She could feel his lips curve into a smile under hers as she pulled his body toward her and pressed herself against him, the two opposing forces meeting.

An unwelcome part of Vera’s mind interrupted the bliss: the memory of him not half an hour ago calling her Guinevere. He’s seeing you as Guinevere. She could not bury the notion. As badly as Vera wanted this, wanted to be close to him, wanted to be with him … As much as she ached for him, she would never forgive herself if doing so was a manipulation of his love for the woman she couldn’t be.

Her body must have betrayed the thought for an eyelash of a second, and Arthur noticed. He broke the bond between their lips but stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.

“Are you all right?” His voice was even deeper when he spoke so quietly, and Vera shivered at his chest rumbling against her.

“Arthur, I’m not her. I can’t be her. I—” Vera fumbled. She knew she didn’t have the right words, but she forged on anyway. “I would … If I could bring you comfort …” All wrong. She hated them as they came out of her mouth.

Arthur went rigid. He held her for a single deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and he pulled away. Their bodies separating from one another was like being cleaved in two. He turned and took two quick steps away, then turned back, mouth open and eyes on the floor at her feet. He stood there as if about to speak but instead shook his head. His face darkened: all that was gentle moments before went rigid.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. Vera wasn’t even sure he was talking to her. He turned on his heel and left the room.

“Shit,” Vera said. She didn’t go after him. She drank water. She paced the room. And she went to bed, knowing that he wouldn’t be there in the morning, terrified she and Arthur had ruined every step forward they had taken with a few moments of tipsy impulsivity.

The unseasonable warmth of the last few days transformed under the influence of a north wind while Vera slept. She hadn’t thought sleep would come at all. Not only was she in a strange place and alone, but the spot Arthur would have occupied was an unavoidable reminder of his absence, like the negative space in a painting. In one breath, she replayed the instant his lips found hers. In the next, her stomach fell with the memory of anger returning to his face before he left the room.

Vera didn’t want to roll over when she woke to the soft light of morning, knowing his empty place would send her down the same path of cyclical delight and dread as she mentally replayed her every move from the day prior. She turned over, consoling herself that at least she might spread out or double up the covers to make her cocoon of blankets all the more insulating against the cold.

But the bed wasn’t empty. Arthur was there, fast asleep, lying on his side facing Vera. His features were peaceful with the weight of consciousness lifted from him. She’d like to stroke his cheek with her finger as she’d done last night.

Instead, she got up, endeavoring to get ready quietly, but even dressing in her simplest traveling gown didn’t lend itself to quiet. The skirt rustled no matter how deliberately she maneuvered it. When she finished, the unreachable ties at the back of Vera’s gown hung loose, but it would be good enough until she found Matilda.

In her rustling around, she hadn’t heard Arthur get up and cross to the fireplace. He knelt there, feeding logs onto the smoldering embers and stirring the flames back to life. She avoided looking in his direction, telling herself she wanted to give him privacy as he dressed for the day. Mostly, she was afraid that she’d find the shell of him from before if she saw him too closely. She knelt on the cold floor, folding her dress from last night and trying to fit it back in the bag without making a mess of things.

“Guinevere?” Arthur said from behind her. She jumped at his voice and played it off as she stood to face him. Anxiety flooded her: there was his masked stare. “I … had more to drink last night than was wise. I apologize.” He didn’t offer any more explanation, and a pit dropped in her stomach at his apology. They’d been so close to being something more than two people forced to share space—very nearly friends.

And now, she’d lost him.

“It’s all right. We both did.” Vera said.

He gestured to the laces hanging down on the back of her gown. “Would you like me to—?”

She didn’t. It was too reminiscent of last night, of what they were now calling a regrettable mistake. But it would also be nice to be ready and not face Matilda or any uncomfortable conversation that might stem from their interaction.

Arthur was careful not to so much as graze her skin.

When they left their lodgings and stepped outside, the harsh wind stung Vera’s face as she belatedly realized that she’d packed away her cloak. Arthur draped his over her shoulders. They didn’t look at one another.

She’d let herself be foolishly swept up in her own fairytale, and now all that was left was a steady and subtle nausea churning in her stomach. He had deemed their embrace an act fueled by drunkenness and requiring an apology.

But there were bigger concerns. Truthfully, the prior night was a near-perfect model of what was happening in the kingdom; a sheen of happiness when all felt right for Yule—but it was a superficial layer atop a more sinister reality.

Their departure from Glastonbury was delayed as village leaders discreetly called on Gawain to repair a lengthy list of magical issues. And Vera overheard the report that Lancelot brought Arthur: another attack. This one was farther north along the French coast, much closer than the previous. Combined with the late night of celebration and the less hospitable weather, it made for a subdued journey to Camelot.

After Vera and Arthur’s silent trek to their chamber, Vera was ready to crawl under the covers and sleep all day. She anticipated that Arthur would retreat to the side room, but he didn’t. He unfastened his sword belt and hung it by the desk. Then, he just … stood there, staring at the floor and worrying at his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know how to tell you—”

There was a knock at the door.

Arthur let out a low exhale before he went to open it.

“May I have a word, Your Majesty?” Was that Gawain’s voice? Vera leaned forward so she could see. Neither of the mages came into this tower. Yet there he was.

“Not now,” Arthur said. “I will come to your study when—”

“No,” Gawain said. “No. It must be here. Immediately. It’s about the curse and the queen’s memory loss. We cannot risk being overheard.”

Gawain turned sideways and scooted past Arthur into the room without invitation.

Vera and Arthur shared a glance. She nearly cracked a smile before she remembered that he wasn’t the one she could share that with anymore. Her face fell, and she swallowed.

The three of them sat near the fireplace, Vera leaving plenty of space between her and Arthur, and the young mage leveled his blank stare at them.

“I have my doubts about the nature of magic’s demise, and I wonder if pursuing the queen’s memories is the wisest course. I’m not sure if the queen told you about our conversation—”