The hall was friendlier than usual. There was no table atop the dais. Instead, the space was occupied by a band of musicians playing lively background music. Hanging orb lights zigzagged from one side of the vaulted ceiling to the other. Guests milled about on the balcony, sipping from their goblets as they whispered about the growing crowd below.

Under different circumstances, Vera would have loved this, but her cursed fever burned on, as did her focus on finding Arthur.

She saw him across the hall, and her breath caught. He’d replaced his usual and much more casual attire with slim-fitting leather armor, dark like burned charcoal from shoulders to toes except for the cape of deep red clasped at his collarbone, the shine of his sword’s hilt at his waist, and the simple crown of gold on his head. His hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of his neck.

He hadn’t dressed this formally since Vera’s arrival, yet it was as natural on him as anything and was very striking. His gaze met Vera’s before he quickly turned away to greet a guest. A sudden flutter had thrummed in her chest. She felt the urge to cup her hand against his cheek. The thought of his skin against hers sent the warmth of desire spreading through her. With a start, she realized the feeling matched what had belonged to the memory that was gone … that her dormant, tucked-away passion for the love she’d lost was now assigned to Arthur.

Something in what happened yesterday had threaded a cord from her destroyed memory of Vincent straight to Arthur. Even after the memory’s disintegration, its emotions remained intact, questing out and latching on to the next face that came along. With the potion and … everything else, Arthur was already the prime target. How could she feel furiously attracted to him and also want to scream wrath in his face and weep for days?

His conversation bore the marks of ending: nods and subtle leaning away from one another. If Vera didn’t move now, she might lose her nerve. She plastered on the most relaxed smile she could muster.

Feigning confidence, Vera came to his side. Had his body stiffened at her arrival, even as his voice remained steady? She decided she’d imagined it and touched his arm. Arthur pulled away from her. No, he violently yanked his arm from her grasp like her touch burned him. Right in front of the nobleman, who was a stranger to Vera—and who absolutely noticed and shifted uncomfortably.

Vera did not try to hold her face pleasantly. She stared at Arthur with open ire. Fuck you fuck you fuck you, she said in her head and hoped he could feel it despite his refusal to look in her direction.

Her cheeks burned as she spotted others nearby whose eyes had widened and were whispering behind their hands. The hush swelled out from her and Arthur, the event’s epicenter. One face in the crowd didn’t match the discomfort of all the rest. She savagely glowered at Lancelot, straight ahead of her. His features churned with guilt. She tipped her shoulders up, her glaring shrug a question and a taunt. See? What would you have me do?

He had the decency to cast his eyes to the floor.

Fine. They could all have the satisfaction of believing Vera was the bane of the kingdom. It wasn’t entirely untrue anyway. She turned without another word, snatched a goblet of wine from a passing server’s tray, and sank into a chair right by the side door where the staff came in and out, as out of the way as she could be. She would not speak to anyone nor try to play the role of the good queen.

Vera saw Merlin from the corner of her eye. She deliberately avoided his gaze, but he was coming right toward her.

She loathed that she trembled at the prospect of talking to him. Lancelot, for his part, clocked Merlin’s intent and cut him off at the pass, diverting him to a group of visitors eager for his attention. Vera was far too angry to acknowledge her gratitude for this kindness.

Arthur was back to greeting guests with his quick smile and easy laugh, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It pushed Vera near her boiling point, which seemed far more literal than she preferred as she still felt about a million degrees. She slouched in her seat and kept her head down.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Vera jumped. She wasn’t sure how long Matilda had been standing at her shoulder. The ever-lovely woman bent at the waist so her face was near Vera’s ear as she slid a bag onto her lap. Vera’s embroidery supplies. She’d forgotten all about them after the nightmarish afternoon in Merlin’s study.

“Do you want to slip away?” Matilda said. “I’ll cover for you.”

Vera clasped her friend’s hand. “Thank you.” Bless her, the only one among the lot who she didn’t currently want to throttle. “If you see Arthur, tell him I’ve gone to bed.”

Matilda’s eyebrow quirked up.

“I don’t want him to follow me. I mean it.”

Matilda looked like she wanted to argue, but she nodded instead. She scooted in front of the table, giving Vera a discreet escape out the door behind her. A huddle of guests surrounded Merlin, enthralled by whatever stories of magic he told, but neither Arthur nor Lancelot was anywhere to be seen. Good.

The wintry wind in the courtyard was a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat in the great hall. It, and having escaped the banquet, lifted Vera’s spirit some straightaway. She’d made it to the entry hall and was striding from the grand doors to cross the front courtyard to the chapel when her steps faltered at the sound of raised voices echoing from the corridor to her right.

She hesitated near the main doors, hoping to get a clearer idea of if the voices were coming toward her. It didn’t matter, really. She should go on and hurry outside. Whoever it was would never know she’d been there. But she found her feet moving away from the entry and toward the other door, the one to the corridor.

They were distant enough that the sound didn’t have enough shape to form coherent words. Vera crept closer as the voices picked up again, a sense of familiarity lifting goosebumps along her arms. She thought it might be Arthur—and words or no, it was clear from the volume and the clipped cadence of his speaking that he was angry. The door to the corridor was already open enough to slip through, and … yes, there was a nook in the hallway there that she could tuck into and keep unseen, as long as they didn’t pass by her.

Vera weighed the risk, standing on the precipice, but chance decided for her. She saw the shadow halfway down the corridor, the warning alarm that Arthur and whoever was with him were about to come into view. Vera ducked into the nook. While the castle’s main thoroughfares were well-lit, this corridor had only one torch lit over the whole length of it. No one was meant to be here.

Two sets of footsteps were coming Vera’s way, and fast.

“I’m not doing this,” Arthur said sharply.

The footsteps stopped, overtaken by scuffling. It sounded like something slammed against the wall. Vera leaned far enough forward to see and nearly stumbled from her hiding place as she saw that the slam had been Arthur’s back as Lancelot shoved him. Lancelot held him pinned to the wall with his arm braced across Arthur’s chest.

“You don’t get to walk away from me!” Lancelot’s shout ripped through the corridor. Vera would have cowered if he’d ever spoken to her that way. “You’re so goddamn wrong. Do you know how long it took for me to know? One conversation with her the very first night in Glastonbury. That’s it.”

Vera covered her mouth to stifle her gasp. He was talking about her. He had shoved his friend, his king, and shouted at him in defense of her.

Arthur halfheartedly pushed Lancelot’s arm away from him. “I am poison to her,” he said.

“Oh, bullshit!” Lancelot threw his hands in the air. Vera had never seen him so angry. She thought he might punch Arthur as he wheeled on him. “Bullshit! You aren’t protecting her. This isn’t noble. What you’re doing now—this is poison. Carry on like this, and we will lose her again. And this time,” he added, his finger shaking as he pointed it at Arthur. “It will be your fault. You’ll never forgive yourself.” His last words were as good as a scathing slap. The two men stared at one another in fuming silence. Lancelot shook his head. “I’ll never forgive you either.” He turned and strode back in the direction he’d come from.