“Yes,” Vera said.

“Hm.” Gawain frowned as he folded his hands in front of him and stared at a spot on the blanket next to Vera’s knee.

The silence lengthened. Vera and Arthur shared a glance. “Is there a problem?” Arthur said, but Gawain looked up at the same time.

“No. I can heal these.” He reached toward her thigh more slowly. “It will be uncomfortable, but it should not hurt.”

The healing itself was … strange. Gawain ran his fingers over the cut at her thigh, and then Vera felt very lightheaded. She thought he had said something. There was the sound of a breeze, and a prickling tingle rose on her neck.

As her head stopped swimming and her vision cleared, the skin at her thigh was whole, only a faint pink line remaining where the stab wound had been.

He moved on to next one at her shoulder and it was much the same. Finally, Gawain addressed the abrasion on the back of her head. She sat further forward so Gawain could easily touch the spot. This time, sweat beaded over the surface of Vera’s body as the energy of all the healing crackled under her skin. Her thoughts went sluggish like before. But this time, she was sure she heard a voice.

“What were those words?” she asked as if through the fog of sleep.

Arthur gave her a quizzical look. He obviously hadn’t heard anything.

“You—you heard words?” Gawain said.

She nodded. He took a step back to stare down at her, his brow furrowed and lips parted, but he didn’t address it again. “Your wounds were further in the healing process than they should have been. I’m not typically able to heal stab wounds.” He sank into the chair like the effort had drained him. “But yours had already begun to mend.”

“How?” Arthur asked. He sat on the bed next to Vera, and her stomach did an infuriating somersault.

Gawain was statue still with a vacant expression. He swallowed and gave one stiff nod as if he’d made a decision. “Before the procedure that did such damage the other day, you took a potion.”

Vera was too stunned to confirm or deny it. Had Arthur told Gawain about the procedure, too?

But Arthur’s bewildered face made clear he hadn’t.

Merlin, who’d emphasized the danger in others knowing the truth, wouldn’t have … would he?

“Since my arrival, I’ve been stocking the castle stores with healing potions. I would guess,” Gawain paused with a hard look at Vera, “that Merlin included that in your potion, anticipating the way his memory work might damage your mind. There’s no evidence that healing potions work when administered preemptively, but that is the only explanation—” He stayed silent a moment. “It’s the only feasible explanation I can think of.”

“Merlin told you about the procedure?” Arthur asked.

“He did not. I knew there were secrets, so I have been listening where I should not. I heard the procedure. I’ve heard a great deal more than that, too.” He fixed Vera with a meaningful stare. “There are some gaps in the story for me. But … I know.”

“You need to start explaining what you mean, and you’d best do it very quickly,” Arthur said quietly, which was somehow more unnerving than if he’d shouted.

Gawain sighed. He stood and crossed to the corner of the bed nearest the door, reached beneath it, and procured a thin wooden disk, smaller than his palm. He moved to Arthur’s side (a brave choice, Vera thought) and handed it to him. “This picks up sound, and this,” he pulled a wooden block from his pocket—the one Vera had seen him with before Yule that she’d thought looked like a phone, “is the receiver. The disk was hidden in our study before, and—I hid it here yesterday.”

“You did what?” Arthur all but growled at him.

To his credit, Gawain didn’t cower. But Vera’s mind was on the conversations—the ones during the procedure with Merlin about her time travel. And about Vincent. And here with Arthur about the two versions of Guinevere that came before her.

Vera’s mouth hung slack. “You know everything.”

“More or less,” Gawain said. “I won’t try to justify my actions. All I can do is assure you and show you, if you’ll let me, that I am worthy of your trust. I will not report this to the council of mages. I can help you.”

Arthur stood, and he rather towered over Gawain. “If you think—”

“Why?” Vera asked.

Arthur went silent. They both looked at her.

“Why should you trust me?” Gawain asked.

“No—well, yes. But … why do you want to help us?”

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he said bluntly, his sallow stare boring into Vera. It was not the first time he’d surprised her today. “And I do not want magic to die. You—both of you,” he amended as he turned to Arthur, “are the best chance we have. I know my demeanor does not inspire confidence, but I am loyal to my king. I am.” Gawain said it with such ardent fervor. Arthur held his gaze in silence before he exhaled a long breath and sat down.

“I have never known Merlin to have healing gifts,” Gawain continued, now addressing Vera. “Whatever he did to save you is a power he has concealed completely. There is no mechanism for magic that can restart someone’s life essence in the realm of known gifts. It’s unheard of. And when he entered your mind …” His breath shuddered. “Your Majesty, that you survived that is nothing short of miraculous. Whatever moved your healing along was powerful. You may even—” he took a deep breath and frowned. “All I can say is that your existence is a precarious balance and,” he shook his head in disbelief, “delicate. So terribly delicate. It’s far more shocking that you remain than it is that the other two perished. The commonality when the other two were lost was physical intimacy, correct?” He said it clinically, and Vera couldn’t decide whether that was worse.

“Yes,” Arthur said. His hand slid over the blanket to Vera’s.

“Before, with the original Guinevere, was there trauma with that experience?” Gawain asked.

Vera inhaled sharply. Arthur started, too.

“I—none.” He looked at Vera like he was being freshly crushed. “Not that you ever told me, at least. If … if I hurt you, you never told me.”

“Whatever it is, the body’s memory is deeper than the mind,” Gawain said, repeating the phrase he’d uttered only minutes ago. “There is something vitally important in your mind. And your intimacy may well trigger your memory to come back, but … I may be wrong, but I believe you’ve been wise to refrain from intercourse.” Dear God. There was the Gawain Vera expected, clueless that this made her want to melt into a puddle. “At least until we understand the magic playing into it. And you also should not engage in any more memory procedures.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Vera asked.

“If Merlin’s right—if it is a curse laid by Viviane, there is more than one way to break it. Magic work loses strength over time. Viviane’s curse would naturally weaken, especially after her death. We can hasten its end by fortifying the powers already in existence all around Camelot. One gift is good. Multiple gifts used together are better. People don’t tend to try combining gifts often. I can help the gifted of Camelot with that aspect.

“And you can build up the kingdom diplomatically. We must do everything we can to bolster the country—the people’s connection with you, with one another. Empower them; build the kingdom up to its fullest. That can break the curse if a curse is truly what’s at play.”

The “if” stayed with Vera. Because if it wasn’t a curse, then what in God’s name was it?

The story of Vera’s attack would not be publicly shared. They’d made some progress with the people of Camelot; they didn’t need news getting out of another attack on the queen. It would be a small circle who knew even a version of the truth: the king’s guard and the priest who’d already seen the carnage. The whole next day was spent crafting and sharing the narrative that Vera and Arthur together were attacked by a Saxon spy. That Arthur had been the one to kill him. No one would be informed of Vera’s injuries. It was the falsehood Arthur had told Merlin before he departed, too.