Gawain shrugged. “That’s what some will say. Creator. God. It’s all the same, but the mages simply say ‘Source.’”

“The mages are religious?”

“Oh yes. The Magesary is its own religious order. We believe our power, our gifts, come from our Source. Whether that is a sentient being is up for personal interpretation. In any case, we all agree that magic is a gift to humanity, and it is our highest duty to continue the ongoing work of creation.”

“I can tell you take that seriously,” Vera said. If there was anyone who embodied that, it was Gawain. He alone had trained the gifted folks of town and had used magic to help revitalize Camelot in countless ways.

She peered over his shoulder and found Lancelot looking up at her at the exact same moment. He averted his eyes quickly. Vera scoffed.

“I’m fine,” she yelled at him. She expected him to relax and laugh, to come jogging over with some smart remark. Instead, he turned on his heel and joined Arthur and Percival.

“What is wrong with him?” Vera mused in exasperation.

“He couldn’t protect you. And it’s driving him mad.”

“What? That’s not it. We’ve done loads of dangerous things together. In fact, he’s usually the one encouraging it.”

Gawain raised his eyebrows. “Yes, but I’d guess he was also directly involved in those things. If something went wrong, he could intervene. That’s not the case in a joust. You were on your own.”

“I—” Shit. He was right. She glanced at Arthur, who carried on in his conversation. He seemed fine. Pleased even. She felt a pang. “You would think that’s how the king would react.”

“Of course not,” Gawain said, as if it were obvious.

“Why would you say that?”

Of the hundreds of ways Vera might have guessed the mage would respond, she’d have never gotten it right.

“Because he knew you didn’t need protecting.”

Vera had never believed that falling in love happened in an instant. It came about over time, as bonds were formed like a thread between two souls, a simple tether with affection that slowly thickened into a golden cable with love.

But it was in this exact moment when Gawain’s simple proclamation lodged in Vera as truth, and as Arthur smiled over at her (pride and ease and care—how was it she could see all that in one expression?) that Vera knew.

She loved him.

She’d done it.

She’d forgotten to shove her feelings out of reach. Instead, Vera had crowded in on them and ended up cradling her love until she couldn’t deny it. And now? Now, it was inescapable. In the days leading up to the festival, the words were right there, tempting her tongue every time she looked at Arthur.

But she kept swallowing them.

There was the rancid uncertainty of the love’s origin. Was it what she’d had for Vincent, mapped via magic onto a new source?

And if the whole kingdom was thriving like Camelot, they had to be close to breaking the curse. They had to. Which brought her to the simpler matter of reality: there and back again. Vera’s tale. She’d be leaving in late spring. That left … what? Two months? Maybe less?

So she wouldn’t breathe the words, but she would spend every possible moment with him. On the day of the festival’s welcome feast, Vera’s morning was chock-filled with helping ready the castle while Arthur took audiences with travelers and knights who had been pouring into town all week.

But they were both to have a midday break, and when the clock’s chime tolled, Vera made a beeline across the castle grounds, nearly charging in when she reached the throne room—the door was left ajar, after all, but she stopped short at the sound of voices. Arthur must not have been finished yet.

She inclined her ear toward the opening, trying to make out whether the conversation had the polite sounds of ending, but nearly jumped out of her skin when the next sound wasn’t that of a voice but of something (a fist?) slamming down on the table.

“It will work, Your Majesty.” She recognized that voice with a jolt. It was Merlin. Vera hadn’t realized he’d returned from his travels.

“I won’t allow it!”

She recoiled from the door. Arthur had … shouted. He was furious.

“You haven’t traveled since Yule.” Merlin countered Arthur’s volume with an agitated whisper. “You haven’t seen the ways infrastructure is failing. We have over one hundred mages, and magic is breaking down at a rate we cannot keep up with. Your kingdom is suffering. If you think word of our weakness has not reached the Saxon—”

“Can you guarantee that she will not be harmed?”

Oh shit. They were talking about Vera. She leaned close enough to look into the room and found the two men separated by a table. Arthur leaned over it, braced with his hands wide on its surface. If he sounded angry, it was nothing to how enraged he looked.

There was silence before Merlin answered. “I can guarantee that I’ll be able to retrieve her memories—”

“I won’t hear it.” Arthur’s tone was measured and even again. It was as much of a peace offering as Merlin could hope for.

“You must!” The mage rounded the table to Arthur’s side. “When the Saxons attack and you have no plan, no one’s survival will be guaranteed. This is your duty!”

That was the wrong thing to say. Arthur leveled Merlin with a cold stare. “And what of your duty? So far, the mages have made promises about magic that they cannot keep.” His voice was rising again. “What of your responsibility? That you would ask me for a human sacrifice for the magic you don’t understand is appalling. But that it’s Guinevere? You said she was like a daughter to you.”

“She was. She is!” Merlin cried. “Which should convey nothing but the importance of—”

Arthur slammed his fist on the table again. “I told you not to return without a safe solution. You do not rule this kingdom. You do not rule me. And you will not touch her.”

Vera was careful not to move in the silence that followed, aware that even the softest noise would be audible.

“If you do not wish to serve under me,” Arthur said quietly. Merlin huffed. “I will release you back to the council of mages. Is that what you want?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Merlin said. “Your Majesty, is that what you want?”

Arthur cast a glance toward the door, and Vera jolted backward and out of view before she heard him say, “Prove to me that you can unlock her memories and keep her safe.”

She couldn’t stay here. In a daze, with her head buzzing, Vera left. She knew where she needed to go.

The door to the mages’ study was closed. Merlin could be coming back any moment, but she’d decided the chance of a word in private with Gawain was worth taking. He might not even be there, but … she knocked.

“Not now,” Gawain’s voice scolded from beyond the shut door. “I already told you that I will meet you at the festival set up—” he’d flung the door open midsentence and stopped as he saw Vera there. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, curious who he’d been expecting to find.

He opened the door further in invitation, and Vera obligingly stepped in. “I’m just finishing …” he gestured vaguely toward his desk as he closed the door.

There was a glass instrument on the desk—a round globe with a tube as wide as the tip of Vera’s pinky stemming from its bottom and running beside the bulbous main container up to the top.

“What is that?” she asked. She was stalling.

But Gawain’s expression brightened. “It’s … well, magic creates a sort of pressure. Its presence impacts the atmosphere of a space, particularly an enclosed space.” He picked it up. It fit comfortably in his palm as he held it between them. “This device is able to measure that pressure. I’ve just done my first successful test.” He beamed at her.