“He’s the emperor in the Far East, nitwit,” Marian said as she, too, took in its craftsmanship. “Arthur will love that.”
Arthur was the only one yet to arrive. This was normal, though, especially when guests filled the castle. He would be the earliest to arrive at meals and meetings and the last to depart.
Vera stayed at the table with Tristan and the gifts as the others meandered to their seats by the fire. This was a gold mine. Nobody from her time had touched artifacts like this, items scarcely few had even seen beneath thick glass at museums. She ran her fingers across the sword as Tristan unpacked more treasures. Vera still carried her instinct to touch the ancient things, the way she’d touched St. Michael’s Tower on the Tor or the abbey’s walls. But these items weren’t so ancient just yet. They were gleaming and new.
“I don’t know what the hell—sorry.” Tristan gave her a look. Guinevere must not have had the mouth that Vera had. He corrected himself and went on. “I don’t know what any of it is or what to do with it.” He pulled items out one at a time. There were at least half a dozen small statues wrapped in brightly dyed silks (their protective wrappings prizes in themselves), and then came a wooden box tied neatly with brown string.
“What were you doing in China?” Vera asked. Was it even called China at this point in history? She had no idea, but Tristan understood her.
He shrugged as he leaned against the table. “I enjoy travel. When the king asked for a representative to visit, I was happy to volunteer. I got to study their battle strategies and learn some fascinating combat tactics. Their emperor has done many things like your husband—uniting tribes, building a nation—all that.”
His eyes were unreadable and trained on the door as Arthur entered and joined the others by the fire. Tristan picked up the palm-sized box and shook a hefty stack of rectangular sheets free from it, turning them in his hands.
“Do you know what these are?” he asked.
“No,” Vera said with a quick glance. But then she did a double take, and her brow furrowed. Tristan had five thin plates in hand, and he fanned them out so that they overlapped one another. She cocked her head to the side.
“May I—?” She reached toward them, and Tristan passed them to her. They had little pictures on them. One was a sketchy painting of a person’s face, and the others had delicate flowers. One with two blooms, one with four, another with eight. She flipped them over. They all had the same intricate geometric pattern covering the reverse side. Her mouth dropped open.
“It can’t be.” With the five cards in one hand, she began to flip through the rest, confirming her theory. Vera laughed. “I think … I think they’re playing cards.”
Tristan scooted halfway behind her to stand close with his chin over her shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing her skin. His history with Guinevere was readily apparent. He was clearly comfortable with her. “What are playing cards?”
“Well, I don’t exactly recognize these symbols, but that’s an easy fix,” Vera said, an idea taking shape. “You can play loads of games with them.”
“How do you know all this?” Tristan asked in wonder. He reached to touch the cards, but his pinky also grazed the side of Vera’s hand. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away as she should have. She looked at Tristan out of the corner of her eyes.
He was behaving normally except for how he gazed at her with tenderness.
“Guinna stayed at an interesting monastery during her recovery.”
Vera jumped at Lancelot’s voice, foolishly feeling like she’d been caught doing something wrong. He stood a few steps away, his stare fixed on Tristan.
“Did you?” Tristan asked, nonchalantly stepping back.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat in an effort to break the tension that probably only existed in her mind. Vera spread the cards out on the table, flipping them so their unique sides with the blossoms or faces pointed upward. There were well over a hundred, with enough repeats among the patterns and the pictures. She organized them into piles and looked up at Lancelot as the idea solidified. “Will you get a quill?”
Setting aside the sacrilege of graffiti-ing an artifact that would be priceless in her time, Vera added notations to the cards. She made two fifty-two-card decks, with some left over and laid aside as spares. Lancelot watched while she worked. After a while, Tristan wandered to join the others.
“What’s this game?” Lancelot stood just as close to her as Tristan had. His arm brushed hers, and he even rested his chin on her shoulder. The knot in Vera’s stomach eased. See? Friends, especially dear friends, could be affectionate. Vera conveniently chose to ignore the whole arranged betrothal bit.
“I think we should play poker,” she said. “Texas hold’em.”
“Excellent.” Lancelot pulled over a chair and sat down. She loved that he didn’t question it. “Teach me.”
They spent the better part of the next twenty minutes going over the game: what the hands meant, how to understand them, and the finer points of how to play. She made a cheat sheet of which hands beat what. Lancelot was excellent with games, so he caught on quickly.
“This is grand. Let’s do it.” He wheeled around to the others. “Who wants to learn a game?” Lancelot said, clapping his hands together.
Matilda yawned pointedly. “I’m exhausted. Next time.”
“I’ll turn in, too,” Randall said, looking anywhere but at Matilda.
Vera contained her suspicions about what the two leaving together meant to a short, clipped giggle as Matilda bid her goodnight, sighing in mock annoyance as her cheeks flushed.
Everyone else wanted to play except Marian, who adamantly said she’d rather observe.
“Too competitive,” Elaine murmured. “Afraid she’s going to lose and show us she isn’t graceful every second of every day.”
