She turned to find him on his feet, brushing dirt from his robe and adjusting his pockets. Vera began shaking her head, but the movement helped assemble the puzzle pieces.
The mouth of the stream on a lush hillside. She fumbled to her feet, and her eyes shot past Merlin to a forest grove behind him. There was no well house, and the trees obscured the view, but she was almost sure that, had there been a clear shot, she’d be looking right at the Tor.
“Oh!” Vera spun in place, trying to take in every detail. “Oh!” she repeated as she began to recognize the landscape.
Down the hill further on, the grass was well-trodden and formed a trail along what she guessed she used to know as the road. It passed in front of Vera and Merlin and curved around the trees where she assumed it wove to the top of the Tor. And in the other direction, Vera supposed it created the footprint for what would someday be the road leading into town.
“Shall we?” Merlin gestured to the path before them.
“Erm, I guess.” Vera shifted the bag on her shoulder. “So that’s it? We’re here? It’s the year like six hundred something?”
Merlin chuckled and patted Vera on the shoulder. “Precisely the year six hundred something. Now we walk down to Glastonbury, get our horses, and finish the journey to the castle.”
Vera had assumed the time travel would also take them to their destination, wherever that was. She hadn’t realized she’d get to see Glastonbury in its ancient form. Surely there’d also be people there, residents living their medieval lives. What did they do to fill their days? What did they talk about?
A prickle of worry pierced Vera’s thoughts. “English is different now, isn’t it?” she asked. “How will I be able to understand and communicate?”
“You needn’t worry—oh, watch your step there.” Merlin guided her around fresh horse manure in the path. “You’ll understand everyone perfectly fine. And they’ll understand you. It’s—”
“Part of the magic?” Vera finished for him.
“You’re a quick study,” he said with fondness. “Any colloquialisms you use will be understood in the common tongue. No adjustments are necessary. Though,” he added, scrunching his face as if he almost didn’t want to say it, “you may want to say ‘fuck’ a bit less. It translates well but is decidedly less appropriate for a lady of your status.”
“I’ll do my best,” Vera said as she cast a sidelong look at the mage.
He chuckled, seeming far more amused than annoyed by her antics. She was in awe of Merlin’s ease in the face of everything that had to go right to get Vera here. All that remained on the daunting list was for her to regain Guinevere’s memories. The travel itself hadn’t jostled any to the surface. She was working out a way to bring it up when the gurgling stream nearby, the breeze through the trees, and the evening birdsong began to mingle with other sounds.
They’d emerged from the wooded area, and the bustle came from further down the lane. It was a din of voices—a lot of voices. And there was music: strings, flutes, and singing carried on the wind. There was a cottage to the left, and the two windows flanking its door had their wooden shutters open. A child of seven or eight ran with screaming laughter from behind the home and bodily dove through the open window, her pigtail braids flopping over her head. Right as she disappeared, what must have been her younger brother rounded the corner with a five-year-old’s delighted roar. He had to work much harder to clamber through the window behind the girl.
It was comforting to see children behaving the same as they would in her time. A gust of wind carried the smell of food cooking over a fire. It was late evening by now, and Vera’s stomach groaned in response. She smoothed her windswept hair back and realized her ponytail had come loose in clumps. Vera stopped walking to remove her hair elastic and fix it.
“That reminds me,” Merlin said, fishing through yet another robe pocket and procuring a delicate circlet crown. It was made of thin metal woven together in a rounded pattern and finely shaped down to a point where there was a single oval-shaped moonstone. “You’ll want to wear this.”
Vera braided her hair and laid it over her shoulder. She wasn’t sure how seventh-century hair would be styled, but a simple plait felt right enough. Merlin helped her position the circlet so the moonstone sat at the center of her forehead. She marveled at how it perfectly contoured to her head. Probably, she realized, because she had worn it before.
Merlin eyed her and shook his head. “Perfect. You look … like you.”
The longer they walked, the more cottages were on either side of the ever-widening lane. Foot traffic steadily increased, too. Nearly every person who passed greeted them with reverent bows or curtsies, murmuring, “Ma’am” or “Your Majesty” as they did so. They whispered behind their hands and pointed from across the street. Vera’s palms were clammy despite the evening chill. There’d not been a single time in her life when so many people paid attention to her.
She fidgeted with her skirt, making sure it lay correctly on her legs. “Is this sort of attention normal?”
“It’s normal for you, dear,” he answered kindly, taking her hand and looping it around his elbow. “They know you. I’d even say they adore you. Arthur is a well-loved king. You’ve been to Glastonbury many times. It makes quite an impression on people.”
“Do I need to be responding in a particular way?” she asked, trying to move her lips as little as possible.
“You’re doing well.” He patted her hand. “Smile, say ‘good evening’ if you like. That’s all you need do.”
This must have been the heaviest residential section. Houses butted right up against one another with occupants scurrying in and out, cook-fires blazing, and groups sitting together at outdoor tables for their evening meal. Vera heard more laughter than she’d expected. The lane ended and she vaguely recognized that this was where the High Street would have been. They rounded the corner, and she was not disappointed.
Her feet stuttered to a stop. Disbelief stunned Vera into stillness. The lane was lined with buildings, all stone or timber, and quite a bit smaller than the structures of Vera’s time. But it wasn’t the structures that took her breath away. Glowing lanterns the size of footballs were strung merrily, crisscrossing above the dirt road and bathing the lane below in a soft warmth. There were carts and stalls every few feet. Vera smelled the spices before she saw them. Vendors were everywhere selling their goods: food, jewelry, clothing, and fine fabrics. And then, there were artists with paintings, sketch work, and embroidery. As the music started again, Vera searched for its source and found the troupe of performers past the spice stall, playing a lively song that quickly revealed itself to be about a mischievous fairy who snuck into homes and blessed children with magic.
And, indeed, there was magic.
On closer inspection, the lanterns that hung across the street were not suspended by string but bobbed in place of their own accord. And they didn’t glow with fire, but some source unidentifiable to Vera. Across the lane, a young boy manned a cart. A woman behind him roasted sweet-smelling nuts on a blue fire. Vera noticed another woman further down, taking payment and levitating the customer a foot or so off the ground.
Everywhere she turned, there was something amazing. Merlin guided Vera through the throngs of people who all peered at her with as much interest as she did at them. She dragged her feet past two singers, a man and a woman, who mystically built a harmony of four parts between them. The Glastonbury she’d loved her whole life would forever be a special place. But this Glastonbury’s evening market was the whimsical street fair of fairytales.
“We must keep going, Guinevere,” Merlin said. The name was going to take some getting used to.
