Merlin rushed to the baskets of scrolls and began rifling through them. “Not exactly,” he said as he plucked two rolls of parchment from the bundles. “The work of the magic will fade from what they touched without that individual’s force sustaining it, but the gift itself returns to circulation. In theory, babies are born all over the world with gifts every day. It should stand to reason that somewhere, a child was born with her gift the day she died. As long as we’ve studied it, magic functioned like air, a resource we use that recycles itself.”
She nodded. “But not since Viviane?”
Merlin stopped packing and looked at Vera in earnest. He seemed older than she remembered. “Not since Viviane,” he confirmed. “I’ve spoken with Arthur, but …” He shook his head. “I’m sorry that this is on your shoulders, but he needs to hear it from you. If you tell him you need him, I don’t believe he will refuse you.”
“I hardly see him. I don’t know how to even get a word in—”
Merlin dropped to his knee in front of Vera, his eyes rent with desperation. “Please,” he said. “Please try. The situation is being gravely underestimated.”
Vera swallowed, alarmed that the plea was as evident in his face as it was in his words. “I will. But what if he says no?”
Merlin sighed as he rose and resumed gathering his things. “We’ll consider magical intervention when I return.”
Under different circumstances, the lengths to which Arthur went to avoid speaking with Vera might have been amusing. She’d thought dinners might be her best option to corner him now that he attended them. After all, they were in the same room and right next to each other for at least the length of a meal. But the performance from the acting troupe hadn’t been a one-time visit. Every subsequent evening brought yet another performance, which would have been infuriating if each wasn’t as wonderful as the last, some with magical elements and some without.
A minstrel who sang the kingdom’s legends. A band of musicians who ended up playing far beyond the dinner hour. More acting troupes. Dancers. The night Merlin left for Exeter, there was a storyteller who painted while he regaled them with legends. Vera felt this had to have some kind of magic to it, though she couldn’t pinpoint the mystical quality. There was a lull when the storyteller grew quiet to make adjustments to his painting, and Vera made a snap decision that this was her chance.
“I have to unlock those memories.” She said it quickly, leaning closer to Arthur. She didn’t wait for him to acknowledge her; she knew he could hear. “Merlin thinks that connecting with you is the best way to start remembering.” She hesitated, embarrassed to say the next part. But she thought of Merlin’s plea, and the words tumbled out. “I need you.”
Arthur flinched. He hadn’t turned toward her as much as he’d angled his head in Vera’s direction. He opened his mouth to interject, but Vera put a hand on his arm and plowed on even as she felt his muscles stiffen under her fingers.
“Just listen, please. I won’t try to replace her—”
She stopped—because he looked at her. But it wasn’t with interest or even politeness. He was furious.
“Guinevere.” He snarled the name. “I can’t.” His voice was strained and low, and behind the rage in his face, Vera saw it in his eyes and a tremble through his rigid form: a flash of fear. The performance wasn’t finished, but Arthur stood and left the hall, an action which didn’t go unnoticed through the room.
She tried to keep her face composed as if this was ordinary. Heads turned toward Arthur until he disappeared through the side door, and then they turned to her. Even the artist faltered and paused, looking at Vera as he stuttered to a stop. The room was uncomfortably quiet. Her palms went slick, and nausea swept over her. Did they expect her to speak? She wasn’t—she couldn’t pretend to be their queen. She was a broken projector of a memory. That was all. She stared down at her hands.
Lancelot leaned toward her. “Guinna … ?”
“Help me,” she whispered, hating how pathetic she sounded.
Lancelot’s brow furrowed. He turned to face the waiting watchers, plastering on a dazzling smile. “The king offers his apologies. He has been called away and requests that we all enjoy the remainder of this superb performance on his behalf. Carry on, good sir.”
Vera didn’t remember another second of the performance. As soon as the applause began, Matilda ushered her from the room, and Vera followed to her quarters in a fog. There had to be a reason for Arthur’s behavior.
As Matilda unlaced the back of her gown, Vera glanced at the closed door to his chamber. She knew he didn’t believe she was Guinevere; neither of them did. But was that enough for him to respond to her like this? There had to be more to it.
She was changed into her nightgown, and Matilda was two steps from leaving the room when Vera made a decision.
“Matilda?” she said, and Matilda turned toward her in surprise. “Would you like to have a drink and … talk?”
She stared at Vera for a long while, her eyes soft. “I would be honored.”
Vera gestured to the seating area by the fire, where Matilda sank into one of the comfy poufs. Vera fetched two glasses and the pitcher from the desk, which was always filled with fresh wine (presumably by Matilda herself). She poured Matilda’s and then filled her own cup. Matilda shook her head as she took her first sip.
Vera wasn’t sure where to begin. She had a plan for this conversation, but it felt unnatural to jump right to it. Her eyes landed on the vase of flowers on the low table. They were replaced with new ones at least once a week. When Vera left this morning, they’d been blooms of yellows and golds, and during the day, those had been swapped for large burnt orange blossoms mixed in with smaller white and cream flowers so lovely and perfect that Vera wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been made of silk. She fingered a petal in an unnecessary confirmation that they were real.
“Thank you for these. They’re lovely,” Vera said. “I always enjoy seeing the week’s bouquet.”
“I—” Matilda became keenly interested in her glass of wine. She stared down into it, swirling her goblet as she answered. “You are very welcome, Your Majesty. But you should know—”
“I was hoping you might call me Guinevere instead of Your Majesty,” Vera said.
Matilda pursed her lips. “It would be improper for me to address you so informally.”
“What if you just called me Guinevere in private?”
