Vera stared blankly at him. Then Arthur, the ancient king of Britain, began to hum the unmistakable tune of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” She couldn’t believe it. Hearing his regal voice hum the song she’d grown up hearing performed by the Mamas and the Papas delighted her.
“You singing that song has to be the strangest thing in all of history,” she said.
“Will that one work?”
Vera nodded and held out her hand to him. Her palms were clammy, and her heart was beating faster than it ought to. Arthur gazed down at her with a destabilizing intensity when his fingers touched hers.
“Here,” she said, guiding his right hand to her waist. His fingers slid beyond to the small of her back, holding her closer than he needed to. She hadn’t been expecting that, but it was also exactly what she wanted. Vera swallowed, self-conscious that he might feel her pulse quickening beneath his touch.
She began to softly sing the song, and they danced together. Vera couldn’t fathom looking Arthur in the eyes when they stood this close to one another, so she lay the side of her head on his chest. Almost instantly, she doubted the decision. Was it too close to a full embrace? But then he responded in kind, resting his cheek on her head.
She couldn’t say who backed away first—simply that the song ended, and they were not quite so close together anymore. He’d dropped his hand from her back and she from his shoulder, and though their other hands dropped too, Arthur delicately held her fingers in his at their sides.
“It’s sort of like that.” Vera could only manage a whisper as she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “How did you know that song?”
“You used to sing it in the chapel,” Arthur said. “I didn’t … I wanted to be there for you without hurting you, and I didn’t know how to …” His voice trailed off. “I went to the chapel after you and would sit in the alcove so you wouldn’t be alone.”
Words failed her. She stared at the floor, no notion of how to hold this care. Care that belonged to someone else, but she had fallen into its glow, nevertheless.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was stupid and invasive—”
He stopped when Vera looked up at him. “It wasn’t,” she said.
He did not try to mask the pain in his expression. His lips parted, and he inhaled sharply. “I have to tell you something.”
Vera was nearly certain she knew what it was.
She’d found it suspicious that Merlin agreed to let the memory work wait without anything in its place. And the way Arthur’s behavior had changed toward her after that day in Merlin’s study … Merlin had convinced him to try to connect with Vera. As he’d noticed her affection for him bloom, she guessed he was feeling guilty for not being forthright. That had to be it.
But he didn’t get any further. A sharp rap sounded from the door just before it opened to reveal Maria, already dressed splendidly in a billowing cobalt gown and with sparkling teal and turquoise around her eyes. The top half of her face was painted like the feathers of a peacock.
“I hate to interrupt an intimate moment,” Maria crooned as her eyes darted between Arthur and Vera, looking like she would have rather relished a more salacious interruption than this one. Vera disentangled her fingers from Arthur’s, more like embarrassed schoolchildren than spouses. “But we must begin preparing for this evening if Her Majesty is to be ready on time.”
“Can it wait a few minutes?” Arthur asked.
“No, Your Majesty! We are already behind schedule.” For how scandalized Maria sounded, Arthur may as well have asked her to betray him and the country.
“It’s all right,” Vera said, leaning close to his ear. Her lips were millimeters from his skin. Goosebumps rose on his neck. “Tell me later?” Why spoil the moment?
He brushed a hand down her arm. “All right.”
That was sufficient for Maria, who herded Vera out of the room with the tenacity of a border collie wrangling sheep. Vera risked a nip at her heels to turn for one last glimpse of Arthur, smiling as he watched her go.
Getting ready for the festival was not nearly as simple as getting ready for a day at the castle, the informality of which Maria bemoaned multiple times throughout the afternoon. To her credit, every complaint came with a suggested solution, usually including Maria’s permanent presence in Camelot. Vera did her best to graciously dismiss the subject rather than shouting a panicked “No!” each time it came up.
For the festival, though, Maria planned the afternoon flawlessly, arranging for Vera to have her hair and makeup done in succession. She’d heard of lead being used in some ancient rouges and fresh animal fat in others, so she was both relieved and delighted that the cosmetics were mixed fresh before her eyes. The rail thin woman with sharp eyes and painted pink lips had carted in her two bags filled with supplies. She told Vera tales of her years on the spice trade route while she performed her alchemy using beets from Egypt as a base for rouge, berries Vera didn’t even recognize for her lips, and dark dried leaves ground down to fine powder for her eyes.
Under Maria’s sharp instructions, the attendants helped Vera into the gown Randall had made for her as they gushed over his craftsmanship.
Vera adored everything about the gown. It was a work of art, a masterpiece she was honored to wear. She would not have believed this gown was possible if she’d not known that Randall had literal magic in his fingertips. It was a creamy white, with swirling vines embroidered all down the fitted bodice. The threads were a gold that was somehow the color of light shimmering in a creek. The gown’s neckline swooped deep, stopping below Vera’s bust, but it came to a narrow point so it avoided being uncomfortably revealing. The back dipped low to her ribs, and the sleeves were fitted to her elbows where they split. The remaining length of the sleeve hung free, revealing a bolder golden embroidery on the fabric’s reverse side.
They stood back to admire their work, looking satisfied, especially Maria. As Vera was wishing she had a mirror, Maria dramatically swept her arm across her body like an orchestra conductor. Instead of music swelling at her command, water from the trickling fountain followed her wave and formed into an upright column in front of Vera, creating a perfectly smooth reflection.
Vera hadn’t seen her reflection since she’d left the George and Pilgrims, and she nearly didn’t recognize herself. This was exactly how she hoped to look if she ever got married. Then she remembered that, indeed, she was living a life in which she already was married, so perhaps donning this lovely gown and dancing with a handsome king was enough.
Maria swept the water back to its place with a flick of her wrist.
“Is Arthur coming here?” Vera asked. Maria stared at her blankly. “To … escort me?” she added.
