Matilda rolled her eyes and begrudgingly agreed. As Vera sat the cups down and they began to play for best two out of three, Lancelot gaped at them open-mouthed.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “Is this a game? Why don’t I know this?”
Vera closed out the bout, covering Matilda’s rock with her paper. She spared Lancelot a shrug. “Sorry! Matilda will teach you because she just lost, and I am off to get drinks!”
She’d forgotten that there would be no blending in. Not in this time, not on this night, and certainly not in her incredible gown with the shimmering crown on her brow, marking her as royalty. The barmaid seemed starstruck when Vera carefully set down their five mugs on the counter.
She looked about herself anxiously as she refilled them. “Please let me find someone to help you carry these. There are servers here … somewhere.”
Vera tried to reassure her, but the mugs were rather heavy, and she hadn’t thought through how she would manage it with all of them once filled. Thankfully for her (and further unnerving for the barmaid), Arthur stepped up to the bar beside her.
“I can help,” he said. He procured his empty mug for a refill as well. “I’ve done my greeting duties satisfactorily enough. Think we can manage six of these between the two of us?”
“Easily.”
When they returned to the table, Lancelot, Percival, and Matilda cheered Arthur’s arrival.
“Perfect!” Lancelot said as Vera and Arthur took their seats. “Now we have an even number. Right: the game is rock, paper, scissors. Best two out of three wins. Loser drinks. Arthur, you’ll catch on. Do this, this, or this,” he mimed the three options, “on ‘shoot.’ It’s all luck anyway.”
Vera lost count of how many games she’d won or lost, but she was sure there’d never been a night in her life when she’d laughed more, never been a time when her name (well, sort of her name) had been called so often from someone—a friend—who wanted to talk to her.
She and Arthur had thrown rock simultaneously for the third time in a row when she laughed and leaned into his shoulder. He smiled as he gingerly touched her elbow, his fingers tracing around one of the embroidered swirls before he dropped his hand. Vera’s heart sank as soon as he withdrew that gentle touch. She wanted to be close to him.
“Would you like to dance some more?” she asked, entirely on impulse.
He didn’t remind her that she only knew the one dance. And she couldn’t say how long they danced, only that Arthur called out the moves as he’d done that morning. No one seemed to care that their queen often made missteps or went the wrong direction—only that she often laughed with her head tossed back as their king, more jubilant than they’d ever seen him, didn’t once tear his eyes away from her.
When the night grew old and the dancing music ended, the area was cleared to ready a bonfire for the dried trees of last year’s Yule to be thrown on. The table of friends had dispersed through the party. Vera spotted Matilda and Percival over by the guards who’d traveled with them to Glastonbury. Lancelot proved harder to find. After a while scanning the crowd, Vera caught sight of Gawain as he skirted the edge of the lit festival area. She was nearly ready to give up her search for Lancelot when she noticed movement in the dark beyond Gawain.
He looked only a hazy specter until he broke the lantern’s threshold and entered the light. Sure as day, it was Lancelot. She had seconds to wonder where he’d been when a pretty young woman, her locks of curling dark hair mussed about on one side, emerged from farther down in the dark, too. Now that Vera paid closer attention, Lancelot’s tunic was also askew, and he hurriedly brushed the grass from his trousers.
It was a common theme. Others emerged into the light from various spots along the edges, giggling and breathless. Though they’d obviously been partnered up off in the darkness, many came back one at a time like Lancelot, making some effort at discretion.
Lancelot jolted when their eyes met, his expression tightening with panic.
She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable that she knew. Why should she care if he and this woman had enjoyed one another’s affections? She raised an eyebrow, glanced at the dark-haired woman she suspected had been Lancelot’s partner, and grinned knowingly back at him, hoping to assuage his concerns. His gaze ticked toward the lady, and now, caught red-handed, the fear dropped, replaced by a crooked smile and a roguish “What can you do?” shrug.
She didn’t say a word when he joined them back at the table, and the others came along shortly, too—except Gawain, who aided in lifting the trees onto the fire with his magic. He held his hand in a fist in front of his face and worried his thumb back and forth between his fingers, his dark stare trained on the trees hovering above the bonfire. When Maria signaled him, he dropped his fist to his side, and the trees fell with it and slammed into the fire with a crackling thud. Flames leapt hungrily at the fresh kindling and swept it up into the fray in seconds, sending an upward explosion of fire high into the air. The crowd gasped, and clapped, and cheered as a rush of hot wind from the fire blew past them all.
The spectacular effect of it lit the festival as brightly as midday though it was much closer to midnight. Vera caught a clear glimpse of Arthur, his eyes glassy like she’d seen them only once before; the first night they’d met. Though that was the extent of the similarities. Tonight, she saw nothing but happiness in them.
“Your Majesty,” she said coyly. “Are you inebriated?”
Arthur chuckled and raised his hand to show her the slightest sliver of air between his index finger and thumb. “Tiny bit,” he said.
Vera laughed, leaning into him and dropping her head onto his shoulder, a casual gesture of affection. Her marked lack of inhibition reminded her that she wasn’t entirely sober either. Arthur looped his arm around her waist as easily as if he did it all the time. She looked up from the safe crook of his arm and found Matilda watching them with a discerning glint in her eyes. Suddenly embarrassed, Vera sat up. Arthur pulled his arm away as casually as he’d placed it, mid-conversation with Percival on his other side. Still, he seemed aware of her every move.
His voice was at her ear when she could no longer stifle a yawn. “Guinevere,” he said. She felt a pang at the name. She was used to it by now, but when he used it, guilt stirred. Once, it had been because it reminded Vera what an imposter she was, trying to fill his dead wife’s place. Now, Vera ached for him to say her name. For him to want her, not Guinevere. “Are you ready to turn in for the night?”
“Only if you are,” she said, though she was thoroughly exhausted. Arthur was already rising from his seat and offering her his hand. Like the night before, Matilda stood to accompany them to help Vera change for bed.
Vera stopped her. “I won’t even rock, paper, scissors you for it. Stay here and have fun at the party. As your queen, I command it.” She hadn’t had the nerve to throw around her position’s weight before and found she rather liked it.
Matilda laughed and shook her head. “Yes, your stubborn majesty. As you wish.”
“Lancelot,” Vera called, interrupting his animated conversation. “Running tomorrow?”
He mirrored her energy and raised his cup to her. “Not a chance in hell!”
