Vera tried to swallow and found her mouth dry. “And once I remember what Viviane did, you’re not sure you’ll be able to fix it, are you?”
Merlin held her eyes for a breath before he shook his head bitterly.
“That’s not much of a hope,” she said.
He clasped his fingers together and leaned toward her. “It’s all we have. If we can’t restore the magic, our society will crumble. The Saxons will invade, and they will win.”
Though she didn’t move, aware of the bite of her fingernails pressing into her palms and the way the front edge of her chair was becoming uncomfortable against the crook of her knees, Vera felt like she was falling forward or like the room was tumbling backward around her. She couldn’t tell which. She only knew the sensation was in her mind because there was Merlin before her, an upright anchor to reality while her mind spiraled.
“But that—how do you know what should happen? That’s the way my history books tell it. The Saxons do eventually conquer.” Vera dragged words, leaden and heavy, from her depths and forced herself not to think of anyone, especially not of her friends—not of Lancelot, who would be the one leading the armies to their end. “Maybe this is the way things always were supposed to be. That magic dies, and Arthur’s kingdom—” Her stomach churned. “That Arthur—” And Lancelot and Matilda and Percival … Vera clamped her mouth tightly closed, stifling the urge to throw up as a wave of nausea crested through her.
“Surely you don’t hope for that,” Merlin said softly, and there was no question in it. She willed herself to keep her face blank, to keep the intrusive vision of her friends bleeding on the battlefield from her mind.
“No,” he said. “That’s not the way it should be.”
“But I’ve lived there. There’s no magic in my time.”
“How do you know that?” His lips ticked up at the corners, and his eyes glimmered. “Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
She had never considered that her own world might not be as it seemed. “Are you saying—?”
“It’s complicated, Guinevere. All of it. And the future isn’t fixed.” Merlin held up a hand in anticipation of Vera’s protest. “I know. You lived there. You came to be who you are there, but the only thing that tethers that reality into being is you.”
“That can’t be. I—I served food. I cleaned toilets,” Vera protested weakly.
It brought a wry smile to Merlin’s face. “Yes. And you held existence intact with every scrub. That’s the rather tricky bit about the presence of magic in our world. It’s a guiding force, much like the way it called Arthur to the throne and the way it makes me feel certain he should stay there, but it doesn’t control us. We can break its call to our detriment.”
“What can I do?” Her voice croaked. “Can you make me remember? Is there magic that can pull it out?”
Vera saw Merlin’s eagerness, but a careworn determination quickly replaced it. “There is,” he said. “It is invasive, and it will be painful.”
“All right,” Vera said. What choice was there? How could she choose her own comfort and damn the kingdom—damn the future? “How do we do this?”
“The procedure requires your consent, and you can end it at any time. I will enter your conscious memories and …” He paused, considering. “Add my memories of you from before. I’ll use things that parallel emotional experiences of the life you know to help regenerate the life you don’t recall. That’s the part that hurts. And it’s best we only do this once, so when you’re ready, you should take this.”
He held up a glass vial between his thumb and middle finger. The grey substance in it swirled of its own accord, only held in by the cork stopper. It was more than mist and less than liquid as it listlessly tapped at the cork like it knew that was the way out. Vera didn’t have to breathe the question aloud. Merlin was already answering it.
“It does have an element that increases your attraction to Arthur. I’m sorry, but we can’t proceed without it. That connection is the essential thread of your memory. Largely, though, this is a sensitivity potion. It won’t help you recall anything from before, but it will make all that you experience today more vivid. You won’t forget a single moment of what’s to come. I do not wish to mislead you, Guinevere.” He dropped his free hand to her arm. “This will not be pleasant. If we do it right, it could make all the difference.”
It gave her pause. The first procedure had been frightening and debilitating enough.
“I’m surprised,” Merlin said, pulling Vera from her anxiety. “You never asked me why Viviane turned on you.”
She hadn’t thought to. “Why?”
“Oh, dear girl.” The wisp of a sad smile crossed his face. “You changed your mind. Your love for Arthur pulled you back. Call Viviane’s hold on you bewitching, call it convincing … that you could break it was no small feat. You came to me, and you told me everything. I shouldn’t have let you be unprotected for a moment after that. I will never forgive myself for that error. I was within seconds of being too late.” He shook his head before looking at Vera with deep fondness, maybe even admiration. “The point is that you were willing to sacrifice your own life to try to fix what was broken.”
Merlin spun the glass vial idly in his fingers. Guinevere had a part in creating the mess, but she’d given her existence in an effort to make things right. Vera felt no connection to the actions of her former self. Nevertheless, she was riddled with a sense of responsibility. She could endure pain to complete the undoing of Guinevere’s betrayal. Indeed, she was quite literally made for it.
Vera took the vial from Merlin’s outstretched palm. She unstopped it and threw its contents back like a shot of liquor. The grey substance slid over her tongue, smooth and tasteless. It left a trail of warmth in its wake all the way down her throat.
As it all settled in her stomach, the warmth turned into a burn, and her impulsivity felt like a mistake. Vera gripped the desk in front of her, gasping helplessly. The stinging heat began to fade as soon as it started, replaced by something different than she’d ever known.
The tips of her fingers prickled with sensation. She felt not only the chair beneath her but the wood’s grain through her clothing. The dim room now seemed bathed in light, and beyond the cellar’s earthy aroma, Vera caught a whiff of baking bread from dinner preparations in the kitchen. She could hear the whirring mechanism of the well cranking above. Her senses had taken on all the fire of the potion. This must have been how Randall felt all the time.
Merlin stood and rounded the desk to stand right behind Vera. “Do I have your permission to enter your mind?” he asked. Vera was relieved that it was nearly a whisper.
“Yes,” she breathed. Her heart pounded as loudly as the fire crackling in the hearth.
