He looked at her like she’d slapped him. “An apology isn’t enough. That shouldn’t be enough for you.”
“If you truly want me to be in control of my life, that’s not your call,” Vera said. “Do you promise not to keep anything from me going forward? I mean it. I mean nothing.”
“Yes,” he said solemnly.
“And …” If she was expecting honesty, she might as well give it. “After what happened between us in Glastonbury—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Vera said. Her hands shook and her heart thundered. “I’m not.”
Arthur’s lips parted as he stared at her, his eyes blazing. She had the distinct sensation that she’d shocked him into desire. That he wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them and finish what they’d started. It passed in a heartbeat, replaced by his resolute regret—probably owing, in part, to the freshly dressed wounds and the mess of blood surrounding her. And to the potion. Arthur carefully considered what he said next. “We can’t pretend magic hasn’t intervened between us. There are lines we cannot cross even should we want to.”
His cheeks reddened as he paused and peered down at his hands. Vera nodded quickly. The shame of this was unbearable.
“You need rest,” he said.
She could have asked him a hundred more questions, but he was right. She was holding onto consciousness by a thread. He helped her change into a nightgown and swapped out clean blankets for the bed.
He brought her a cup of water, which she gratefully downed, aware as the first drop touched her tongue how thirsty she was.
“May I clean the blood out of your hair?” he asked. Vera nodded. She’d forgotten that her hair was matted and bloody at the back of her head.
Arthur took one of many excess pillows and placed it on the side of the bed. He cautiously offered Vera his arm to help her shift to lie on it. His face, etched with doubt that she’d accept his help, almost made her smile. Almost. The only person who’d suffer from Vera’s stubbornness was her.
She lay on her back, hair dangling over the side of the bed.
Arthur sat on a footstool behind her and poured warm water down the back of her head to help work the blood out in patches. His fingers were adept and gentle.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” His touch brought more comfort than it had any right. “I don’t want to be angry with you,” said Vera, surprising herself that she’d decided to say it aloud.
His fingers halted. She wished she could see his reaction.
“All right,” he eventually said as he resumed working through her hair. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be ready.”
She smiled, the breath of a laugh but one good night’s sleep away.
They slipped into quiet. It was peaceful enough that Vera started to drift between wakefulness and sleep as he worked. She felt him towel-drying her hair and applying something to the abrasion on her head. He piled her hair on the pillow and pulled the blankets up around her, believing her asleep. She relished in the half-consciousness, aware enough to feel his presence but distant enough not to need to respond. He hadn’t moved far. He sat back down on the footstool.
When Vera heard the door latch, she wasn’t sure if it was a dream until she heard Matilda’s voice. “Your Majesty, may I have a word?”
Vera’s eyes shot open, and she grabbed Arthur’s hand as he stood. “Don’t leave me again.”
She didn’t care if he left the room for a moment. That wasn’t what she meant, and he knew that. He knew what she meant. Arthur knelt back down and encased her hand in both of his.
“I won’t.” And there was so much unsaid behind his words. “I promise.”
Vera held his gaze, expecting him to hurry to escape their closeness for the comfort of some critical task like ruling the country. He didn’t. Vera was the one who eventually nodded and broke the moment.
“Let’s turn you right-ways,” Arthur said.
He helped reposition her in the bed, her right arm elevated on a folded blanket, a pillow under the crook of her knee. Her eyes drooped as she heard him say, “I’ll be right back.”
She believed him.
It must have been late in the morning for the way light streamed through the bars of her open window. Fresh white flowers adorned the table by the fire, which had burned down to smoldering embers. She liked that contrast when sleeping; a heated room with an open window to let a cold blast zip through when the wind saw fit.
