“Why did he do it?” Vera asked as her breathing steadied. “Even if he was right about you and me, was that enough for him to try to kill me or control me or—I don’t understand. He was only ever kind to me before that. A friend, even.”
Lancelot’s chin had been atop her head. She pulled back and craned her neck to look up at him, hoping he could explain it. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know. People can be awful, and sometimes there’s no reason for it.”
Vera curled back into his shoulder, as comfortable with him as she’d ever been with anyone and absolutely certain that there was no intention in it beyond care. But she wasn’t a fool. She knew what even the appearance of their affections had wrought and was grateful for the privacy that allowed it now. For the privacy Arthur had given them. A mad huff of a chuckle escaped her.
“What?” Lancelot said.
“Last night, when Arthur told me about everything, he suggested I take up with you.”
“Did he now?” His pitch lifted with his amusement.
“Mmhmm. And when I insisted I wasn’t interested,” Lancelot scoffed in mock offense, “he suggested Gawain.”
He laughed loudly at that. “What an impeccable pairing.” He untangled his arms from Vera and got her settled, propped against her pillows. But he didn’t move to the chair. He nestled back to sit against the pillows beside her. “It will be interesting to see how Gawain handles the lead mage role while Merlin is away.”
Merlin. Shit. Vera regretted disappointing him the way she would her own parents, yet she couldn’t believe the pain he’d inflicted on her.
“Do you think Merlin regrets what he did?” she asked.
“I certainly hope so,” Lancelot said with a grimace. “I’ve never been his biggest admirer, but I admit he was very good to you—to Guinevere—before. He was her closest confidant, often the only one who could lift her from melancholy.”
“They were that close?” Vera asked. Though she’d felt the truth of it in Guinevere’s memory, it was hard to reckon with now.
“They were,” Lancelot said. “I think that’s part of the reason Arthur trusts him—because of how Merlin cared for her. He wants to fix things so badly …” He shook his head. “The mages are an especially fucked up bunch, usually with some savior complex. Have I ever told you that my mother was a mage?”
Vera’s eyebrows shot up. “No, you did not.”
He knew he hadn’t. She would remember that, and he would remember telling her.
“It’s a lonely life. I think that’s why I get under Merlin’s skin so much,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got his number better than most. When I was little, I always tried to get my mum to play some stupid games with me to divert her from her work and studies. I usually failed miserably, mind you, but when she’d play—Gods, she was so much fun. And she was creative and silly. She came up with the best stories. I wish she’d have used her gifts to be a great storyteller rather than …” he shook his head.
“Did she die?” Vera asked.
He smiled sadly. “Yes. Some time ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I miss her.”
“What about your father?” Vera asked. “Is he alive?”
“No idea. Never met the man. I am fully a bastard. Most mages end up alone, I’m told. It was rather extraordinary for my mother to have a child at all. Tell me about your innkeeper parents,” he said much more brightly. And it was Vera’s turn to be uncomfortable.
“They’re … they’re the best. My mum, well, you’d have a difficult time finding anybody kinder than her. She’s the sort who’s never met a stranger. We have people who stayed at the hotel for two nights a decade ago who still call around Christmas. And Dad …” Vera laughed. “I don’t think the word ‘shame’ is a part of my father’s vocabulary. He’s never once worried about what somebody else thinks. Not for a second. He’d love you.”
Lancelot smiled wistfully with her. “I wish I could meet them. You must miss them.”
“I do. And,” her breath hitched, “my dad is quite ill, which makes it, er—” She didn’t know how to put it into words, but she didn’t need to.
“That makes it harder,” he said softly.
“I have deliberately avoided thinking about them as much as possible since I got here,” Vera said. “I thought I’d fall apart if I let myself dwell on them too much.” It wasn’t untrue. The sting of speaking a word of their stories and letting herself sink into their memory was immediate.
“You can fall apart with me.” He had a deep crease between his eyebrows as he watched her. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“We’ve never talked about serious things.” Vera picked at the blanket’s seam, embarrassed to say the next bit. “I was afraid you’d decide I wasn’t any fun.”
