He pivoted on his heel. No one shouted for him that way and lived.
“Camelee is my daughter. I am…or was a queen. I was wed to the King of Camelot, but I do not know who that is.”
“That is simple,” Wolf told her, sounding less convinced than before. “If you were married to the King of Camelot, that would make you Queen Guinevere and your husband would be King Arthur. Do you not remember Camelee told us about her namesake, Camelot? So, you are telling me Camelee is your daughter and the daughter of a king from a book?”
“Oh, aye. King Arthur Pendragon,” she whispered, saying each word slowly. As if she were hearing it for the first time and tasting each one. “Arthur.”
Pendrey. Wolf remembered Camelee’s surname. It was similar to Pendragon.
“How do I find her?”
“It feels good to tell this to someone. But,” she shook her head. “I do not know. I can tell you this though, if the king knows where I am, he will come for me. I will see to it that you have time with our daughter.”
“Time? How much time?” Let them try to separate him from her a second time.
“That is all I can promise now, Wolf. Please be patient.”
He didn’t want to be patient, but he would do it. For a little while longer. Mostly, he wanted to believe this madness Genevra was telling him.
“Very well. How do you know she is with him?”
“Last night, I started dreaming of them together in a resplendent glass castle. She was quite miserable. Oh, but not because she is being mistreated. She appeared very sad.”
“Yes. I heard her weeping in the forest where she disappeared,” Wolf agreed more enthusiastically. “I do not know much about magic, but if there is a kind of veil that separates us, I want to find a way through it.”
“We need magic, my lord.”
The fire in his eyes wasn’t quenched by the impossible. “Where do we find it?
*
“You look beautiful.”
Camelee didn’t smile back at her father when she reached the grand banqueting table, made of frosted glass. Crystal chandeliers hung in a row of five across the length of the hall, illuminating the banqueting hall in a soft golden glow.
Her father. How insane was this? She was still expecting to open her eyes and come out of her coma. King Arthur was her father. Really?
But it made sense. Even down to her name. They’d named her after Camelot and kept her with people who were descendants. The Pendreys.
According to the king, he, his wife, Guinevere, his knights, and his illegitimate son, Mordred, lived here in the first century! There was a war, during which time Viviane and Nimue’s sister Morgan, known asLe Fey, orthe Faery, cast a spell on Mordred. Is that what the sisters were? Faeries?
Mordred tried to kill his father and almost succeeded, if not for Viviane who brought him to Avalon and there he stayed for many centuries, never growing old.
The sisters captured Morgan and made certain she would not escape her confines of her island prison.
But twenty-six years ago, she did.
Arthur escaped to this realm again because he was familiar with it. His family would remain here, growing old without each other. Everyone old enough to remember was enchanted to forget the king and who they were. The adults were sent away. The children given up for adoption.
All to keep them safe.
Camelee was tired of being safe. She wanted to face this Morgan and give her a good punch in mouth. She’d ruined all their lives. Arthur and his beloved queen Guinevere had grown older apart. Their children’s paths had changed. At least hers had. Camelee was certain Arthur would have been a devoted, loving father. She would have grown up here and stopped getting older at twenty-five to thirty. Morgan took it all from her.
“Please sit next to me, Daughter,” the king invited, pulling out her chair. “I hope Avalon pleases you.”
It was certainly majestic and beautiful. Everywhere she looked there were apple trees and waterfalls and children playing in the sunshine. It was perfect. But not for her. Wolf wasn’t here.
How could she miss him so much? She barely knew him and yet she was falling in love with him. She didn’t want to think about a life with him or without him, or that he wasn’t real.
