She thought she had never cried so much in her life as she had in these few days. She should he happy…like Hild. She had her father back. Soon, she might even get her mother back, that is, if the king could find her. She was out of the violent eleventh century. She was no longer a servant—a fact which caused the king to slam his fist down on the table and shout, “You are a princess!”
He didn’t seem like a bad guy. He did what he said he would, like take care of Hild. And her. He treated her with respect, as though she were higher in station than he. She found him in the magnificent crystal chapel every few hours, praying to God.
So, he was nice. But, number one, she didn’t want a father in her life anymore. She wasn’t a foolish child fantasizing what it would be like to have a daddy who loved her. Those days were over. Number two, she certainly didn’t want this legendary king—Arthur—of all people to be her father. Why Camelee? If he was real, and if he truly was the man those famous authors wrote about, then everything he told her was likely the truth. Giving her up nearly destroyed him and her mother, but they wouldn’t have her killed on their account. She could understand that kind of love. She would give her own life for Hild. If her father hadn’t found her when he did, she would have fought Leofric’s men to the death to keep them from Hild. She understood. She could forgive her parents.
But what if none of it was real and she surrendered her anger and hatred to nothing?
“Our family should be here soon,” the king told her. “Until then, tell me about your life.”
“I would prefer not to think about it,” she answered honestly. “It seems it’s all I think about lately, so, I’d rather hear about your ordinary life, Mr. Lancaster.”
He smiled and, for a moment, she fell, lost in the idea of having a loving father, who was handsome and easy to talk to. He wasn’t stuffy with archaic ideas.
“I’m an archeologist. I spent this past fall in Egypt.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool.”
His smiled widened into a grin. “Yes, unless you’re frying in the sun and covered in sand every day. Then it’s not so cool.”
“That’s true,” she agreed, daring to smile with him. No. If he wasn’t real, she couldn’t take it. “I was an actress,” she told him, acting calm now. “Sometimes I used to think the people I was working with were bags of dry bones.”
He laughed as if he had never heard anything so funny. Camelee had to admit liking him. It was hard not to.
She sipped apple wine from a cup made of frosted sapphire. “Wow, this is delicious.”
Her father agreed. “You’ll find that everything is just a little better here.”
Nimue swept into the hall toting Hild by the hand. Hild looked like a little faery with all her flaxen curls piled on top of her head and silver dust coming off the gown Nim had made for her this morning.
When Hild saw her, she broke free and came running. “Lee!” She climbed into Camelee’s lap and that was where she remained for the remainder of the afternoon, while Camelee told King Arthur which movies and shows she’d appeared in. He’d been living in NYC for the past twenty-six years. Maybe he’d seen her in something. She didn’t mind that he didn’t recognize any of them. He was more of a book person. And Viviane, who remained standing, didn’t watch television or anything on an electronic devise.
The air shimmered around them for a moment and then Nim appeared with her arm looped with a man—was he a regular man? Camelee had never, in all her days, seen anyone like him. He was the kind of beautiful that drew one’s eyes and kept them locked on him. He wore a black sweater that hugged his muscular body, with jeans that fit perfect.
“Father,” he said, obviously having met the king before and knowing who he was. “Why am I here?”
The king smiled lovingly at him. “Mordred—”
Mordred. Isn’t he the one who—
“Sebastian, please, Father.”
He was her half-brother. He wore modern twenty-first century clothes. A knee-length wool coat, jeans covering long legs, and boots. He spoke with a British accent. She wondered where he was living. He was Morgan Le Fey’s son, and one would have to be blind not to see the otherworldly beauty of him. He reminded her of a black stallion, wary and dangerous if not handled with care. He was 6’4” or 5” inches of pure male. His black hair reached his shoulders, and a few tendrils eclipsed his vivid green eyes. He had a strong jaw, darkened by a day or two of not shaving.
“Son, Morgan is free again—”
Sebastian’s skin went pale, making him somehow even more striking. “Noelle!” He pulled away from Nim and lifted his hands. He began speaking. The air around him seemed to blur.
Magic, Camelee thought, mesmerized. There was no pretty shimmer, but a warped haze. He spoke more quickly, waving his hands with purpose and determination. But nothing happened. The air cleared, like a fizzled-out ember. He turned a hard glare on Nim—as if she, or the sisters, controlled Avalon. The king had no authority here.
His eyes changed from green to hot, molten gold. “Let me go back to her, Witch.”
“Sebastian,” their father said with a thread of warning in his voice. “Your beloved is safe. Please trust me. Merlin is taking care of everything in that realm. As for your magic, you know you cannot use it here.”
“Father,” his son pleaded but there was something so dangerous in his plea, Camelee wanted to leap in front of the king and keep Sebastian, aka Mordred, the king killer, away from him. “If you don’t let me return to her, I will never forgive you.”
“Sebastian, I can do nothing,” Arthur vowed, “at least until Merlin returns. His magic is involved in keeping them safe.”
“Why couldn’t it keep us safe with them where we were?” Camelee turned to the king and asked.
