Page 45 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Where did that come from?

Lance turned into the lane, gravel crunching under the tires. He parked in front of the cottage. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

Gwen stowed her phone in her bag. “I’ll compile the research files for Malta, so you have everything you need.”

“Appreciate it.”

They were both being professional, organized, and completely normal. But me? I was moving on autopilot, unable to forget the look in her fucking eyes after I told her she was nothing more than a job.

Chapter 15

Gwen

Two nights ago, we’d had easy chatter in the kitchen. Last night, when he’d made soup and sandwiches, everything came naturally.

But on the two-hour drive to Glastonbury, something felt off between us. Every conversation fizzled out after a few exchanges. Arthur asked what I’d found online about Dr. Hopkins’s colleague. I answered him. He nodded. Silence. I asked about the route. He answered me. More silence.

It wasn’t hostile. It was just flat. As though we’d used up whatever ease we’d built at dinner in Brenton and at the cottage, and we couldn’t find it again. Or maybe Lance had been the thing that made us click?

Not wanting to revisit thoughts of Lance any longer than necessary, I’d napped for a while, curled into the giant leather seat with it reclined and the heat on. When I woke, we were on the M5 coming around Exeter. For the rest of the way, I read on my phone about Fergus McConnell, the man I was going to meet.

He maintained a blog called The Matter of Glastonbury, and he’d been writing it for over a decade. It included hundreds of posts on oral histories, local legends, and unpublished records of Arthurian-connected locations in South West England.

“What’s that?” said Arthur.

“Hmm?” I looked up from my phone.

“You said something was interesting.”

“Did I?” I held up my phone to show him a website he couldn’t read anyway because he was driving. “Fergus’s work is impressive. He’s not a formal academic—not even a college degree according to Dr. Hopkins’s email—but his work is meticulous. He has pages and pages of sources and photographed documents, and he flat-out acknowledges his limitations.”

“That is interesting.” Rain started as we entered Glastonbury proper, light at first, then steady enough to require the wipers on low. Arthur pointed through the glass at a brown heritage sign. “Have you heard of the Chalice Well?”

“No.”

“It’s where they say Joseph of Arimathea buried the Holy Grail.” He slowed for a pedestrian crossing. “It’s a local attraction.”

“Interesting.” Interesting? Is that all you’ve got, Gwen? Since when was I this awkward?

“The water has very high iron content, so it runs red.”

“So… blood-colored Grail water?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “We could stop on the way out, if you want.”

“I think I’ll pass on drinking from the bloody well, thanks.”

“They also sell it all over town.” He smiled at me, briefly, and some of the tightness in my chest eased.

“You’ve been here before, I assume?”

He nodded as he slowed behind another car. “My father used to bring me when I was younger. I think I’ve been to the top of the Tor itself fifty times.”

“Have you tried the well water?”

“Once, when I was thirteen.” He made a final turn onto the road where our destination lay. “It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever drunk.”

“But not good?”