“You look beautiful.” He whispered, just under his breath. The words uttered for her ears only.
His hand came into view, hovering by her face.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He didn’t touch her. His hand dropped as quickly as it had risen.
But she already felt the ache forming in her stomach.
They arrived at the dining hall all too soon, and she immediately felt the vast space when he dropped her arm, pushing the heavy door open.
“Don’t let him erase you.” His voice found her, quiet but firm, trembling at the edges. His head bowed as she walked into the room.
“There she is.” Arthur exclaimed, standing from his seat at the head of the table. “Welcome home, darling. Let us feast.”
As she neared him, she found that there were three places set at the intimate table. “I hope you don’t mind, wife. I’ve invited your guardian to join us for dinner.” He nodded towards the door, where Lancelot stood.
“Come, old friend.” The king gestured for the knight to join them. “I owe you an unrepayable debt.”
Guinevere took her seat next to the king, eyes cast downward at the plate in front of her. She had no appetite. She prayed Arthur couldn’thear how loudly her heartbeat thrummed.
Dinner was cordial. She didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words.
He didn’t look at her.
And while part of her hurt, she was glad. She couldn’t handle his tender gaze in a room filled with serpents.
Pushing her food around the plate, her fingers stilled when Arthur next spoke. “I’m prepared to confer knighthood tomorrow, du Lac. If you’re still interested.”
She stole a glance at her guard, watching as he swirled his wine in his goblet. “Is that so?” His voice was casual, teetering on bored. “And if I decline?”
Her heart was in her throat.
Would he leave her here?
“If you decline, well, you’d be foolish, old friend.” The king’s grin cut sharp. “But I’d send you on your way with provisions and a pocketful of gold for your journey.” Arthur leaned back, crossing his arms.
Her fingers were trembling as she set her fork down, clasping her hands together in her lap, under the table.
She felt the brush of a hand across hers, felt her cheeks heat.
“I’ll stay,” the knight mused, taking a long drink of his wine. His fingers receded from hers, but her skin still burnt from his touch. “I’ve grown fond of this wretched place, it seems. Wickedness in its walls and all.” It was his turn to lean into the conversation. “Tell me, Arthur. How do you plan on continuing to keep your bride safe?”
“I’ve no need.”
Her eyes shot to him, confusion flooding her pores. “What do you mean?”
“The men are speaking, wife.” Arthur cut his eyes to her. “But, Imeanyour poisoner came forward. We have executed her swiftly. You will have your food tasted henceforth. Does that suit you, du Lac?”
“I trust she is safe,” Lancelot said finally, setting his goblet down. “Though I’ll keep watch, regardless.”
“Ah,” Arthur smiled. “Always the vigilant one.”
Dinner resumed, though the air never loosened. The wine soured in her mouth. Her hands shook against the stem of her goblet, and when she looked down again, her fingers were no longer in her lap — they were wrapped around the edges of her chair, white-knuckled.
When Arthur finally rose, the meal winding down, he clapped Lancelot on the back. “Tomorrow morning, then. We’ll hold the ceremony at dawn.”
Guinevere stood. She hadn’t meant to. Her body acted on its own, heart thudding in her chest.
