A beat.
“To yourself.”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Morgana.” Her voice was not as steady as she might have liked. This was Morgana's talent — walk in with silk and honey, and leave you bleeding, somehow certain you'd slit your own throat.
“Don’t be daft, dear.” Sharper now, her eyes cut daggers. “Lancelot challenging Arthur last night?” A short, bitter laugh. “It was hardly subtle. Everyone knew about it by morning light. What ascene.”
“Arthur was out of line.” Guinevere shot back, anger building in her chest.
“You’re hiswife. God forbid he want to find ease in you.” She waved her hand likeGwenwas the one being ridiculous.
“Have I no autonomy?” She spoke before thinking. It was useless to reason with her. Morgana had always been the first to defend Arthur.
“It’s not unheard of… a queen taking a consort. Or a king.” She paused, eyes sparkling, “But really, sister… Lancelot?” She withdrew her hand, resting it on her round stomach. “Your precious nephew’s father?”
Guinevere opened her mouth to speak, but Morgana held a hand up, silencing her. “You think he’s some toy to wield against the king?” All softness was gone from her voice now. “Whatdidyou promise him?” She stood again, pacing as though circling prey.
“Impossible that your barren little cunt could be that good.” Gwen flinched. “What strings have you pulled to make him so desperate to protect you?”
Guinevere didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Not because Morgana was right — God, no — but because her mouth had gone dry and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking beneath the covers. Because if she spoke, she might scream. Or cry. Or worse…beg.
But… Morgana wasn’t wrong, either. Not entirely.
She was cruel, though.
And Morgana, ever the predator, mistook the quiet for surrender.
She stood. Satisfied, smiling.
She pulled the door open, turning back to give one more sickeningly sweet grin.
“Your lies are getting lazy.” It wasn’t much. Guinevere’s voice was barely a whisper. But Morgana paused in the doorway.
And that was enough.
37
Guinevere didn’t cry when Morgana left. She sat still for a long time, letting silence drape over her like a shroud. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, but she didn’t call for wood.
Didn’t move.
The sheets still smelled like him. Him and sickness. Shame clung to her skin like sweat.
She touched the bodice of her gown, anchoring herself in something tangible. Then her gaze drifted lower — her belly, flat and useless. A kingdom’s worth of pressure, and nothing to give. Nothing except what they took.
She’d never felt moreused.
When the door creaked open, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn. She knew the sound of his step, knew how carefully he closed doors when she was asleep.
“Guinevere?” Lancelot’s voice was soft, a rasp still warm from the chill outside. “I knocked.”
She didn’t answer. Just sat there in her shift, knees drawn to her chest, eyes locked on the flame’s slow death.
He came to her side. Dropped to one knee like a knight beforehis queen, but touched her like a man before his ruin. His thumb brushed her jaw, hesitant, reverent.
“What happened?” he asked.
