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Guinevere, too, was more tired than she could remember being. She felt as though she had lived a lifetime in the last few days. And, in truth, she had. An entire new life as she became Guinevere.
There was one thing left to discuss, though. She did not want to, but she needed to know the boundaries of their agreement. The things the real Guinevere would have known.
“What do…” She hesitated, then changed tactics. “What do the people expect of your wife?”
Arthur, honest Arthur, sweet Arthur, did not understand her meaning. “I have never had a queen before. I think you should be at my side for formal events. When greeting other rulers. Perhaps even for hunting, if you wish.”
“I will need privacy to do my work.”
He frowned, scratching the back of his neck. It was obvious he had not considered this yet. No wonder Merlin had sent her. Even with her there to protect him through magic, Arthur hardly thought about it. “Hunting parties could be a good way to get you out of the confines of the city without arousing suspicion. I will see to it that you have everything you need, and privacy to do your work without being noticed. We can figure out reasons why you need to be out and about instead of always in the castle. I—” He paused, then smiled. “I want you to be happy here.”
“I am here to work. To serve you, as Merlin did.”
Arthur nodded, something shifting in his warm, open face. “But you can still be happy. It is important to me.”
Guinevere did her best to suppress her own brilliant smile. “Very well. I will add happiness to my list of duties, alongside protecting the king from magical threat.” She stood. Arthur stood. They both stood there, unmoving. The bed awaited. Their marriage was legal only upon consummation. “But it is not legal anyway, since I am not actually Guinevere,” she blurted out, continuing her unspoken thought.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Then, at last, he understood what she was unwilling to say. He blushed in a confusingly gratifying manner. “You are here as Merlin’s daughter, and I ask nothing more of you. Neither do I expect anything more.”
Her relief was…complicated. “But eventually they will want heirs.”
Arthur’s gaze seemed to turn inward, a shadow of old pain crossing his face. Perhaps he thought of his mother. “We will worry about that when it comes. Besides, I am fully confident that you will root out every magical threat to my life within a fortnight.”
She was grateful she could tell he was joking. She did not expect it to be so quick or so easy. The urgency of Merlin’s demand, the lengths he went to in order to establish her here as Guinevere—it all made her certain that the coming threat was not to be underestimated.
But she was also grateful that Arthur expected her to be a wife in name only. He was a stranger to her, still, no matter how familiar he seemed and how instantly she trusted him. She would die for him.
The thought startled her. It felt like it was coming from far away, like an echo. She accepted it as it presented itself, though. She would die for Arthur. But that did not mean she wanted to share his bed on the first day they met. Though here, without the trappings of kinghood, he was just as handsome and far more real in a way that made her feel light and unsteady inside.
Sh
e had met more men in the last few days than in all the other days of her life combined. It would take some time to decide how she felt about them in general, and him in particular. Though he was by far the best of them. She suspected she could meet every man on the entire vast island and still find Arthur the best.
He pulled aside a tapestry of a woodland hunting scene. Like everything in his bedroom, it was faded with age. There were no luxuries here. Everything was serviceable or old.
Behind the tapestry, a heavy door was revealed. “It connects my rooms to your rooms. We will visit each other enough, so there will be no cause for suspicion.” He grinned. “Perhaps I can learn how to plait your hair, and you can teach me some magic.”
She laughed, finally at ease. “Plaiting hair is magic. That is why men cannot do it. It is women’s magic alone. Which reminds me!” He would not sleep in his crown, after all. She needed to do more than the knots she had left there. She went to the nearest window, the thick, uneven glass cool to the touch. She breathed on it, then traced her knotting patterns onto it. When her breath fog faded, so, too, did her tracings. But they were still there. It was weak magic, like the hair knots, but it left a bit of her here. It would keep minor things out, and she would feel the break if any knot was undone.
She did the same on all the windows. With each bit of breath magic, she felt more winded, as though she had been running. It would fade with time. The door was not right for breath, so she spat on it. Arthur laughed at that. She shushed him, but she was secretly pleased. Though Arthur smiled easily, it still seemed a very fine thing, making him laugh.
At the bed—which she could view without fear knowing it expected nothing of her—she pulled threads free from the worn coverlet and twisted them into the correct knots. More permanent, but less personal. The sacrifice was not in her body, but in the risk that the magic would come unbound without her knowing. But it was enough for now.
“Did Merlin teach you this?” Arthur asked, curious.
“No, he—yes.” Guinevere paused, trying to remember. Merlin would never stoop to knot magic, even to demonstrate it. It was far too human. Frail and temporary. She tried to conjure a memory of Merlin explaining it to her, teaching her. It would have been at their sturdy table. Or in the forest? She remembered her neat bedroll, the cottage she kept tidy. The trees and the sun and the birds. Staring at her own hands in wonder. Night and day, sleeping and waking, hunger and food and everything swirling and obscured as though she were searching through fog…
Merlin, frowning, pushing his fingers against her forehead. “This should be enough,” he had said. “Do not look for more.”
She rubbed at the spot on her forehead. He had pushed the knowledge into her brain. Willed it to be there, rather than teaching her himself. He could be very lazy. “Yes, he taught me, in his own way.” She finished the knot.
Satisfied, she turned and almost ran into Arthur. He had come up behind her to watch her work.
“Sorry!” Her hands were on his chest. She pulled them back quickly. “I am sorry. I should go. I am tired.”
He walked her to the tapestry, pulling it aside again and holding it for her. “Thank you. I am glad you are here, Guinevere.”
“Me, too,” she whispered, surprised to find how much she meant it. And surprised by how much she wished she had told him her name after all.
