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In some of the dreams she is regal. In others, a mere girl. In a few, she is small and ugly, with sneering lips and vicious eyes. In most dreams, she barely exists, overshadowed by the usurper king, the boy with his sword, the figure even the dark queen cannot escape though she no longer sees with eyes herself.
But she does not care how those hundreds of borrowed eyes see the queen-not-queen, because none of their eyes matter. None of their eyes see truth. Even their dreams cannot pull apart what they see to understand what is.
That is why she finds the queen-not-queen’s dreams. A moth dusting the girl’s sleeping eyes, her lips, her ears.
She slips from the dust into the dream.
There is a steady plink-plink-plink of water. The dark queen knows darkness, but in the black, the claustrophobic fear of the dreamer snags her, tries to overtake her. She is the darkness, though. She has nothing to fear there. She cannot be trapped.
There is a girl. Naked. Pale and trembling, arms wrapped around her legs, face buried in her knees. She has made herself as small as she can, and still she is not small enough.
The dark queen pushes through the dream toward the girl. The dream pushes back. Eventually she is as close as she cares to be. What she had taken for pale skin is more complicated. There are knots everywhere, woven into the very veins, webbed over the skin like scars, binding and holding. Strands of blue-black hair flow down the girl’s back, and the queen can almost see what the knots are doing there. Can almost tell what—
The girl looks up. Her eyes are bottomless. Empty. The dark queen recoils. The cave is not the trap. The girl is the trap. Because in those eyes, she sees—
“It will unmake us,” the girl whispers. “And I will let it happen.”
* * *
The moth dies.
* * *
The dark queen claws her way out of the darkness screaming after her, the darkness wanting to swallow what is left of her. She feels something she has not felt since the usurper king drew his cursed sword.
The dark queen is afraid.
What did Arthur bring into the castle?
“Market day!” Brangien chirped, throwing the bed curtains wide. Guinevere had not recalled drawing them. Perhaps they were the reason her dreams were all of darkness and being trapped. “The king requests your presence at his side.”
As much as she was determined to spend every moment preparing and hunting for the impending threat, she had to admit a day at a market sounded fun. With people there for a reason other than her wedding, it would be less overwhelming than their time at the lakeshore. And she would have to get used to crowds. People were mysteries to her, which would not do for a queen.
She had gone so long without knowing them. It had only been Merlin before the convent. This reminded her of Arthur’s question. Merlin had been with Arthur until a year ago. Guinevere had been with—
“My lady?”
“Yes?” Guinevere snapped to attention.
“I said, what colors would you like to wear today?”
Guinevere smiled. “Something joyful. Unless you think I should be somber?”
“The people love their king. They want to see him happy. Showing them a joyful queen at his side will endear you to them.” Brangien hummed softly to herself. Her voice was clear and sweet and sad. Guinevere liked it immensely.
Brangien laced and tied Guinevere into a long flowing underdress of green, then draped a delicate yellow robe over it. A silver belt cinched them together.
Frowning, Brangien held up several hoods. The hood would engulf Guinevere’s head like a cave, with two long strips of cloth coming down nearly to the floor on either side in the front, keeping the hood anchored.
They all looked the same to Guinevere. Like ropes to bind her.
Brangien shook her head. “Not quite right. As a married woman, you can choose whether or not to cover your head. And there are no rules for your hair. The style is plaited, of course. Elaborate braids crowning your head are in fashion. But your hair is so striking. What if we braided it back from your face but then left it long and undone, trailing down your back like the waterfalls of Camelot?”
Guinevere did not like imagining her hair as waterfalls. But she trusted Brangien to present her well. “That sounds perfect.”
Brangien got to work. By the time she was done, Guinevere’s hair glistened and rippled. There was a burnished metal mirror in her room. It gave more of an impression of her looks than truth, but the impression was pleasant.
After a careful examination, Brangien nodded. “There is no reason to try and make you look like a stuffy old wife. You are young and lovely. Oh, Sir Percival’s sister will simply loathe you.” Brangien smiled wickedly. “She used to snatch me up every time she found me alone, treated me like I was a common servant. I do not seek pleasure in others’ unhappiness, but I might accidentally find some today.”
