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Her work that night would be exhausting and difficult. She wanted to get started as soon as possible. “Can we return?” she whispered to Arthur as they strolled back to the market. She searched the crowd for the mysterious woman or more signs of rocks being distributed, but saw nothing. “I have much to do. And I would like to take the tunnel, if we can.” She could not be as strong as she needed to be if she had to travel across water again. It made her feel foolish and weak, neither of which was a solid foundation for magic.
“Yes, of course, let me—”
“My lord king,” one of Arthur’s knights called, running up to them and bowing. She thought it was Sir Gawain, but she was not sure. He was young like Arthur, barely able to grow facial hair. “We have had another messenger.” He held out a sheaf of paper, sealed with black wax.
“Sir Maleagant,” Arthur whispered.
“What is it?” Guinevere asked.
Arthur smiled at her, but he was too honest to maintain a false smile. His face cracked around it, worry creasing his brow. “I am not certain. But I must speak with these men.”
“I can wait,” Guinevere said.
“You should not have to wait on my business. Mordred?”
Mordred moved closer from where he had been lingering on the edges of the group. “Yes, uncle king?”
“Will you escort Guinevere back to the castle? She is fatigued. Take my private boat.”
Mordred nodded in understanding. “I know exactly the boat the lady prefers. I will see her back and then return.”
“Thank you.” Arthur grasped Mordred’s shoulder and squeezed. “I will want your advice on this.”
Mordred bowed, then held out his hand to direct Guinevere. He did not offer his arm, which she was glad for. “Is this proper?” she asked as they walked away from the market to their horses. She did not know whether it was permitted for her to be alone with Mordred. And after the way Sir Ector and Sir Kay had discussed her, she worried about perceptions.
“Surely if my uncle king trusts me to see you safely to the castle, you can as well.”
“Oh, I do—that is not—I was not saying—”
Mordred laughed. “I like the way you blush beneath your freckles. More ladies should try to get freckles. They are very charming.”
Guinevere scowled and Mordred shifted his face to be innocently apologetic. “Of course you were not saying that. And usually a lady would be accompanied by her maid. But Brangien is lost to the market, and you seemed to have an urgent need to return to the castle. I am your husband’s nephew. If you cannot trust family, whom can you trust?”
Guinevere had no answer. She mounted her horse awkwardly while Mordred retrieved his mare.
“Tell me about your own family,” he said as they rode around the edge of the lake. With everyone at the market, they were quite alone. The shore of the lake was made up of smooth black rocks. They contrasted with the lively green of the grassy plain. Guinevere looked out over the plain instead of over the lake.
“My father is King Leodegrance. My mother died several years ago. I have two half brothers and a sister. She is younger than I. We have not seen each other in three years, since I was sent to the convent to prepare to be a wife.”
Did dead Guinevere’s family miss her? Did her father ever think of her? He had agreed to the marriage alliance without meeting Arthur. He had not even come to the convent to see his daughter safely delivered to her husband’s men.
Somewhere out there, dead Guinevere’s sister still thought herself not alone. That was the cruelest part of the deception. Dead Guinevere had been a sister, a daughter. And those people had no idea the girl they had known, hopefully had loved, was gone. A changeling in her place.
Guinevere did not feel sorry for the deception in Camelot. It was necessary. But she felt very sorry for the girl whose death had made it possible.
“I apologize,” Mordred said. “It has made you sad, thinking about your family. I should not have brought it up.”
“No, it is fine.” Guinevere hurried her horse so they were not level and he could not see her face with his eyes that saw too much, always. “I am happy here. I left nothing behind I long for.”
Except the trees. The tiny cottage that she swept. And Merlin. It was odd, thinking of Guinevere’s father, wondering what he was like. She never thought of Merlin as her own father. He had been her mentor, her teacher. When she thought of him as a father, it was like a tunic that was too tight, straining and tugging at her.
Merlin was not a man—not exactly. He was something between. She had never wondered what that might make her. It did not seem important when it was just the two of them. But now, surrounded by humanity, she felt herself separate. Was it because of the lies she robed herself in? Or was it because she had too much of Merlin in her to truly belong?
But she had nothing of his powers. Hers were a trickle to his torrent. She was planted firmly in the current of time, while Merlin existed somewhere outside it. As much as he was the sole figure of her past, he remained an enigma.
Perhaps that was another reason she felt so comfortable with Arthur. He was right—they both had complicated fathers. But she had by far the better.
When they arrived at the hidden passageway, Mordred dismounted.
