Merlin tilted his head to the side. “But you knew. You found her out, and you alone know what she did. She locked up your memories because they are our key to undoing her wrongs. It is a miracle we didn’t lose you in her attack.” He closed the massive book before him and opened his hands palms up toward her. “You’re a one-of-a-kind anomaly, my dear. The type of magic I used to save your life has never been used before.”
“Then how do you know it will work?” she asked, and with a swallow, mustered the nerve to voice her fear. “Merlin, I’m not her. I don’t know how I could possibly have her memories.”
“They’re your memories,” he corrected. “And I know because you’ve already begun to remember.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said adamantly.
“You have.” There was that measured patience in Merlin’s smile. “I saw it.”
Vera stared at him. There wasn’t a single point in the last twenty-four hours when she had been anything but dumbfounded. The closest she had come to a memory was her unnerving affection for Lancelot, something she hoped Merlin hadn’t noticed.
His eyes glinted. “How much horse riding do you recall doing during your life in Glastonbury?”
“Horse riding?” She blinked. “Hardly any.”
“Any formal training?”
She shook her head.
“Guinevere, there’s a particular way a lady wearing a gown is trained to dismount her horse. I watched you do it last night precisely as you were trained as a young lady in our time. You did it as if it was second nature to you because it is.”
As soon as Merlin said it, she realized it was true. At the time, Vera had been consumed with what would come next. She hadn’t noticed getting off the horse at all, and if someone had asked her to recount step-by-step how to do it, she wasn’t sure she could. But Vera felt an easy conviction that she could do it again. “That’s enough for you to feel certain the rest of it’s in there?”
“It is enough, and I am certain,” he said.
“Is there some magical way to make me remember?” Vera heard desperation creeping into her shaking voice. “Can’t you pull it out of my head or something?”
Merlin steepled his fingers in front of his lips. She thought he wanted to say yes, but he sighed and clicked his tongue. “Ultimately, we’ll need to use a magical procedure to penetrate the final barrier—to get to the heart of what Viviane didn’t want you to remember. But …” He took a slow breath before he nodded, resolved. “The more you can wear away at what she’s done to block you, the better magical intervention will ultimately work.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Familiarity is fundamental to unlocking both your conscious and unconscious memories. Immerse yourself into what was your ordinary life as thoroughly as possible. As queen, you’re responsible for all matters in the castle, so you’ll be well-equipped to perform those duties. I didn’t plan it this way, but it works out rather well that you helped run the hotel with Martin and Allison. But the most important thing you can do is reconnect with Arthur—in every way you can.”
She inhaled sharply. Her eyes flashed to Merlin. Did he—was he implying something … physical? She was probably blushing.
Vera cleared her throat. “Why would that help me remember?”
“There was no one you were closer to than the king. That’s why this is so difficult for him.” Merlin smiled sadly. “He scarcely dares to hope he might have you back. His love for you is the core of breaking through to your memories.”
Vera had a hard time believing that the man she met last night, so cold and intimidating, would ever want to have anything to do with her, much less reconnecting. Still, she resolved to try.
At the very least, Vera could throw herself into Guinevere’s life.
Matilda took her to nearly every corner and crevice of the castle grounds throughout the afternoon. They started in the kitchen and caused a stir as Vera pretended to know the cook and the half-dozen kitchen staff members who flooded her with their welcomes. They visited the gardens, went to the stables, and met with the castle staff.
Matilda turned to Vera before each stop. “Would you prefer to lead the conversation, Your Majesty?” she’d ask. Or, “Please chime in as you like.”
Vera smiled politely but observed in silence, knowing she’d betray her ignorance if she opened her mouth to say more than greetings. And each time, Matilda’s offer became more of a formality.
When it was time for dinner, Vera let out a long sigh, assuming that Arthur would be there and that this would be her opportunity to finally speak with him. Her relief was short-lived. The great hall was the largest room in the castle, with two tables that ran the length of it on either side. They were already more than halfway filled with people.
A much shorter table was perpendicular to the rest at the front atop three short steps. There were only six seats at this table, and the two center chairs were more ornate than the rest, throne-like. They were all empty—save for the one next to the smaller throne. Lancelot occupied it. When he saw Vera, his eyes lit up. She nearly stopped in her tracks.
He remembered her. He wasn’t the only one. All the gathered diners’ eyes shifted to Vera as she took her place on the throne next to him.
But they remembered Guinevere. Lancelot remembered her.
“Good evening,” he said with a cordial bow of his head as he passed her a goblet of wine. “Arthur sends his apologies. He will not be here this evening.” Vera thought she heard frustration, even accusation, beneath his words.
So there it was. Arthur was continuing to avoid Vera, and evidently, Lancelot didn’t approve. Her affection for him bubbled. She scanned the room as she took a sip, and her eyes found Merlin, his mouth fixed in a frown as his gaze darted from Vera and Lancelot to the door.
“How was your first day back?” Lancelot asked, pulling her attention to him.
“It was fine,” Vera said, more a habitual response than an answer. He turned his whole body and squared up with her, his eyebrow raised.
“A bit overwhelming,” she said.
Lancelot propped his chin on his hand. “How so?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I do, if you’re inclined to share.” He seemed to mean it, too.
“All right,” Vera said. Maybe it was loneliness that drove her, or maybe the warm tug of kinship with him. Either way, honesty came forth in a hurried whisper. Lancelot leaned closer. “I don’t think I have Guinevere’s memories and all of magic and the kingdom as you know it and likely even the future that I grew up in is going to be doomed. And I spent the afternoon behaving like a daft fool who doesn’t know anything because, as it turns out, I don’t know anything.”
“I see,” he said, matching her volume. “Why are we whispering?”
“I—” She hadn’t done it on purpose. Vera looked out across the hall, finding far too many pairs of eyes staring back at her. She swallowed and told him about how it had been before, how no one could remember her. “I’m not used to being known or even noticed by anyone. And who even are all these people?”
Lancelot let out a long exhale. “Overwhelming is an understatement,” he said gravely before he turned to the room, and his severity dropped away. “And these are all the noble folk in town. Most helped to fund our war efforts, some are successful merchants. And that man who just sat down over there …” He inclined his head toward the recently occupied seats on the other side of Arthur’s empty chair. “Don’t look,” he added a half second after Vera had turned.