“Wait!” Maria called as Vera unceremoniously threw it open. Arthur leaned against the wall opposite. Maria groaned from behind her. “So much for a reveal,” she said.
Vera grinned as his eyes met hers.
Arthur wore a much finer belted tunic than usual with threads and toggles that complimented Vera’s gown. His dark hair was pulled into a knot at the top of his neck which, Vera decided in that exact second, was her favorite way he wore it. He stood up straight as he saw her, and with the pleasant, crooked smile he fixed upon Vera, something in his prematurely weathered face looked boyish.
“Hi,” Vera said breathlessly. “You look very handsome.”
Arthur blushed at the compliment, and Vera was thrilled by that. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes roving over her. “You’re stunning.”
Maria had no choice but to send them off with minimal fanfare, mollified only by the assurance that they were planning to lead the opening dance. Arthur offered Vera his elbow, and they walked to the festival grounds arm-in-arm, where they found their friends seated at the same table as before.
Lancelot rushed over to them, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. Then he turned his attention to Vera and kissed her cheek. “Guinna!” he said. “You look gorgeous. Is this the dress Randall made?”
“Yes. And thank you.” She shoved her hands into the slits in the sides of her skirt, eager to show someone who would appreciate the best bit. “It has pockets!”
“Hell yeah,” he said appreciatively.
She felt the heaviness of Gawain’s stare before she saw him. Lancelot noticed and shrugged. “I think I’ve cracked him. He’s actually pretty funny.”
There wasn’t time to argue Gawain’s merits. Maria was already beckoning them to the front for the dance. It all happened very quickly. One moment, they were standing around a table with their friends, and the next, it seemed, they were out in the dancing area alone—with hundreds of Yule revelers’ eyes on them. Vera’s breath hitched.
“Are you nervous?” Arthur whispered.
“A bit,” she said.
Arthur and Vera began the dance when the musicians beside the stage started playing. Her movements were stiff as she focused all her energy on not screwing up, but during the first part, where she and Arthur got closer, she heard his deep voice softly singing and looked at him, wide-eyed in her surprise.
“I made up lyrics, too,” he said.
She shifted her focus to him, straining to hear the deep quiet of his voice following the melody.
“The king agreed to teach a dance, but His Majesty was full of shit,
And when the festival was ruined, Maria had a massive fit.”
Vera threw her head back and laughed.
“Not exactly a masterpiece,” Arthur said as he and Vera drew close to spin, but he smiled at having pleased her so thoroughly. The rest of the dance was looser and, unbelievably, even fun. The audience melted from Vera’s periphery, and she saw only Arthur. Each time they came close enough to whisper, one or the other would mutter the made-up name for the next move. She was almost sad when the song ended.
Next came the presentation of the Yule crowns. It wasn’t Maria who processed onto the field for this, but a band of four children. The two youngest were at the front, a girl and a boy, each carrying a crown on a pillow, reminiscent of ring bearers. They were at the end of their toddler years and had an older child attendant accompanying them to keep them on task when they wanted to wander or shy away from the surrounding crowd.
Vera squatted down to be at eye level, and Arthur followed suit. She smiled encouragingly, emboldening the little girl to close the gap.
“Happy Yule, my queen lady!” She held out the Yule crown to Vera. The beautiful and earthy things were made with quartz sticks and gold wrapping them together. The older attendants placed them on Vera’s and Arthur’s heads. His was simpler: woven wire with one dark, round crystal at the center. Vera’s was a radiant eruption of crystals.
“Can we wear these every day?” she asked Arthur.
She was kidding, but Arthur said, “Yes,” though his eyes more plainly said, whatever you want.
The feasting and dancing began in earnest after that. Arthur and Vera retreated to their table to a bawdy welcome from their friends, who were clearly all feeling pretty good. Lancelot fussed and ensured she had food (because that was what he did, and she loved him for it), and Arthur got Vera a drink.
“I need to make a quick round to offer greetings, but you,” he said, emphatically holding up a hand as she stood to join him, “should stay here and enjoy yourself. This isn’t an official affair. No one would begrudge you that.”
She had no desire to argue. This table of raucous laughter and no expectations for her to be anyone but herself was precisely where Vera wanted to be.
“Guinna,” Lancelot said. “We’re interrogating Gawain to get to know him better, and it’s great fun.”
Matilda leaned toward Vera to bring her up to speed. “So far, we’ve learned he’s the youngest mage on the high council—”
“By twenty-two years,” Lancelot cut in.
“Yes, I was getting to that,” she said, batting at Lancelot with her napkin. “By twenty-two years, that his favorite gift he has is being able to do some healing work, and that he is well aware of how much his demeanor infuriates Percival.”
“But only because Lancelot told him,” Percival cut in with the exasperation he reserved especially for the mage. “Otherwise, he felt we were getting on fine.”
Even Gawain cracked a reluctant smile, though he had a drink in front of him, too, and Vera thought it would be a fair guess that none of them were on their first round.
“I have a question.” Percival eyed Gawain sharply. “You said you study who magic comes to and how the break happens and all that nonsense, right?”
Gawain didn’t acknowledge the insult. He merely nodded.
“Isn’t the magical birthrate one in every four people?” Percival asked.
Gawain listed his head from side to side. “It is lower than that now. Closer to one in ten, according to my research. But it would have been about one in four when you were born.”
“Right.” Percival rolled his eyes. “Here,” he gestured around the table, “we’ve got four of us, and not one has a magical ability.”
Gawain waited with a deadpan face. “Do you have a question?”
“Yes!” Percival’s annoyance had them all stifling laughter. “My question is, what the hell? What gives? Shouldn’t at least one of us have a power?”
“Statistics don’t order themselves to our expectations.” If Gawain intended to sound condescending, he succeeded. “It all comes down to the population dispersion, how people tend to group themselves, and what roles each party has to fill. I’ve found that the rates of magic in, say, leaders in armies tend to be far lower. Maybe they’re threatened by their inability and prefer to keep those with magic in a more pigeon-holed role? Perhaps those who cannot do order others to do.”
If Vera only had a blow dart and could have offered Gawain the mercy of tranquilizing him, she would have. Lancelot pressed his hand hard against his mouth, but she could see him laughing. Matilda patted Percival’s arm, who looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than to punch Gawain. Thankfully, the table was between them.
Gawain forged on without any clue. “Whatever the actual cause, the truth remains that it’s perfectly reasonable that none of you would have any powers.”
“Let me get this straight.” Percival leaned forward as far as he could toward Gawain, who finally took note of his precarious position and leaned away a bit. “You’re saying that Lancelot and I are either talentless hacks who are afraid of magic or that we happen to have rotten luck and are statistical anomalies. Do I have that right?”