Guinevere had taken breakfast in her own room, but on the last morning there, she went to the great hall for one final sociable appearance. Arthur had left before sunrise to speak with local rulers. Brangien and Isolde were busy packing and preparing everything for travel. Lancelot stood guard by the door. Guinevere wished she could have Lancelot dine with her, but she had resolved herself to being beset by Dindrane’s awful relations.

Dindrane saved her before any others arrived. “Come on, we can eat breakfast in the gardens. Much nicer than here.” Dindrane glanced dismissively at the smoke-stained hall. She gestured for the servant to attend them and led Guinevere outside. Lancelot followed, then took up a post near the door where she had a full view of the gardens. The sparse green space clung to the back of the estate, more an afterthought than something lovingly tended. But there was a nice view of the rolling fields spreading out in front of them like a blanket of gold and green. Guinevere and Dindrane sat on a stone bench and waited as the servant set out the dishes.

Breakfast was a simple affair of bread and cured meats, a chore more than a celebration. Guinevere picked over the food, wishing for more of the honey-crystalized nuts. “How are you?” she asked Dindrane. They had not seen each other the day before. It had been the most muted day of the trip, with most of the wedding party suffering from too much drink.

“Wonderful. I am— Oh, I am so happy.” Dindrane laughed brighter than any of the surrounding blossoms. “I am finally free.”

Guinevere could not quite understand the sentiment. After all, Dindrane was married now. Legally tied to Sir Bors forever. And husbands had far more rights than wives did.

Dindrane ticked the facts off on her fingers, one by one. “I have a husband, so no one can look down on me. I never have to endure Blanchefleur again, or live in her home. My father was not generous, but between what he was forced to contribute and what Sir Bors gave, I have a chest big enough that I will never have to wed again should something happen to Sir Bors. Which I hope it never does! He was—he is— Guinevere, he…appreciates me.” A blush crept across her cheeks. She looked bashful, an expression Guinevere had never before seen on her face. “I know I can be off-putting. I have been told as much my whole life. But Sir Bors likes me. I make him laugh. And not because he is mocking me, but because he is—”

“Delighted by you?”

“Yes! That is it exactly.”

Guinevere plucked a scarlet blossom and tucked it into Dindrane’s chestnut hair. “I am glad you found someone who knows he is lucky to have you at his side. And I am glad I was able to be here to celebrate it with you.”

“Thank you. I could not have faced this alone.” Dindrane’s shoulders tightened; she did not look back at the house, but she did not have to. Guinevere could tell she felt attacked by it, even outside.

“I am sorry to say we are leaving this afternoon. Camelot needs us. I know the celebrations will continue for—”

“I will come!” Dindrane stood immediately.

“But you—”

“I came here to force my father to pay, and to show them that I do not need them and never will again. I cannot wait to leave. I will go tell Sir—my husband. I will go tell my husband.” She laughed, spinning in a happy circle, then pulled Guinevere up and made her twirl, as well.

“Time to go home,” Guinevere said, laughing with her friend.

“Home!” Dindrane shouted. She kicked the foundation of her old home for good measure as they walked back inside.

Feeling no duty toward these people to offer them gratitude or whatever she should as queen, Guinevere hurried back to her rooms. “Do you need to pack?” she asked Lancelot as she resumed her post outside the door.

“No, my queen. I am ready.”

“Of course you are.” Guinevere felt a surge of affection. Lancelot had made this whole trip possible. She had sacrificed and risked and protected. Guinevere could not imagine life without her. How had it been only a few months since Guinevere suspected Lancelot was a fairy threat?

She entered to find the room efficiently stripped of any evidence of their stay. Brangien and Isolde had worked quickly. Guinevere turned to visit them and see if they needed any help, when the door opened and Arthur walked in. One glance at his face and Guinevere’s happy mood was punctured.

“What?” she asked.

He did not bother trying to smile. He waved toward the hallway and Sir Tristan and Sir Bors entered. “You, too, Sir Lancelot,” he said.

Guinevere moved to the side as the three knights entered and stood awkwardly. There were not enough chairs for everyone, and barely enough space for so many broad shoulders. “What is it?” Guinevere repeated.

“Sir Percival informed me that other lords of the region have heard I am here and want to speak with me about treaties. There is the issue of King Mark’s successor”—he had the grace not to look at Guinevere as he said it—“and everyone is on edge about the Saxons. I cannot pass up this opportunity to speak with them and leave with our southern neighbors firmly on our side. I have had to focus on the Picts to the north for so long, I have neglected this region. This is my chance to fix that.”

Guinevere sat down, politeness abandoning her along with her hopes. “Oh. How long will we stay?” She hated Dindrane’s family, hated having to be a foreign queen in an unfamiliar place. At least in Camelot she knew how to play her part, and there was a reason for it. Pretending for these people was a waste of her time. She resented all of it. She should be back in Camelot, protecting her own people. Who knew what the Dark Queen might get up to in their absence?

“I do not want you to stay.”

Guinevere looked up sharply; there was an almost physical sting to Arthur’s words. Was he still angry about what she had done to rescue Isolde?

Arthur paced, hands clasped behind his back. “Sir Bors, I want your counsel. You and Sir Percival have ties to this area, and it will lend Camelot credibility when they see we are connected to these southern families at the highest levels.”

Sir Bors nodded, bowing. “I will go inform my wife. She will…” He had a moment of fear cross his face.

“She can return with us,” Guinevere offered, trying not to sound as hurt as she felt. “It will give her time to prepare your home to her liking without interference.”

Sir Bors smiled, a combination of alarm and affection. “That is a good idea. Thank you, my queen.” He bowed again and left the room.

Arthur continued to pace. “I do not know how long this will take. I do not like being away during the harvest. When you get back to Camelot, I want you to rule in my absence.”

“What?” Guinevere stood, surprised. He was not sending her away because she had failed. He was sending her away because she was capable? “But you left Sir Gawain and Sir Caradoc in charge.”

Arthur took her hands in his. “I want it to be you from now on. When I am gone, Camelot still has a ruler in its queen. You know the city now. You know how it works, what it needs. And it needs you.”

Guinevere’s emotions churned. Disappointment over Arthur staying, pride and elation over Arthur’s vote of confidence. But also worry. Because if she was left in charge of Camelot, that meant she was left in Camelot, whenever Arthur was away.

But that was a conversation for another day. Already Arthur and Sir Tristan and Lancelot had moved on to discussing travel logistics. Arthur wanted to know all the details—perhaps partly to make certain Guinevere did not improvise again. Brangien and Isolde appeared and retrieved the trunks waiting by the door. With everything settled here, the timeline for leaving had been moved up.

Guinevere wanted a few minutes to speak privately with Arthur, but in the bustle of activity there was not a chance for it.

It was only as she was leaving that he caught up to her and drew her aside. “Be careful,” he said. “No quests this time, please. If there is a new threat from the Dark Queen, wait for me if you can. And if you cannot—”

She smiled as playfully as she could manage. “I will try not to have too much fun defeating her without you.”

Arthur laughed. “Leave some heroics for the rest of us.” He drew her close in an embrace. “Please be careful this time.”

“We know we can handle the Dark Queen,” Guinevere said, placing a hand on the back of Arthur’s neck. “There are no threats in Camelot that we have not thwarted. The biggest risk is that I will be bored waiting for you.”

“Here is a wish for boredom, then.” Arthur drew back and, with a surge of impulse Guinevere felt like a flush from his skin, kissed her. It was like a patch of sun on a cold day, warm and bright and welcome.

The memory of his lips lingered on hers as she rode toward home, where she would rule as queen.