The lights were low and cottony snow drifted down from the dark ceiling, lightly dusting the gymnasium floor below. Students, dressed in their wintry formal bests, swayed to the sounds of the DJ's selection, wafting from strategically placed speakers. A few friends waved in greeting, but the boy paid them no mind as he wove through the sea of dancers, a man on a mission.
His palms sweated with anticipation. This was it. There was no going back now. He pushed through a circle of dancers and his eyes grew large as they fell upon their prize. There, under the illumination of a single spotlight, stood his heart's desire. Dressed in a gown of crimson, falling gently to her slippered feet, she looked like an angel. A perfect, beautiful, heaven-sent angel.
He swallowed hard and forced his feet to take another step forward. His angel smiled sweetly at him, her golden curls tumbling prettily around her face. “I've been waiting for you,” she murmured as he took her into his arms. “I've been waiting for you for so long.”
He smiled and gallantly escorted her onto the dance floor. “What about the other guy?” he asked as he spun her around gracefully. The crowd circled, eager to watch what was sure to be a dance to remember. “The cute one from your English class?”
“Silly, Stu,” she whispered fondly. “You're the only boy for me.”
She lifted her head, turning it ever so slightly, then closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Stu's heart began to pound. Finally he'd be able to get his true love's kiss at last.
“Sophie,” he murmured, lowering his face to hers and—
“Who ARE you?”
Stu's eyes flew open, the dream tumbling away as reality reared its ugly head. He searched his large curtained canopy bed to see who had dared disturb what had been gearing up to be his best Sophie dream yet.
It was then that he realized he had a knife to his throat. A sharp one, by the feel of it.
“Who are you?” the girl he'd been introduced to as Princess Guinevere demanded again, pressing the blade firmly against his skin. Her expression was hostile and her eyes burned with self-righteous anger.
“Hey—hey! Watch with the knife!” he protested.
She glared down at him. “Not until you answer my question.”
“I'm King Arthur, remember? We were introduced this afternoon.” Guinevere's father had practically forced his daughter on Stu earlier that day, as if she was some kind of prize cow being sold at market. He vividly remembered the greed in the old man's eyes as he bragged about what a good child-bearer the girl would be. At the time, he'd felt bad for her—what must it be like to be forced to marry a guy you didn't love just because he was king? No wonder she ended up falling in love with Sir Lancelot instead.
“You're a liar,” she growled, pressing the blade tighter against his throat, nicking his skin in the process. Stu could feel a tiny drop of blood drip down his chest and his heart began to beat faster.
“What—why do you say that?” he gurgled.
“Arthur is my best friend in the world,” the warrior princess replied. “You may look like him, yes, but only through some kind of sorcery. I would swear on my mother's grave that you are not my friend.”
Stu let out a breath, realizing he was totally busted. Sure, he could pretend to be Arthur in front of strangers, but if Arthur and Guin had been good friends, the gig was definitely up.
“Take the knife away and I'll explain,” he said, trying to keep up his bravado so as not to get his throat slit.
The princess narrowed her eyes, evidently thinking on his proposal, then reluctantly withdrew the blade, still keeping it close to her side and pointed in his direction.
He struggled to sit up in bed, still groggy from his rude awakening. “How'd you even get in here?” he grumbled. “I thought I had guards at the door.” First Lot, now Guinevere. Medieval security was not all it was cracked up to be.
“I flew in through the window. The real Arthur gave me some of his shape-shifting powder,” she explained. “Which you would have known, if you were him.” She frowned. “Now talk.”
He let out a resigned breath. Here went nothing. “Fine. You're right,” he said. “I'm not really Arthur. I'm Stuart Mallory and I come from the twenty-first century. The future. Merlin turned me into an Arthur lookalike until the real Arthur came back from his . . . um . . . quest. Which has been quite an experience, let me tell you. I don't know if you saw that fight with King Lot but—”
“Quest?” Guinevere interrupted, evidently not interested in Stu's personal medieval triumphs. “What quest?”
Stu stared down at his hands. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said. “Maybe if we go try to find Merlin—”
But she wasn't having any of that. “Try me,” she said, hand still on the knife.
And so Stu—against his better judgment—did. And Guinevere listened to the whole tale without interrupting. When Stu had finished, she sat quiet for a moment.
“This is all my fault,” she said at last. “If I hadn't dropped the scabbard down into the Well of Dreams, none of this would have happened.”
“Merlin sent Sophie to get him back,” Stu assured her. “And believe me, the second he returns, I'll be giving him back the throne. I mean, it's been interesting and all, but I miss my computer.” And Sophie, he thought,. He wondered for the thousandth time how she was doing. Was she still mad at him? Was that why she hadn't returned with Arthur? Had she decided to abandon him here forever?
He shuddered. No. She wouldn't do that. Would she?
He looked up, realizing that while he'd been thinking, the princess had vacated the canopy bed and was back on her feet, a determined expression on her face.
“What now?” he asked, a little worried.
“Your Sophie is taking too long,” she told him. “If she's unable to achieve her quest, then I will go retrieve Arthur myself.” She paused, then added, a little sorrowfully, “After all, it is my fault he is there to begin with.”
“Oh I don't really think you should—” Stu began, trailing off as Guinevere raised her knife again. He exhaled. Seriously, did everyone in this freaking place have to have the undying urge to kill him? “Fine,” he relented. “Maybe that's a good idea, actually.” Especially if Sophie was planning on ditching him here. His heart panged at the thought. If only he could IM her or text her. Let her know he was sorry for whatever it was he did to make her mad . . .
Guinevere turned to the window, a fistful of sparkling powder in hand.
“Wait!” Stu cried, just before she shape-shifted. She turned to look at him expectantly. He drew in a breath. “If you see Sophie?” he started. “Tell her . . . tell her . . . ”
Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “Tell her what?”
“Tell her I miss her.”