“It isn’t too bad,” I tell him softly. “It should be fine by tomorrow. Tonight, even, with your fay blood.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his brow furrowed. “What Mordred said . . .”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry for that, but he isn’t alone in his suspicion of you. It will take time, but you can bring them around.”
He smiles wryly. “I wasn’t talking about him insulting me. What was it he called you?”
I glance away, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Lancelot never knew me then, he didn’t know the girl I was in the eyes of Camelot, unsettled and unsettling.
“A lady with a reputation for madness,” I repeat. “Quite a delicate description, all things considered. I think I got off the easiest, compared to you and Morgana.”
He laughs softly. “I wish Morgana had been here,” he says. “Unwise as it might have proved, it would have been fun to see her response when he called her a coward.”
“She would have strangled him with that hideous jeweled chain,” I say, laughing myself. After the laughter subsides, I bite my lip. “Before Avalon, I knew I was an oracle, but I didn’t understand what that meant. I wasn’t trained. I was prone to visions that manifested as hysterics. It . . . earned me a reputation. I’d hoped ten years would have been enough to rid myself of it, but it seems people have long memories.”
He smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other in that infuriatingly charming way he has.
“We’ve only been here a few days,” he says. “A few more and I doubt anyone will be mocking you. By the time Arthur’s crowned, I daresay you’ll be running this whole place. You’re good at it, you know. Far better than I am.”
Though he says it lightly, there’s an undercurrent of bitterness to his words. In Avalon, Lancelot was the golden child, excelling at whatever task was put in front of him. He was the best hunter, the best swordsman, the best jouster. Even when we were helping his mother gather shells on the shore, he was always determined to collect the most—and he always succeeded.
“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” I ask. “Not being the best at everything?”
“It’s torture,” he admits before pausing. “That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“No?” I ask, hating how my voice breaks.
He considers his next words carefully, staring over my shoulder as if he’s afraid to look at me. When his eyes do meet mine, though, it is a spell all its own, and I am powerless to break it.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says. “Ever since we got here.”
“I’ve been busy, Lance,” I say, shaking my head and avoiding his eyes because he’s always quick to know when I’m lying. I start to stand, but Lancelot’s unbandaged hand comes to rest against my cheek, and just like that, I freeze.
“So if I want to talk to you, I should make an appointment?” he asks, voice low.
“What is there to talk about?” I ask him, but my voice doesn’t come out the way I mean for it to. It wavers and fractures and betrays me.
“Fair point,” he says, pulling me closer to him. Automatically, my hands go to his shoulders, the muscles there hard and familiar. It feels like we’re dancing again, on Avalon, the lure of the fay music weaving enchantments in the air. “We don’t have to talk.”
The instant he kisses me, that spell tightens, tightens, tightens, before breaking all at once. I push him away gently, one hand on his chest, but it’s enough. His hooded eyes open, focusing on me, full of questions.
“We aren’t on Avalon anymore, Lance,” I say quietly. “We can’t just sneak around together. In Camelot, no one does . . . that . . . I mean, I suppose they do, but only married couples. We aren’t even supposed to be alone together now, not unless we’re wed.”
For an instant, he looks confused before he realizes what I’m saying.
“Well,” he says, the word heavy. “We could be.”
His tone is so blasé that for a moment all I can do is stare at him.
“We could be . . . what, married?” I ask him slowly. “Are you . . . proposing?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? You said it yourself, rules in Camelot dictate that if I lie with you, I have to marry you,” he says.
I shake my head, unable to hold back a laugh. It’s too ridiculous. “Camelot’s rules didn’t apply back in Avalon. Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to them. You don’t have to do anything.”
Lancelot shakes his head. “That’s not . . . that’s not what I mean,” he says. “You asked me to come with you. You said you needed me here. So then why are you pushing me away now?”
Because the needing is terrifying. Because I’ve seen how it ends. Because I don’t want you to break me, and I don’t want to break you either.
“I’m not pushing you away,” I say instead. “But it’s complicated.”
“But you love me,” he says.
My cheeks are burning now. “I never said that. Neither of us did.”
“Because we didn’t need to, Shalott. No point in wasting time saying things that everyone already knows to be true.”
That gives me pause. “Do you love me?” I ask, though as soon as I say the words I regret them. It’s a dangerous question, and one with no good answer.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “So much I think it’ll kill me sometimes. And I know you feel the same.”
He hasn’t the slightest idea, though, how literal the killing is for me.
“That was on Avalon,” I say finally, though my voice wavers. “Whatever value love held there, it doesn’t hold the same here.”
“The rules have changed,” he says, nodding. “That’s what I’m saying. There are no bonfires here. You’re saying I shouldn’t do this . . .” He trails off, snaking his arm around my waist and turning me to face him, our bodies so close that I can feel his heart beating, quick as a hummingbird’s. “Not with a woman who isn’t my wife,” he murmurs, his lips close to mine. “I want to keep doing this, Shalott. I want to keep doing everything, with you. And if I have to play by Camelot’s rules to do it, I will.”
He’s so close that I can feel his breath against my cheek, so close that his eyes don’t look green or brown or hazel anymore, they are an undeniably inhuman gold, and I can’t look away. He smells like Avalon still, like smoke and lavender and honey and that implacable scent of magic that always lingered in the air.
If I tilted my head up just an inch, my lips would find his, and the yearning to do just that consumes me until I can’t think straight, until I can’t think about anything but him—his closeness, and how he is still too far away from me.
But that way lies a thousand heartbreaks. I’ve Seen them, the million ways he could betray me, the ways we will almost undoubtedly betray each other. I’ve felt it—the fatal blows to us, the loss of him like the loss of a limb, the utter helplessness as my life crumbles around me without him to hold it upright.
I want him, there is no denying that, but I do not need him. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.
He moves to close the distance between us, but I stop him, placing my hand on his chest, just over his rapidly beating heart.
“No, Lance,” I say, so quietly that I’m not sure he heard me at all. But he stops, so I suppose he must have. I clear my throat, taking a step back, out of his embrace, hoping the distance will help me think clearer. It doesn’t, really.
“That isn’t what marriage is,” I say when I find my words again. “You don’t marry someone because you want to . . . because you want to bed them. People here marry for many reasons—for money, for titles, for power.”
I swallow, readying a weapon I know will sting, though sting less than what will come if I let him touch me again.
“You don’t have anything to offer. No mo
ney, no titles, no power.”
He goes still, and the hurt that flashes over his expression hurts me just as terribly. I want to take the words back, to tell him I don’t mean them, that I don’t care about those things, and besides, soon I’ll have enough of all three for the both of us. Before he can speak, to argue, to inevitably convince me of some terrible idea, I take another step away from him, as if the air between us is any kind of barrier.
“And here I always thought you were something of a romantic, Shalott,” he says finally, his voice dry and sharp, though I know it’s all a defense. I’ve wounded him, and he won’t allow me to do so again.
I shrug my shoulders. “The thing you need to understand about Albion, and Camelot specifically, is that it demands more of its women than it does of its men. There are different rules. I know how to play them, but you still have to learn.”
I turn to go, but his voice stops me.
“I do love you, Elaine,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it. “Maybe I should have said it before. I’ve loved you since that bonfire—maybe even earlier. I love you, but the truth is that sometimes, loving you feels like trying to hold a billow of smoke in my hands.”
I pause, lingering in the doorway. I suppose he’s right—I already knew he loved me, but hearing him say the words out loud undoes me.
“You’re right—I don’t have money or a title or any kind of power here,” he continues. “I’m sure there are dozens of lords and earls and dukes here in Camelot to offer you those. But my offer stands, should you change your mind.”
16
THAT BLASTED BONFIRE. They were a monthly occurrence on Avalon to celebrate the full moon—I must have attended close to a hundred. But still, I knew immediately which one Lancelot was referring to.
The full moon bonfires were riotous parties, with freely flowing wine and thin inhibitions and so much close dancing and bare skin that any of the old matrons of Camelot would have fainted to have seen it.
The first one I attended had been overwhelming to me. The fey with their wine-stained mouths and drunken laughter, whirling together in frantic but graceful movements that looked too far from the carefully choreographed dances in Camelot to possibly be called the same thing. A quartet of forest nymphs played instruments I couldn’t name—some version of pipes and violins, drums and flutes perhaps, but different. Like they’d been carved from the trees but were somehow alive still. The effect of it all was terrifying, but before long the rhythm of the music worked its way into my own blood like the spell it was, making it impossible not to dance as well.
Before long, I was dancing with the rest of them. I twirled under Arthur’s arm so many times I became dizzy and light-headed, both of us giggling madly, leaning on each other for support. I swayed with Morgana, our cheeks pressed together as we pretended to be stiff Camelot courtiers, unable to keep from laughing every few seconds. I held Gwen’s hands and spun in mad circles, round and round and round until we couldn’t hold on anymore and collapsed on the sand, breathless and giddy. I even danced with strangers, fey whose names I didn’t know. In the energy of the night, they all stopped seeming so scary. Instead, I thought them all beautiful with their gemstone skin and wings and horns.
I danced until the night became a blur and the next thing I knew I was waking up in my own bed without any idea how I got there.
I learned quickly how to pace myself, to rest between dances to keep the music from getting too firm a hold on me.
But that wasn’t the bonfire Lancelot had meant—if he’d been at that one, I don’t recall seeing him. More likely than not, he’d spent the night in some other girl’s arms, dancing with her and not thinking of me at all.
No, the bonfire in question was a year later. I was seventeen and found myself sitting on a boulder at the edge of the fray, my knees drawn up to my chest and my sheer cerulean silk gown spilling over the rock like a waterfall. A glass of fay wine was warm in my hand, and I sipped it slowly, biding my time before diving into the madness.
The wine was sweet enough to drink in a few gulps, but that was another thing I’d learned the hard way to pace myself with—fay wine wasn’t like wine in Albion, where I’d seen courtiers drink entire bottles in single sittings. In Avalon, wine was far more potent. If you weren’t used to it, a few sips would be enough to undo you, and the less fay blood you had, the more dangerous it was. Arthur never had more than a sip.
The gowns worn at bonfire nights were longer than the usual day dresses worn on the island, but elegant in a way that would have gotten us stoned to death in Albion. That night, mine left my arms bare and dipped low enough to show the shadowed space between my breasts. It was unstructured, without layers of petticoats and corsets beneath, loose enough to breathe freely and deeply. I knew that when I stepped closer to the light of the fire, my legs would be clearly visible through the silk.
But still, mine was relatively tame. There were bare legs and arms, sheer shimmers of fabric that didn’t do much to hide skin underneath, dresses that dipped so low in the front they show the women’s belly buttons. The quartet of fey playing their strange instruments next to the fire wore matching floor-length skirts but nothing above their waists. Their yellow hair was pulled forward over their shoulders and falling just long enough to hide their bare breasts. By comparison, my own dress felt practically matronly.
I spied Morgana dancing in the thick of the crowd, her own gown black lace that swathed over one shoulder, see-through in more places than not. Even though the skirt was long and flowing, I could see her legs quite clearly through the material, all the way up to her hips. She felt my gaze and grinned, beckoning me to join her, but even with the music pulling at my skin, I shook my head.
“Five minutes,” I mouthed to her, holding up my hand.
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her partner, a handsome fay boy with horns that twisted up through his curly black hair. She twined her arms around his neck and they danced even closer, until they looked like one being instead of two.
“It’s her blood,” Arthur said, surprising me by joining me on the rock. His hair was messier than ever, bits of it sticking straight up like russet dandelion fluff. His white shirt was askew, an extra button undone, and there was a high pink flush across his cheeks, whether from the heat or the wine I couldn’t tell. When he saw my confusion, he laughed.
“The music doesn’t affect her as much as it affects us,” he explained. “You usually last longer than I do, which I take as a testament to your own fay ancestors.”
“What does that say about Gwen?” I asked. It was easy to find her in the crowd with her red-gold hair. She danced with a group I didn’t recognize, her ivy-green gown twirling around her legs like flower petals, one sleeve slipping down over her freckled shoulder, though she didn’t bother pulling it up.
“Gwen likes the oblivion she finds in the music,” Arthur said after watching her for a moment, his gaze lingering a little longer, a little heavier. “She told me once it reminded her of the heat of a hunt in Lyonesse, when the mind quiets and pure instinct takes over. All action, no thought.”
I glanced sideways at him. His feelings for Guinevere were so obvious, even then. She ignored them, in hopes that they would go away on their own, but there was never any chance of that. I think I would have known it even if I hadn’t seen glimpses of their future. Arthur’s infatuation was never destined to be a simple thing, like Lancelot and the countless girls he fell in and out of love with, or Morgana and her infinite partners. It wasn’t a quick-burning flame. Arthur didn’t fall in love easily, and I didn’t expect falling out of it would come any easier to him.
“You and Gwen are very different,” I said carefully, elbowing him to add a lightness to the words. “I can’t imagine you ever giving up your thoughts. You cling to them, Arthur, like a child who insists on carting his blanket with him everywhere.”
He laughed, shaking his hea
d.
“I like logic,” he agreed. “But logic on Avalon is a scarce thing—even when you think you have a hold on it, it slips right through your fingers like grains of sand. You must be finding that out as well, now that you’ve been here awhile.”
Awhile. It felt like an eternity and a moment at once. I finished my glass of wine in a single gulp and set it aside.
Arthur held a hand out to me, and we both slipped off the boulder. He led me into the crush of fay and human bodies. It became easy to let my guard down and let the music in, to let it work its way through me until my heartbeat became just another part of the song. In Camelot, Lady Grier, the dancing teacher, called me a gelding because of my clumsy steps, but when my body moved of its own accord to the fay music, I didn’t feel clumsy at all. I felt light and graceful, like my body wasn’t quite mine anymore but a part of the island itself, guided by wind and tides and stars.
I never let it take me too far, though, even if it meant pinching the soft underside of my arm every few minutes to clear the fog that draped over my mind. The crowd pulsed in time to the music, like we were one heart, one body. The faces blurred together—most of them strange and fay, their eyes gliding over me like I wasn’t quite there. I was grateful for Arthur’s hand around mine, an anchor in the madness. Even when I couldn’t see him, I knew he was there.
Every so often, among the shifting crowd, I caught a glimpse of Morgana’s violet cat eyes or Guinevere’s red mess of curls. I tried to pull Arthur toward them, but they slipped from view whenever we got too close.
Arthur’s hand was pulled from mine by the pulsing crowd, and panic flashed through me, laced with the dull haziness of the fey’s energy. It was both terrifying and intoxicating, too much and not enough. My body moved to the music without my mind’s consent, drawing me into the moment and blurring everything before and after. My mind grew fuzzy, but the edges were still sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to know that there were too many people—too many strangers—too little space around me. I couldn’t breathe, a weight on my chest forcing the air from my lungs. The world around me spun. Faces blended together. Everything moved slowly and jerkily.
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