Galahad’s bed chamber had no tapestries.
I sat up slowly and let the pieces of that night return in whatever order they came: the assault, then the binding fracturing, and the cold exploding outward from my hands in a wave I couldn’t direct or stop. I remembered the ice on the floor, ice on Galahad’s face, and the guards flooding the doorway, too afraid to enter. I remembered the corridor lit with torchlight and full of faces, all of them frightened. Of me.
Then I remembered Tristan walking through the storm and his hand on my arm. I could remember the warmth of his chest when my legs stopped working, the way he spoke into my hair, how his voice was low and steady. Some syllables I didn’t understand, and I assumed he was speaking his native language. But the ice stopped forming, the air warmed, and my hands unclenched from whatever shape terror had made them.
Then I remembered Mordred’s hands on my temples. I touched the inside of my wrist where the binding sat like a second pulse, muffled rather than strangled this time.
Then Lance and Galahad.
And that was when I forced myself to stop remembering because remembering hurt too much.
A knock sounded at the door, which was strange because it was still the early hours of the morning. What was more, it wasn’t a guard’s knock; there was no sharp authority in it and no warning. It was something much lighter.
Before I could even think of getting up and out of bed, the door opened a few inches.
“I’ve brought you breakfast,” a woman’s voice sounded from behind the door. “May I come in?”
“Yes,” I said.
She walked through the door, and I felt my heart drop and then speed up when I recognized her. Isolde. But what was she doing here, in my borrowed chamber? I felt my brows furrowing as I watched her enter. There was a gown folded over one of her arms and a tray balanced on the other. She put both down on my bed and then stood up as she gave me a smile. She was wearing practical boots, and her auburn braid was loosening at the nape: those were the first two things I noticed about her. Then I noticed she wasn’t dressed for court. It appeared she was dressed for somewhere else entirely and had detoured here.
I didn’t know what to say and allowed my gaze to travel to the tray she’d brought. Bread. Cheese. Dried fruit and a cup of something steaming. Probably tea. The smell arrived before I could organize a response to it. It was real, warm, the kind of breakfast Galahad’s Drenath regime had made theoretical. My hands moved toward the tray before I’d decided to move them, and realizing what I was doing, I pulled them back. My stomach cramped in protest.
Isolde noticed, or at least I thought she did, but she didn’t comment. She slid the tray closer and said, “Eat first. We can talk after... if you’re obliged.”
I ate because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had breakfast. Not only that, but a hearty one such as the breakfast she’d brought me. I intended to eat with dignity, but four bites in, the hunger overrode the intention, and I tore the bread with both hands and closed my eyes, and the performance of restraint collapsed entirely.
She looked at the fire, which was now out, and gave me the window of not being watched. That simple gift was so unexpected that something tightened in my throat, and I had to stop chewing until it passed. When the tray was empty, I wiped my hands on the sheet and looked at her.
“Why are you here?”
“First, I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Isolde... from Corbenic.” No title. No framing. Just a name and a place.
“I know who you are.”
She gave me a smile, and I figured it was only polite that I introduce myself, even though I was sure she already knew who I was as well. “I’m Guinevere, Arthur’s prisoner and Merlin’s daughter. You might refer to me as a spy or a witch.”
She gave me an apologetic smile, and I realized I was being ungrateful. “I’m happy to refer to you by your given name, Guinevere.”
“Why... why did you come?”
She was quiet for a few seconds as she appeared to be processing my question. She then tapped her long fingers against her full mouth.
“Because... quite simply... I couldn’t not come.” I frowned, and she continued. “I came because I heard about what happened the other night; of course, the whole castle heard about what happened the other night, but I thought someone should bring you breakfast… someone who wasn’t a guard or a politician or a man with an agenda.” She paused. “Someone who wasn’t a man at all.”
I looked at her.
“Why?” I asked again. My tone wasn’t necessarily suspicious, but genuinely curious. I’d spent too long in a world built from secrets and lies to accept kindness without examining its load-bearing walls.
She considered the question, taking it seriously rather than deflecting it. “Because when I arrived at Camelot, the entire court was discussing the captured spy. The dangerous witch. The infiltrator.” She paused. “And the other night, the dangerous witch’s magic exploded from a room where she was locked alone with a man known for extreme religious devotion and a particular hatred of female magic users. And yesterday we learned she was covered with bruises all over her body.” Her voice stayed even throughout, which said this wasn’t performed outrage. “I grew up managing an estate,” she continued. “And I know what happens to women who are locked in rooms with men who believe they have divine permission to do whatever they want.” I swallowed hard, and she held up a hand. “I didn’t come here for the details. I already know the shape of it and that’s enough.”
The words arrived without drama, and I had no defense prepared for words without drama. I’d been braced for pity orcuriosity or the specific horror people wear when they want to be seen reacting. Isolde offered none of those things.
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded as she picked up the gown she’d earlier draped over the bed. It was dark blue, and the cut was slightly out of fashion but still well-made, good wool, with long sleeves. It wasn’t in Corbenic’s green and gold, but it also wasn’t penitential gray. And that was something.
“This was mine,” she said. “And we’re close enough in size that I thought you might want something to wear that isn’t dull and also wasn’t chosen to humiliate you.”