Page 1 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

One

In one of the many anterooms that surrounded the royal council chambers at Camelot, there stood a large, ornate wardrobe that was rarely ever touched. It had apparently once been used to house cloaks, because somebody had left one behind, its scarlet velvet now webbed and pilled with ashy dust. The rest of the wardrobe was empty. It smelled like camphor and rodent, and the door didn’t quite shut properly, letting in a thin, gold line of candlelight.

King Gabriel knew all of this because he was sitting inside it, having a panic attack.

It had become his preferred location to panic, if he was unable to retreat to his own bedchamber. The darkness quieted his mind, and the fragrant wood against his back was soothing. He hoped, one day, that he might see a mouse. Nothing could be better for a panic attack than the appearance of a lovely mouse.

Somebody entered the anteroom.

Gabriel lifted his head from where it had been resting on his upper arm, and slowed his breathing to a steady shudder.

“Your Majesty?”

It was Lord Ali Das, one of his councillors, the Master of Trade. He had a very relaxing voice. Gabriel enjoyed listening to it during long meetings. He didn’t waste words, like some of the other members of his council. He was also the youngest, except for Gabriel, who often felt like a silly boy king, surrounded by giants.

“Sire,” Lord Das said gently. “I saw you walk in here, and the guards didn’t see you leave. The most logical explanation is that you’re still somewhere in this room, but as that seems unlikely, I’m going to keep looking for you. I imagine I’ll be back here in about… ten or twenty seconds.”

Footsteps, as he walked away.

Gabriel sighed, banged his elbow on the door, and unfolded himself out of the wardrobe. He had grown somewhat used to compensating for the loss of the lower half of his left arm—a battle wound that still felt fresh some days, thirteen months after the amputation—but could never predict when the scattered pinpricks of pain might strike along the scarred tissue, white-hot like bolts of lightning.

The candlelight felt too bright out here, the air too close. His heart was beating at a heady gallop. Could you die of panic? Probably. He’d have to ask the castle Wizard.

“Ah,” said Lord Das, re-entering the room and smiling pleasantly. He had moat-green eyes, rich brown skin, and thick, black hair that curled down to the nape of his neck. Around five-and-thirty, and soothingly handsome. “Your Majesty. I must have just missed you.”

“I was hiding in the cupboard,” Gabriel said miserably.

“I know,” said Lord Das. “I was giving you the opportunity to pretend that you were not… hiding in the cupboard.”

“Thanks,” said Gabriel. “Sorry.”

“Her Royal Highness was under the impression that you might have slipped away to attend to other matters, and that we should continue without you.”

“I wasn’t attending to anything.”

Lord Das smiled again. “What you get up to in the cupboard is your own business.”

“Do you think it’s all… in hand?” Gabriel waved toward the door, in the general direction of the council chambers. He was thinking longingly of his bed, his cat curled up on the other pillow, the blankets piled up and the window cracked to let in the last summer breeze.

“I think we can get through one day of wildly improbable conspiracy theories without you. It is not the best use of an agile mind anyway.”

“Very good.”

Gabriel was halfway out the door when Lord Das cleared his throat. “You know, you don’t have to hide in cupboards. You’re the king. If you don’t want to do something, you simply don’t have to do it.”

What he didn’t understand was that Gabriel actuallywantedto be in the council meetings, in theory; he wanted to be on top of everything, to have something wise and clever to add to every discussion, to solve the problems that felt unsolvable. For a while, he’d felt good at it. Getting on with things. Making decisions. The aftermath of his father’s death had filled him with a strange sense of calm—the worst had happened, and here he still was, running a country. Putting one foot in front of the other, one matter of state after the next.

Whatever that strange magic had been—shock, or perhaps denial—it hadn’t lasted. Lately, it often felt like his head was full of flies, and his tongue was the apple they were filling with worms. Today was a worm day.

Back in his chambers, he found Merlin Lucifer the ginger tomcat curled up on the end of the bed with his front legs sticking up at odd angles, asleep with his eyes slightly open in a way that was very unnerving. It was a relief to lie down, not bothering to remove his jacket, and place his hand on the cat’s back so that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his ribs, his fishy breath soft and grounding.

An hour later, he awoke to the sound of his door crashing open.

Princess Gwendoline, scourge of the privy council, came stalking into the room. She was a little more solid than she’d been this time last year, secretly muscled in the shoulders, less pointy-faced, and even more freckled. On her nineteenth birthday, she’d cut two feet off her flaming red hair so that it fell to just below her shoulders. Agnes, her lady-in-waiting, had begged her not to do it with tears in her eyes. The queen mother had almost fainted. To be fair, it didn’t take a lot to get Gwen and Gabriel’s mother to faint these days.

“Have you seen this?” Gwen said, flopping onto the other side of the bed, accidentally dislodging Merlin Lucifer, who made a disgruntledekof a noise and escaped to a nearby armchair.

Gabriel took a crumpled piece of parchment from her. It was a notice proclaiming the results of a competitive tournament in Kent.