Page 105 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“Yeah,” said Bridget. “Probably. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it.”

“We could create a new order,” Lady Oakley said thoughtfully, already running public relations schemes in her head. “People do love it when younamethings.”

“Well,” Gabriel said, “army of knights aside, I suppose the wider question is about whether we’re making things… harder for people, instead of better.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the question actually,” said Master Buchanan. “Because then mankind would never achieve any progress at all. Moving forward is always difficult. No, what you’re doing here is giving people achoice.”

“And it’s not like half the people who are different can hide it anyway,” said Bridget. “Don’t back down, don’t give in. If we don’t do it, someone else has to—someone without all the luck and protection that we have—and that’s not fair.”

“So that’s your answer?” Gabriel said, unable to keep the question out of his voice. “Keep going. Stay the course, and damn the naysayers.”

“Feel smug and accomplished,” Arthur added, “when they kill us in our beds.”

“All right,” Gabriel said, looking around at the circle of grim and determined faces. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Their council broke up, and they began to walk up the beach together. Gwen came to Gabriel’s side, touched his arm, and said, “You’re getting so good at this.”

“I am?” Gabriel tried for a smile, and it actually felt right. “It’s not what our father would have done.”

“No,” Gwen agreed. They fell into step with each other, slightly apart from the others. “No, it’s not. But don’t you sometimes think, recently, that maybe…”

“Maybe he wasn’t a perfect person after all?” Gabriel supplied quietly.

“Yes,” Gwen said, with a breath of relief. “Exactly. Maybe his way wasn’t the only way to do this.”

“Maybe he was even… wrong, sometimes.”

Gwen laughed sadly. “I think he probably was. And I think that’s all right, isn’t it?”

It was true. His father hadn’t been perfect; Gabriel needn’t be either. So perhaps therewasno one right way to do this. And they were in uncharted territory now. Forging their own path. Gabriel had to trust his gut, and his friends. It hurt without his father there to guide him—but perhaps that was a sort of freedom too. It would have to be enough.

Arthur, who seemed to have been holding something in as he walked behind Bridget, suddenly burst out, “Please let me fix your hair, Leclair. I learned all sorts of things when mine was growing back weird—you can sort of hide it with ingenious layering.”

“I don’t want to fix it,” Bridget said. “I want to shave it.”

Arthur looked despairing. “Well, I don’t know how to shave hair. I can do beards. Is it like beards?”

Sidney, who had been walking behind him, dramatically rolled up his sleeves. “My time to shine.”

“No,” Arthur said. “You can’t lethimdo it, he’ll shave a penis into it or something. Adah will do it. She shaves her own head all the time.”

“I only shave mine,” said Adah. “Can’t do anyone else’s. Sorry. It’s a weird thing, like muscle memory or something. Might cut a bit of your face off.”

“I’ll do it. And I’ll only do a penis if youwanta penis,” said Sidney, retrieving his knife from his belt and checking the edge with a squint. “Do you want a penis?”

“Probably not.”

“All right,” Sidney said grandly, “then I won’t.”

Forty-Four

Then Sir Bridget Leclair, pure of heart and bare of head, did receive the gift of the Holy Grail, a divine cup of sublimity and power adorned all over with gems precious to mankind, and in all her grace she knew it to be goodly, and did desire to use it well.

—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OFTHE QUESTS OF KING GABRIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLEBY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN

Bridget was slow getting up in the morning; slow putting on her clothes, slow calling for Neil, and he followed her lead, gently buckling her into her armor, trying to avoid jostling her bruises, and apologizing when he did anyway, despite the fact that Bridget never flinched.

Her head felt cold. Sidney had been a surprisingly gentle barber, sitting her down by the fire and cutting her hair first in large swathes and then in smaller increments, running his blade over the contours of her skull until she had less than a quarter of an inch left, a little crop of dark fuzz that made her feel like a puppy or a duckling. She kept touching it, surprised by the texture every time, how light her head felt, the sensation of cool wind against the exposed tips of her ears.