Page 13 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“Yep,” said Bridget. “Go for it.”

“What if the contents are private?”

“Then we’ll just have to become very good friends.”

He didn’t laugh. The scroll was unfurled, and the man leaned toward his failing lamp so that he could read aloud.

“The Lady Bridget Leclair of House Leclair is hereby invited by His Majesty King Gabriel to swear an oath of chivalry and take up a seat at his round table, to serve Camelot and the kingdom with fealty and honor.And then—and then there is a note written after, signed with the seal of the king, but I am not sure—”

“Go on,” said Bridget. She had moved closer to both man and scroll as he read from it, as if she were being drawn in by the gravity of this moment. Even with mud under her fingernails and rain running down the back of her neck, there was something akin to magic in the air. Neil could feel it too. He’d stopped scowling, at any rate.

The man cleared his throat, looking pained.

“It says, in I believe His Majesty’s hand,Only if you’re interested, Bridget, but honestly, no worries if not.”

Seven

And King Gabriel faced many who cried out against his wisdom and therewithal invited all manner of mighty and hardy fighters of high and low blood to meet with him at Camelot, to raise them to be seneschals of England.

And I was also invited for some reason.

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

Inviting people to join your round table was somewhat akin to asking them to come to your birthday party. In both cases, the fact of being royal guaranteed that at least some of the invitees would show up, but Gabriel was still seized with worry that the majority would decide they had something better to do. The year he’d turned ten his parents had insisted on throwing an enormous feast, and all the other noble children had spent the entire evening playing a game outside that neither he nor Gwen had been asked to join. Arthur had been included of course. Gabriel remembered him running past the window leading a marauding gang, already charming all who crossed his path.

Gabriel hadn’t even wanted that feast, and he didn’t really want this round table either.

It had been a few days since the summons, so most of the messengers had probably found their targets. Gabriel had considered asking the new court physician, Master Truman, if he knew of some completely safe way for him to spend the next five days forcibly asleep. Gwen had caught wind of this, and suggested that she’d hit him over the head with a big rock if needed.

Today she was nowhere to be seen. Gabriel breakfasted alone in his study, went to the library, peered at the pages of some books without registering a single word on them, then decided to take some fresh air, to see if it might help unmuddle his mind.

It was a clear, cool morning in September, the leaves brown at the edges, the furry sweet chestnuts about ready to drop. Gabriel usually liked autumn and winter, because as the weather worsened, it was less reasonable for people to ask him to do things outside.

He looped the orchard first, a few uneven laps beneath the trees laden with fruit all the colors of sunrise, and then found himself approaching the walled rose garden.

It offered more privacy than anywhere else in the Camelot grounds. He and Arthur had enjoyed plenty of evenings there early in their courtship, but he’d spent just as much time sitting there with Gwen, sharing memories of their father, or just existing together in silence through the seasons as the flowers bloomed and died around them. Every first without their father, however small, had left him winded. The king hadn’t even liked this garden—too neat, too formal—and yet the fact that he hadn’t seen the hellebores blossom was unendurable.

The door was slightly ajar, so Gabriel slipped inside and then froze.

Voices. Gwen at first, and then, after a pause, Arthur. Theymust have been sitting on one of the benches tucked into the far corner, obscured by the greenery and the well-worn statue of King Arthur that presided over the place. The polite thing to do would be to either announce himself or flee.

“Do you ever listen to yourself talk about this and think, Oh my God, I amsoboring?” That was Arthur. It was always a thrill to hear his voice, even if Gabriel couldn’t respond. Pathetic.

Gwen’s reply was flat. “Um. Thanks.”

“No, shut up, I mean—that’s what I think aboutmyself. When I take a second to think about it, it’s like… okay, move on! Sometimes you nearly die and you get a horrible haircut, and then you nearly die againandthe guy you’ve been hitting it off with nearly dies, and then he becomes king and breaks up with you, andthenhe demands you join him on a very intense road trip. These things happen every day.”

It was still a shock to hear events summarized thus, even though Gabriel had been there too.

“I’m glad the bad haircut ranks up there with everything else.”

“I mean, it was an abomination.”

“Truly.”

There was quiet. Gabriel considered leaving again, and noticed he still hadn’t moved.

“Sometimes I do actually consider going back to Maidvale. Take up my father’s seat, get away from this haunted castle. You could come too. We could renovate. Burn it down, start afresh. Hey—maybe we should getmarried.”