Page 17 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

He’d dressed up for the occasion in dark, rich blues that made his skin glow, the very picture of a romantic hero—and Gabriel had tea on his tunic and mud on his trousers. How was it that he wasliterallythe king and he still always felt like he was the one getting everything wrong? The feeling transcended both God and office.

“I don’t think we actually summoned anyone to this room specifically,” said Lady Oakley, glancing over at the table still under construction, “so perhaps we could all retire to our quarters or go and be… elsewhere for a while, and then when the time is right—”

“Leclair! Oh, thank God,” Arthur said, going over to her and clapping her soundly on the back, which she took in good humor, giving him a single pat in return like he was a dog and she was slightly allergic. “I’ve missed these shoulders. You all right? You smell like a dead puddle.”

Lady Oakley cleared her throat. “As I was saying—”

“Lord Florian Arden, Your Majesty,” the attendant shouted in a rush. Everybody turned around; Florian had entered through a small side door, which had confused proceedings entirely. There was actually no telling how long he’d been standing there, with the attendants all facing the wrong way.

He didn’t look much like his father. He was tall, with inky black curls and wary eyes under thickset brows. There was something quite Mediterranean about him; he reminded Gabriel of a Greek sculpture, if someone had decided to fashion one intended to capture the emotion of suspicion.

He gave a short bow, as if he didn’t want to take his eyes off all of them for too long.

“Cousin?” Gabriel said in greeting, not meaning for it to sound like a question. He knew who his cousin was. Or who was… the son of his father’s second cousin by marriage, which was too much in the way of cousin mathematics to be reasonable.

“Your Majesty. It seems we’re all… arriving,” said Florian, looking around at the others and nodding. Gabriel couldn’t imagine how he felt, surrounded by his father’s enemies. Bridget had killed the man, for God’s sake, and she was standing only ten feet away. Did Florian know? If he did, he wasn’t letting on.

Lady Oakley seemed politely concerned. “Lord Arden, was there nobody to greet you? I will send someone to ensure your attendants know where to bring your things, and then show you to your chambers personally.”

“I brought no attendants,” said Florian. “Thank you. I will carry my own things.”

As somebody who wished pretty much everybody wouldleave him alone almost all of the time, Gabriel respected this, even if it seemed to cause Lady Oakley some consternation.

Florian bowed again and exited, and Gabriel clapped his hand on his thigh, about to say, “Right then,” to convey that this social occasion had concluded, before he was interrupted.

“Oh no, he’ssohandsome,” someone blurted out in a loud whisper. In this high-ceilinged and mostly empty room, it carried.

It appeared to have been Bridget’s teenaged squire, because she was leveling a glare at him that would have caused Gabriel to abdicate the throne at once had it been aimed in his direction. The squire didn’t seem too perturbed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “But he is.”

“No, no, you’re right,” said Arthur. “Don’t apologize for calling a spade a spade. Or… a dish a dish, as the case may be.”

“Arthur,” Gwen hissed reprovingly. Gabriel wondered if this was an attempt to defend his heart, or honor, but of course there was no need. Arthur could think Gabriel’s father’s second cousin by marriage’s son was beautiful. Why not? Things couldn’t get much worse.

“I wasn’t the one who said it!” Arthur protested. “I was just thinking it. As were we all.”

“Everybody to your chambers,” Lady Oakley said loudly, doing the same sort of chivvying clap Gabriel had attempted and achieving much better results. “New arrivals, the staff will show you the way, and you can get settled in. We will reconvene when all is ready.”

Gabriel knew he wasn’t included in this directive but, king or not, he was all too happy to be sent to his room.

Nine

The first time Bridget laid eyes on Gwen, she’d been squiring for a friend of her father’s, a knight of middle age and middling ability who called her “girl” and rolled his eyes if she let one of his lances dip even slightly when she was handing it up to him. Squiring was a key part of the journey to becoming a knight, a period of servitude that was meant to build character and allow the initiate to get to know the lists.

It had been a particularly hard day at the tourney when Bridget’s gaze had wandered over to the royal stands and caught sight of a girl around her own age, with flaming red hair and a dress the color of shifting seas, chewing voraciously on her own fingernails.

She’d been pretty in a way that Bridget knew men did not seem to see; tall, boyish in attitude, with a striking, freckled face, and everything about her long and slender and bony. Despite her finery, she didn’t hold herself like a princess, with none of that practiced, graceful stillness.

Bridget always liked it when people were contradictory by nature. Contrasts attracted her: a raspy voice from a soft mouth, surprise muscle beneath the silk of a dress; a royal girl with the posture of a stable boy, with impeccably turned-out hair and ragged nails at the end of large, square fingers.

Over the years, as both of them had grown (Gwen taller, Bridget broader), she had found herself watching for that hair, a lucky flash of red on a Sunday. A few times she’d discovered Gwen looking back.

When Bridget had last seen Gwen, bidding her farewell with a lingering kiss as she left for the summer tournament season full of misplaced confidence, the princess had been thin and hollow-eyed with grief, but just as strangely beautiful as she’d always been.

Now Gwen had cut her hair. This was the first shock. Bridget had loved that hair. It fell down her back when unbound, always smelled like the first spray of juice from freshly cut fruit, and was unbelievably soft, a waterfall running through her fingers. This new haircut was defiant in the face of the fashions of court, where long hair among the ladies reigned supreme, with Gwen’s coveted even by the girls who’d hated her.

She looked more solid too, like she’d been eating a few extra helpings at supper, perhaps even lifting heavy things. This was most confusing of all. Bridget couldn’t think of anything Gwen might be lifting on a regular basis that was heavier than her brother’s cat.