Page 28 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“That was great,” said Arthur. “I really needed that. It might actually have completely fixed me.”

“Doubt it,” said Bridget, straightening her tunic. “If it wears off and you need someone to punch you in the face, you know where I am.”

Thirteen

In the circular parade of anxious thoughts that plagued Gabriel every night when he lay in bed, Merlin Lucifer the cat was usually being fatally chased by his father’s hunting dogs. Other times, Gwen fell from a parapet quite by accident. Sometimes it was Arthur who died, for no particular reason at all. On days when meetings had been particularly taxing, it was the people of England who suffered. Famine, plague. Gabriel ran endless scenarios in which he mismanaged it all. Howling widows threw dung at him in the streets; imaginary children came to him, hollow-eyed and starving, and begged to know why he’d let their fathers die.

It was impossible not to slip into the fast-flowing river of these thoughts, and so he gave in to them, and slept horribly, and carried a gnawing sense of guilt around with him at all times, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong.

Going to bed early in the largest and therefore coldestroom at the inn had just meant more time to ruminate. He was almost catatonic with exhaustion when he staggered downstairs the next morning, too early, to find Sir Florian sitting at the table by the light of a candle, nursing a hot cup of something dark and reading through a pile of papers.

He stood up when he saw Gabriel (horrible) and only sat again once Gabriel was seated too (even more horrible).

“Nobody seems to be awake yet,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I made this myself. Would you like some? It’s dreadful.”

Gabriel tried for a smile, but as Florian looked slightly frightened, immediately ceased. “Will it wake me up?”

“Rudely, I’m afraid, Your Majesty.”

“Then yes please.”

While he was gone, Gabriel pulled one of the pieces of parchment toward him. He glimpsed something about the royal party departing amidst a “chorus of trumpets” and immediately pushed it away again, feeling like he’d pried.

“It’s all right,” Florian said, returning with another cup and placing it next to Gabriel’s hand. “You can read it, if you like. It’s not very good yet.”

“You’ll be documenting everything?” Gabriel said, grabbing the cup and releasing it again when it attempted to remove his fingerprints. Florian must have had hands like fire tongs.

“Scribe’s obligation,” said Florian. “You’ll have final say of course, before it’s entered into the record books.”

“And lost forever,” said Gabriel, “as I’m the only person who reads them.” He realized a second too late that this might be construed as slightly insulting to the man whose writing would be consigned to a shelf in the castle library until it was swaddled in a veritable dust duvet. “Oh, er—sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Florian grimaced. “LadyOakley actually asked me about… publishing it, in part. Distributing it.”

“Good God.” She hadn’t runthatpast him yet, probably still perfecting the right approach to get him to agree. The expense alone would be astronomical, but perhaps the benefits of royal propaganda outweighed the fortune spent on parchment and scribes. Gabriel couldn’t imagine it would help. Then again, he was hardly an expert on how to make people like him. “It can’t be a very inspiring read so far. We traveled for about four hours and then had to stop at an inn because I was feeling peaky.”

“There’s no problem there,” said Florian, taking up his work and scanning it until he found a particular line. He pushed it across the table and tapped the first word, inked in his unbearably neat calligraphy.

“Then King Gabriel spurred his horse, until he came with his knights to the Horse and Grail, and supped at his leisure to fortify them all for the mighty quest to come…This isn’t quite how it happened though, is it? I rode with medium force, at best.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t be quite right to record it like that. This sort of thing has a very particular style.”

Gabriel braved a sip of tea, and found it to be impressively bitter. “Then King Gabriel felt a bit sick on his horse and rode with sweaty palm, until he came with his knights to the Horse and Grail, and went to bed early.”

Florian smiled. It was only a glimpse of a smile, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was permitted, and was used to being careful about such things.

“I usually write fiction,” he said, probably feeling the need to offer something personal in return for Gabriel’s sleep-deprived babbling about his tummy aches. “Poems too.”

“Knights and quests?”

“No, they’re… er… about ordinary people.”

“Peasants?” Gabriel said, hearing the surprise in his voice and then feeling very ashamed of it. “I mean, that sounds… that’s nice.”

“Not usually, actually. My father said it was violently depressing.”

It was impossible to bring fathers into this conversation without things becoming very awkward, and they did, instantly. Gabriel took another molten sip and then nodded stupidly.

“I ought to—”