Page 6 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“Sorry,” Gabriel said, his classic opener, something that Gwen and Lord Das were trying to train him out of.

Arthur’s mouth quirked in the most painfully gentle smile. His dark brows could be wicked when he wanted them to be, but there was something soft about them right now that made Gabriel want to run for cover.

“For what? Walking the halls of your own castle? How could you, you mad fiend.” Gabriel couldn’t do anything but look pained in response. “Oh, sorry—I didn’t bow. You sort of ambushed me.”

“Don’t,” Gabriel said quickly. “Please.”

“I don’t see what the point of becoming an all-powerful, ordained-by-God dictator is if you’re not going to make people do a little clowning whenever they bump into you.”

“Mmm.”

It was Arthur’s turn to grimace, although he kept it subtle and polite, two words that Gabriel would never have used to describe him before. He fiddled briefly with the sleeve of his jacket, glanced out of the window into the courtyard, and then cleared his throat.

“You know,youbrokemyheart,” Arthur said, levity ruined by the strain in his tone and the tight lines of his angular jaw, “and yetI’mthe one who’s funny and charming whenever our paths cross, while you just stand there like a bale of hay. It’s not very sportsmanlike, is it? I should be the one sulking, and you should be offering me pity crumbs.”

He was right. Of course he was. And Gabriel did feel horrible about it—but he’d done it for Arthur’s own good. Gabriel was the one still stuck in the mire; Arthur was happy and free. That was what you did when you loved someone but you were too broken to deserve them. You let them go.

The trouble was, Gabriel had no idea how to be smiley and amicable with somebody who’d once kissed him and changed everything, now that there was a vast pit of unsaid things between them. He offered Arthur a weary smile and a shrug. “You know I’m not good with… people.”

“I’m not ‘people,’” Arthur whipped back, sharper than usual, and Gabriel flinched. Arthur seemed to notice; he sighed, like he was frustrated with himself. “I mean… Gwen frequently says I’m actually some sort of changeling goblin.”

“You know, you don’t have to make jokes,” Gabriel offered, but this was wrong too, because it felt as if Arthur moved away from him even though he hadn’t taken a step.

“Actually, if I stop, I’ll die.”

He was smiling again. To a stranger it would look entirely plausible, but Gabriel knew it was all for show. The pale scar that curved out from under the hair at his temple caught the light as his gaze dropped to the floor—one of many reminders their bodies held in common of all that had happened last year.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He gestured at the hallway past Gabriel, and then he did bow; it only lasted two seconds, but Gabriel hated each of them with violent fervor.

He was relieved when Arthur walked away.

The silence after he was gone was unendurable.

Four

There was an air of hysteria at Dunstable that had existed long before anyone cared to paint the Leclair sigil on their face and beg for Bridget’s signature. The tiltyards there regularly hosted knights of note, and the thought that at any moment you might turn a corner and bump into a living legend or a rising star gave everybody the jitters.

Bridget had been the same the first time she’d competed, sixteen and feeling like she was a child in her father’s armor, despite the fact that everything had been perfectly crafted to fit her frame. She’d gone to sign up, and on her way out of the administrative tent had passed Sirs Leonard and Bowen, one golden-haired and one raven, talking to each other in confidential tones, Sir Leonard’s hand on Sir Bowen’s shoulder.

She’d tried not to stare, but it had been hard. Sir Leonard had been around five-and-twenty then, pretty with an easy smile, rising through the ranks as if he’d been launched by trebuchet; Sir Bowen was already the favorite on the circuit,a little older and steadier, classically handsome, loved by all (but especially women of middle age). To hear them in casual conversation, to be close enough to see the long, raised halberd scar on Sir Bowen’s russet neck and the oiled gloss of Sir Leonard’s long, flaxen hair… It was enough to make Bridget duck her head and smile nervously, which felt like a wildly embarrassing display of emotion.

This year, they had both introduced themselves on Bridget’s first day in York, at the start of the season. Sir Bowen, a sensitive soul who had tired of his celebrity, had immediately begun commiserating with her about the price of fame. Sir Leonard was more likely to tut at both of them and shake his head, order another round of ales, and tell them to cheer up or go home, if it was so terribly hard to be beloved.

“Have you heard what everyone’s saying?” Sir Leonard said, appearing at Bridget’s side in the competitors’ tent, set up like a makeshift inn. He would not mention Bridget’s forfeit. Neither of them ever did.

“I try not to,” Bridget said, as the innkeeper handed her a flagon of weak ale.

“I know. You’re exceptionally honorable. I hope it’s not catching.”

“Leo,” Sir Bowen said in gentle reproof, appearing at Sir Leonard’s shoulder, inevitable. He was Welsh, every word he spoke pleasingly soft around the edges. “You wear your lack of principles like a feathered helm, when you should keep it hidden—”

“Like shameful hosen.” Sir Leonard smirked, delighted with himself, and Sir Bowen sighed and held up his fingers to order two drinks. The innkeeper, unable to hide his admiration, jumped to oblige. “Anyway. There’s agirlentering the lists.”

“A lady,” Sir Bowen corrected.

“No, Bow. A girl. She can’t be a day over sixteen. Little scrap of a thing, but Sir Emner said she rides like a demon. Some tolerant lord’s youngest daughter.”