Page 89 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“I know,” he whispered, reaching for Arthur’s hand and interlocking their fingers tightly against the bedclothes. “But thank you for saying it anyway.”

Later, when they were lying in Arthur’s bed under silks and furs, Arthur tracing soft nonsense into the skin on Gabriel’s shoulder, there was a loud, uneven rap at the door.

“Shit,” Arthur said, jumping up at once, pulling on clothesseemingly at random. Some of them were Gabriel’s. “Don’t come in, Sid.”

“It might not have been me,” Sidney said indignantly through the door, audibly drunk. “Come up to the roof, the wind’s stopped… winding. And bring Gabriel, cos I know he’s in there.”

Gabriel blushed, and he and Arthur helped each other dress properly, Gabriel exiting the room with one of Arthur’s too-loud cloaks flung reluctantly over his shoulders. They stumbled up the stairs, tired and stupid, laughing quietly at nothing and stopping to kiss in every convenient shadow.

Out on the battlements it was cold, but the clouds had been blown clean away before the wind died down, leaving a harsh, brilliant black sky, so vast that it made Gabriel feel wonderfully small. Someone had brought up cushions and blankets, a single lantern with a candle sputtering inside.

Gwen was already there, sitting with her legs tucked up and arms wrapped around her knees; she had Sir Leonard’s fur-trimmed cloak on, and he was sitting next to her, holding a flagon of wine and talking to Sir Florian, seeming completely unbothered by the frigid temperature. Adah and Bowen lay on their backs under thick furs, lazily pointing out the constellations, and Sidney and Agnes were taking in the view, petals still falling from their hair, Agnes wrapped tight within Sidney’s arms.

“That was a good wedding,” Sidney said happily. “I think I love having weddings. I think we should have another one, when we get home.”

“All right,” said Agnes. “But the Prince of Wales isn’t going to pay for all of them, Sid.”

“We’ll invite him,” Sidney said seriously. “And then maybe he might.”

“I lovelove,” said Sir Leonard, toasting himself, and perhaps the sky.

Arthur leaned back against Gabriel, then twisted his head to be kissed; they had only been doing so for maybe a few seconds when Sidney said, “Outrage! Scandal!” They broke apart to find him pointing at them. “Just kidding,” he said, dropping his arm. “I already knew.”

Gwen had turned to look at them, and Gabriel noticed that she seemed pink-faced and miserable, even in the dark. He let go of Arthur and went to sit by her—whispering, “What’s wrong, G?”—and Gwen slumped, weeping, into his arms.

Thirty-Five

The journey out of Wales was miserable.

The weather truly had turned, just like the Lady had said, and they awoke to frost on the ground and their breath crystalizing into clouds before them. There was an air of exhaustion about the party as they all gathered down in the ward. Gwen didn’t emerge until it was time to leave, and when she did, her hair was braided severely away from her face; she looked pinched and sleepless, and didn’t even glance in Bridget’s direction.

There was churning unease in Bridget’s stomach, her throat. She regretted… not what she’d said, necessarily, but how she’d said it. How it had hurt Gwen. Itwasunbelievable that she could so casually suggest Bridget throw away the work of her life… but there’d been no malice in it. Bridget had just been so very angry, and now that she’d had the night to stew, she realized she was also feeling immense disappointment. She didn’t want to be disappointed. That would mean she’d accepted whatSir Bowen had said might be true, and that could not be allowed to happen.

For his part, Bowen didn’t seem particularly upset with her. She found herself alongside him as they mounted their horses, and she said, “I didn’t mean to—” and he said, “Your belt’s on backward, Leclair,” and that was that.

“I lost you last night,” Neil said. “Where were you? I needed to borrow some money.”

“You’re my employee, Neil,” Bridget said tonelessly. “I’m not your father.”

“No,” said Neil, “and thank God. I need a firmer hand, I’ve been running amok.”

It took them two days to reach the next village on the schedule, during which Gwen kept a carefully calculated distance from Bridget at all times, always traveling with Gabriel, Arthur, or most likely both of them—they seemed to have finally made up, and were rarely not touching—and taking her meals apart.

By the time they reached the inn where they were to lodge, Bridget was dejected beyond speech, furious at herself, the world, and everyone in it. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night since the storm on the castle roof. Adah took one look at her face and suggested that they go for a run and then spar before dinner. Bridget trudged silently along a country track in her wake, and then, when they returned to the courtyard outside the inn, they traded blows back and forth until the sweat was pouring down Bridget’s forehead beneath her helm.

“All right,” Adah said, out of breath. “You’re scary today, I get it. You want to talk about it?”

Bridget knew what she was supposed to say, but still said, “No,” and then felt horrible about that too.

“Okay. Go fight Leonard or Bowen, because I’ve got nothing left to give.”

Leonard and Bowen could not be persuaded out from the glow of firesides and warm baths into the cold, so Bridget went and bathed too, then fetched food from downstairs to eat in her room and went to bed early, just for the sweet relief of no longer being conscious.

In the morning, she was surprised to find Sir Hurst at her door.

“You’re wanted for the school visit,” he said.

Bridget squinted past him out of the window; the watery sun was higher in the sky than she’d expected. She must have slept in.