Page 8 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Agnes was watching Bridget like she could read her mind. Bridget misliked that look. What had Gwen told her about Bridget’s recent silence? Nothing good, that was for certain.

Sidney discarded the ravaged turkey bone. “He’s still heartbroken actually, but since he managed to get out of bed he’s been weirdly cheerful about it. Keeps trying to get me to go on nature walks with him and look at nuts and stuff. He’s actually read a book. I think he’s having some kind of breakdown.”

“Sounds like he’s fine,” Bridget said, and Sidney laughed hollowly.

“Didn’t you hear me? Heread a book. On purpose. He found a feather on the ground and told me I had to go to the library and look up what bird it came from for him, cos the library is enemy territory.”

“And did you?” prompted Elaine.

“Nah,” said Sidney. “I just told him it was from a white stork, and then it turned out they’re bloody extinct, and he got all excited and said we needed to tell someone. Luckily he gave that up. He wasn’t sure who’d care except the king.”

“Can’t he go back to his house in Maidvale instead of trying to avoid the king in his own castle?” asked Adah. “He’s lord of the manor now, with his dad in exile.”

“He says just thinking about it gives him a stomachache,” said Agnes. “And thank goodness, because then Sidney would go too, and I’d have to stay at court without him until we’re married.” Bridget tried not to get involved in the love lives of others, but the one thing she did know was that Agnes’s parents didnotapprove of Sidney Fitzgilbert.

“And if you two stop licking each other’s teeth for eight seconds,” Adah said solemnly, “you’ll both expire.”

Agnes wrinkled her nose, but Sidney smiled fondly down at her, obviously besotted in a way that made Bridget need to look away.

“We miss you,” Elaine said, reaching over to tap Bridgetlightly on the knuckles. “If you’re done here, why don’t you come back to Camelot for a spell?”

Bridget shook her head. “I’m not… ready, yet.”

Sidney squinted at her. “What the hell does that even mean?”

If only Bridget knew, she’d have told him.

Five

Council meetings were a sort of liminal space, an in-between world in which time refused to pass, and despite the plethora of words spoken, nothing was actually said. The new council room was pleasant enough—high ceilings, pillars of gray stone, large windows through which daylight softly filtered—it had once been used for summer dining, before Gabriel had ordered it repurposed. His favorite days were the ones where vast swathes of time were dedicated to his own agenda items, or he brought in an expert to enlighten the council about things such as literacy rates in small hamlets (nonexistent) or how topography affected harvest yields (greatly!).

Unfortunately, the primary topic of conversation was usually about declining public opinion and keeping various lords of the land happy, or the pressing matter of marriage and heirs, and it was excruciating.

Gabrielknewhow important this was. Change was never easy, and he’d asked for a lot of it. He’d been naive. He’d beentoo hopeful. He’d also been a bit in love, which had maybe made him a little stupid.

It had all come back to haunt him in every meeting.

“Lord Birdsley has written to say that he has conducted his own research, and believes the amorous letters between King Arthur and Sir Lancelot to be a forgery,” said Lord Best, one of the old guard Gabriel had retained from his father’s council. He was a gray-haired man in his sixties, with huge sway among the traditionalists in the court and almost nothing good to say about anything. “He says that the new freedom-to-love laws are ungodly and a sign that the king has lost his way.”

“Add it to the pile then,” Lord Das said evenly. Gabriel exchanged a brief and grateful look with him.

“My lord, with all due respect—”

“Lord Best, I appreciate the fact that you tirelessly bring these letters to the king at least once a week, but I would remind you that we consider the matter settled. We will not renege on the freedom laws. Have it entered into the records accordingly and then, as I said, add it to the pile.”

Gabriel was grateful to Lord Das for his intervention, and for his surety. He wished he had some more of that. It had been so much change, so fast, and the shock had mobilized people to anger. He’d had his first panic attack after a man had come to one of his few public audiences last winter and shouted at him, unperturbed by guards, that he was a disgrace to his father and unwell in the head to boot. Perhaps he should have let things build slowly, a years-long drip into a stalagmite of progress.

“If we’d only settle the matter of marriage and succession,” Lord Best said, still pushing, “find a good Catholic girl from a pious noble family of significance, perhaps even a princess from the continent, and then—”

The door flew open, and Lady Oakley came rushing in, holding her usual enormous stack of parchment. Gwen was with her, also holding parchment for some reason, looking far too pleased with herself for ten o’clock in the morning.

Gabriel immediately felt the need to excuse himself to use the privy, but he’d used that trick one too many times, and at this point everybody on the council either knew he was hiding from them or thought he had extensive bowel troubles.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Oakley said, “there has been another Arthurian… occurrence.”

“Hold on,” said Sir Hurst, the Captain of the Household Guard. “You are very late, Lady Oakley, and we were just about to discuss provisions for—”

“It’s important,” said Gwen, dismissing him with a wave of her hand as she and Lady Oakley sat down. Gabriel wished she wouldn’t pull rank like that, but shewasthe princess, so everybody shut up.