Page 94 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“No,” Gabriel said gently. “We never would. And if you said yes, of course you could all come and live at Camelot, you, your wife, your son. We wouldn’t… we certainly wouldn’t ever expect you to part with him.”

Florian threw his gaze up to the ceiling and sat there, drumming his hands softly on the table, thinking. “I just don’t know,” he said finally. “I mean, we live a quiet life. As quiet as we can. Everything with my father… I wanted to keep my family away from it, from all of it. We barricaded ourselves into the house last summer, Sita didn’t sleep for weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said, wincing.

“And then eventually someone did come, and it was… to invite me here. And I thought perhaps it was a trick. She didn’t want me to come. But I thought maybe it could… change things for us, make it clear to you that I amnotmy father, so we wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“And I hope it has done,” said Gwen. “I trust you. I think we all do.”

“Thank you,” said Florian. “I think my answer is… that I will have to think about it. If that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” said Gwen. “And perhaps, after today, we’ll have the Holy Grail, and Gabriel will live forever as king, and we won’t be in any need of heirs after all.”

Gabriel, quite frankly, couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Thirty-Seven

It was one of those rare cold but sunny November mornings when they set out to find the Grail, the browning leaves and spiderwebs still bejeweled with frost where the rays hadn’t found them yet, the light giving everything a pearly pinkish glow.

It was only a little farther up the coast to the small seaside village that was their destination. It looked like it had grown organically into the crevice of the rock; harsh cliffs all around, the cove a small divot with a gradual slope to the sea, into which houses had been built at steep intervals, with a modest church at the center.

The inn was only big enough to house the royal household and a couple of additional knights. The rest of them were expected to lodge with a few families who had gladly volunteered to open their doors to knights of Camelot.

Bridget and Adah were staying with an elderly woman in a small cottage, who flirted blatantly and without shame from the moment they stepped through the door. She tooka particular shine to Adah, and kept offering to bring her drinks, and asking for help moving heavy items of furniture.

After supper at the inn, Sir Hurst came frowning into the room and requested that the round table convene around the back of the building, between the wall and the stacks of dank-smelling crab traps.

Gwen was wearing a dark indigo cloak Bridget had never seen before, presumably made for the coldest parts of the trip. Her hair was tucked into the back, and it made her look young, despite the upright regality of the rest of her. Bridget wanted to smooth the lines of her furrowed brow. She was probably the one who’d put them there.

“He’s gone,” Sir Hurst said quietly, once their odd meeting was in session.

“Who?” said Gwen. “The Fisher King?”

“Maybe he’s fishing,” suggested Sidney.

“Perhaps,” said Sir Hurst, but he didn’t seem convinced.

Bridget shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. She had once been quite adaptable, but nowadays any deviation from a thought-out plan felt like danger. Nobody else seemed quite as concerned—except maybe Sir Hurst, whom she was finding more and more sensible as the days went on.

“Well, we should wait a day or so,” said Gwen. Bridget looked at her without meaning to. “We’ve come all this way.”

“This place,” said Sir Hurst, “is ripe for an ambush.”

“Who’s ambushing us, in this scenario?” Gwen shot back. “Hordes of angry crabbers?”

“Maybe,” said Sir Hurst, not the least bit embarrassed. He was looking at Florian. “We’ll run clifftop guard patrols.”

“But it’s freezing up there,” Gabriel argued. “They’ll be miserable.”

“Miserable and employed,” said Sir Hurst. “We’ll linger aday, and then I strongly advise we retreat somewhere safer and reconsider.”

As they were all dispersing to return to the inn or their makeshift lodgings, Sir Hurst signaled for Bridget to step aside.

“I think it might be best if you… let some of the others take the lead. Sirs Leonard and Bowen are more than capable.”

Bridget was instantly incensed. “Why? What did— What did the princess say to you?”

“Princess Gwendoline? Nothing,” said Sir Hurst, seeming genuinely bewildered. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping, Leclair. You’re practically swaying on your feet. Take a back seat, and once we return to Camelot it might be wise for you to get some rest, if you wish to continue to be an active part of this order in whatever capacity it continues.”