Page 95 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“You’re not my captain,” Bridget said, feeling belligerent to her boots. “We’re all sworn knights here. It’s not your job to give me orders.”

“I’m twice your age and I’ve seen more action than you could imagine,” said Sir Hurst. “It’s for your own good. And if you refuse, I’m sure I can take this up with His Majesty, and then itwillbe an order. Look…” He softened very slightly. “I know the toll it can—”

But Bridget didn’t want to hear any more of this. She was fine. She didn’t need to rest. Everyone seemed determined to tell her that her career was already over when it had barely begun. They were wrong. She’d show them that they were wrong.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly. “Thank you for your concern, Sir Hurst.”

He was unimpressed, but he said nothing more, and let her go.

That evening, sleep evaded Bridget again. She let herself out into the tiny cottage garden, a crumbling brick wall the only thing between her and a sheer drop onto the next roof below, and listened to the swell of the sea, the cries of the seabirds wheeling overhead.

She didn’t realize someone was approaching until he was standing right in front of her, and that carelessness scared her. By the time she’d drawn her sword, he had his hands in the air, one dangling a lantern, the whites of his wide eyes visible in the moonlight.

“You’re a knight?” he whispered. “Of the round table?”

“Yes,” she said, sword still raised.

“You’ve come,” he said, lowering his hands. He had a lot of silvery hair, sticking up in various directions, and he was dressed far too lightly for the weather. “And now I’ll take you to the Grail.”

“The… Hang on,” Bridget said, still trying to catch up. “Are you the fisherman?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “My name is Peter.”

“Peter,” Bridget repeated. This all had the quality of an odd dream. “We’ll go and wake the king, and then perhaps in the morning—”

“No,” said Peter, shaking his head. “I cannot tell him. I never would. Noble and true he may be, but he is not a knight. He sits on the throne and conserves his power. It must be a knight, pure of heart, or the search for the Grail will only injure those who seek to find it.”

“All right,” Bridget said slowly. “Then let me rouse the other knights.”

“It’s you,” said Peter. “I know it is. You have a chivalrous heart. I can bring only one, or none at all. That’s how it hasto be. You drew the sword from the stone, and now the Grail awaits you.”

Bridget shook her head. “It wasn’t actually the original… Never mind.”

This man was odd. Very odd. But she’d known he would be. These myths were absolute fact to him; it made sense that he would believe, wholeheartedly, that this was a solo quest, meant for one knight in particular.

“You are the one meant for greatness,” he pressed.

Bridget didn’t care for glory. She never had. But proving herself worthy of her office… That was another thing entirely. Sir Hurst could hardly tell her to stay behind, take a back seat, if she was the one to deliver the Grail. Whether it was a life-changing magical artifact (unlikely) or just a nice cup (probably), they had come here to investigate it, and leaving without it would be an enormous disappointment to all involved.

Bridget eyed the man, assessing, her tired mind racing. It could be a lie. But if he was lying… to what end? He didn’t seem to have a weapon. He was wearing two completely different shoes.

She could do this. She was still a knight of the round table. No matter what anyone else said.

“All right,” Bridget said. “Lead the way.”

He nodded, then turned at once and started walking down the steep track. He was surprisingly fast; the rocks were loose, and tumbled when dislodged, and Bridget had to keep careful watch over her feet to stop from slipping. She was expecting that at some point they’d make some unforeseen turn that led them out of the cove, but instead they reached sea level and then walked away from the shore, picking over large, wet rocks scabbed with bone-white barnacles until they reacheda great gash in the cliffside, a crevasse cutting through the many-layered sandstone cliffs.

It was wide enough to pass through, but Bridget felt uneasy, the stupidity of following a stranger into a strange place making her pause on the threshold.

“It’s not far,” said Peter. She supposed his lantern could do a little damage if he decided to throw it at her. But she had a sword. And was not seventy years old. Both points in her favor.

The crevasse did not come to an abrupt end, but kept going, a narrow pathway through the rock, the sky so far above them that it felt like they were miles underground.

A roosting seabird took flight, startled, dusting Bridget with sand and pebbles, and then they turned a corner, and before Bridget could say “What—?” she felt hands grab her from behind, and a bag pulled roughly over her head. She raised her sword, brandishing it blindly, until fingers grasped and squeezed her ungloved wrist so tightly that she dropped it with a clatter that echoed, briefly, and then died.

Thirty-Eight

Gabriel was awoken by someone knocking on a door. It wasn’t his door, but it was close enough to his door that it felt like he was under attack. Reasoning, once lucid, that an attacker was unlikely to knock, he went to poke his head out into the hallway and discovered that Adah was standing outside Gwen’s room, sweaty and armored.