Page 78 of The Black Table
“It’s just how the team has always been,” I say—the simplest explanation I can offer. “And Luther Pendragon makes sure we get what we need.”
She nods.
“We won’t really be around to bother you,” I reassure her. “Most of the time we’re in the salle. The fencing hall,” I add, when her confusion lingers. “Where we practice.”
Gwenna blinks. “You don’t practice in the gym?”
I shake my head. “The salle’s here, on the ground floor—the walk-out level towards the lake.”
She looks over her shoulder, to the hall that connects us back to the kitchen, the two closed doors that lead downstairs.
“So that’s the salle,” she says.
“On the left,” I agree. But as soon as I say it, her gaze drifts to the door on the right.
The door down to the lowest level of all.
My chest seizes.
“That’s nothing you need to worry about,” I say quickly. “Here. Let me show you your room.”
There are more bedrooms than there are swordsmen, God knows why—the house is just too big for only four residents. We’ve already laid claim to the best rooms—Lanz and I on one side of the landing, Kingston and Kai on the other—but the smaller one, the one Kingston said to give her, isn’t bad by any means.
Silently, I open the door for her. She enters silently, taking it in.
“Small,” I say, “but there should be plenty of room for your stuff.”
From her place at the window, she shoots a look at me.
“What?” I say. Did I say something wrong?
“Stuff,” she repeats. “Whatstuff? My room burned down, remember?”
I shuffle my weight from foot to foot. “Kingston…said he’d take care of it.”
I nod at the closet, and her mouth falls open in surprise.
I may be a Knight, used to living here with all the luxuries and conveniences of Camlann House. But I’m still not used tothis—money, gifts, like it’s nothing.
And neither, apparently, is Gwenna.
It’s a full wardrobe. Perfect. Complete.Morethan complete. And definitely top-tier stuff. Sweaters and pants, tidily folded. Blouses and skirts, hanging smooth and unwrinkled. A dozen or more pairs of shoes, still in tissue-paper-filled boxes.
Slowly, she puts a hand to her mouth.
“This is…” She pivots to me, slowly. “It’s too much.”
I swallow. “It’s from him.”
She blinks. Peers at the closet again. Tiptoes to the dresser, opens a drawer. Widens her eyes. Shuts it again.
“So does he…know my bra size?” she says, tipping her head at the dresser. “Or just guessing?”
“I…”
I have no idea. I don’t even know what sizes bras come in. Small, medium, large?
“He might have asked Morgan?” I guess.
