Page 105 of Propriety
Guinevere didn’t touch her wine. She trusted nothing poured by Arthur’s hand, even when presented to her by someone else.
The room sparkled — candlelight on glassware, gold-threaded tapestries glowing like firelight. Laughter rang, but it was brittle. Forced. Everyone knew the shape of things now, even if they didn't speak of it.
Across the table, Morgana leaned forward to adjust the infant’sblanket, her smile edged like a blade. “Isn’t he perfect, sister? Not a cry. Not a blemish. Just destiny, asleep.”
Guinevere’s gaze didn’t waver. “Some things only look innocent while they’re dreaming.”
Morgana blinked once, slow and feline. “Careful. That sounds like a prophecy.”
Lancelot’s thumb moved against her thigh — not comfort. Restraint.
She covered his hand with hers, and for the first time that evening, smiled. A quiet thing. Dangerous. “No,” she said. “I leave prophecy to the mad.”
Arthur stood then, goblet raised high. “To the new dawn of Camelot. To strength, and the son who will carry our blood forward.”
Guinevere stood, goblet held aloft. “And to the strength of loyalty.” She felt Lancelot tense beside her. “In blood… or otherwise.”
The king’s smile faltered, only momentarily.
She returned to her seat, setting her wine down without taking a sip. A low rumble of disapprovement in Lancelot’s chest. “That was reckless.” His grip on her leg tightened. A lick of heat curled low in her stomach.
She bit back the grin that was unfurling across her lips.
“Reckless?” she murmured, still facing forward, still smiling faintly for the room. “Or necessary?”
His fingers didn’t move. Firm and steady on her thigh, anchoring her even as her words tempted the edge of a blade.
“You’re playing too close to fire,” he said, voice low and taut.
Her eyes flicked sideways, catching the shadow in his jaw, the way his gaze never left Arthur. “Darling,” she whispered, “You’re theone that stokes the flames.”
He turned to look at her fully then, and whatever he meant to say burned out on his tongue. The music started again. Somewhere, couples were rising to dance, the clink of goblets and stifled laughter filling the hall like smoke.
“We should leave soon,” he said at last. “Before I do something idiotic.”
Her smile turned genuine this time. Slow. “I hope you do.”
Before he could answer, a shadow fell across their table. Sir Bors, flushed from wine and riding high on celebration, bowed low.
“My queen,” he said, offering a crooked grin. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
The question silenced the space around them. The courtiers nearby turned their heads, subtle as whispers. Lancelot stilled — his hand not budging from her thigh, his thumb now a single, pointed press.
Guinevere tilted her head, eyes calm, assessing. “You flatter me, Sir Bors,” she said, the corners of her mouth just barely lifting.
Lancelot didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But the energy around him shifted — like a sword sliding half from its sheath.
Bors, perhaps emboldened by the wine or simply unaware, held out his hand anyway. “Just one dance, Your Grace. It’s a night for celebration, after all.”
Guinevere looked up at him and said sweetly, “And yet, you seem to mistake me for someone celebrating.”
That was when Lancelot rose. Slow. Purposeful. One hand still on her leg, the other now braced on the table beside his untouched wine.
“The Queen is not accepting dances tonight,” he said, voice low and full of teeth.
Bors paled, wisely bowing again. “Of course, Sir Lancelot. Forgive the intrusion.”
He walked away quickly.
