Page 54 of Propriety
She couldn’t hear abouthim.
“Of course, your grace.”
She prayed they would walk in silence. Prayed that this man would say nothing more of the knights.
She couldn’t hear it.
Was he dead?
Was he alive?
No.
No.
She wrung her hands, praying that he would not speak.
Please don’t say his name.
“Guinevere, eh?” The man asked, looking at her through narrowed eyes. “The big one — he spoke of you.”
She felt it.
The bile rising in her throat.
The tears stinging in her eyes.
“Well, not in so many words.” The man mused, as if he hadn’t driven a dagger clean through her ribs. “Don’t much remember his name, but he said yours in his sleep. Loads of times.”
She couldn’t speak.
I love you.
“I just assumed his lady’s name was Guinevere, but…” The man laughed.
“Lunete will see you to your quarters. Thank you, sire.” She hustled her maid over to her, leaving immediately.
She barely made it past the castle walls before her knees buckled beside a garden pot.
She was already crying when her stomach heaved.
Too much. It was all too much.
Tears trickled down the bridge of her nose as she lost her breakfast.
A peel of laughter echoed near her, causing her empty stomach to jump again. “Oh dear sister,” Guinevere wiped her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, trying to hide the fact that she was coming apart at the seams.
“Morgana,” she rasped, clearing her throat quickly. “A pleasure to see you.”
The woman offered her a hand, a gentle smile. “Is it?” She raised an eyebrow. “You look unwell, dear.”
Gwen took the hand offered, rising to her feet. “I must have eaten something.” She waved her hand in the air, dismissing it.
“Oh, I’m sure.” Morgana’s grin widened, placing her hand on the queen’s stomach. “Or perhaps cousins are in order, your grace.”
“What?” Her brow knitted. “Oh, oh no. I don’t think so,” she laughed gently. “I had my monthly sickness just the week prior. No littles in my future.”
“No?” Morgana shrugged, but her smirk did not dissipate. “An auntie, then.” She snatched Gwen’s wrist, flattening against her own stomach. “I’ve missed my sickness thrice now.”
