I reach toward Lancelot—something Arthur did not do—and Lancelot does not react, because Arthur never reached toward him in the past. Because I am doing something new. Creating a branch in Arthur’s memory dimension and bending it to my will. My heart races beneath Arthur’s suddenly too-heavy mail, weighing my shoulders down.

My fingertips touch Lancelot’s shoulder. The image flickers again, rapidly. My heart stutters, hoping…

Lancelot flashes bright—and becomes Nick once more.

He stares at me, eyes wide and searching. “Bree?”

22

“NICK!”

He stammers, “Wh-where are—” He looks out over the yard to the moorland and mountains.

“Wales?” I gasp.

He stumbles toward me, grasping my shoulders, eyes looking over my face, my clothing. When he pulls back, he drinks in my features, caressing my cheeks in gentle strokes, like he’s relearning the curves and dips of my face. My face, not Arthur’s. He can see me, too. “This is really you?”

I nod, smiling. “Really me.”

Wonder runs like honey through his voice. “Was that really you… before? In the room? At the Table?” I nod. “Are you okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

I release a breathy laugh. “We’re in a… memory dimension wearing our medieval ancestors’ bloody chain mail and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“Yes. Always.” Nick rests his forehead against mine. “But I do want to come back to the memory dimension, medieval ancestor part.”

I release a shuddering breath and smile a little. “I’m okay, considering… this.”

He leans back, looking beyond me to the castle, along the turrets, to the sky. “And this is…?”

I lick my lips, flipping through a list of “where to start” responses like a stack of papers. “So much has happened…. I don’t even…”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “To me, too. But start with us, right now. You and me. How are we here together, B?”

You and me. I nod slowly. “Because I’m a Medium.”

He blinks. A pause. “You can talk to… the dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is that…” His eyes move rapidly, processing information quickly as ever. “Is that why Arthur was with you in the ogof?”

“Yes. It turns out the power I was born with, my Rootcraft, is that I can channel the dead, and they can channel me? But this”—I wave a hand around us—“is a whole ’nother level. Like a memory walk, which I can’t do anyway… except this isn’t a memory walk because instead of watching my blood ancestor’s memory I’m living it, so this is like a… blood walk?”

He stares at me. “Makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I say. “This is—”

“Completely bonkers?” he offers, half-smiling.

Somehow, that smile tips me over. A gurgled sort of whine escapes me as tears well up.