I press the tip of the pin into my palm and clutch the coin in my fist. “I don’t know if this will work, but…”

“If what will—”

I grasp his wrist with my free hand, and whisper.

“By my blood…”

50

THE MEMORY ARTHUR chooses to show me is not like the others. There is no violence, no blood, no magic ripping through my body.

The castle is filled with subjects, laughter, joy. Long wooden dining tables lit by tallow candles stretching away from the dais. Overhead, the iron chandelier holds the finer candles, made of beeswax to last late into the celebration, lighting our way to a new Camelot.

I sit with eleven of my knights at a long table. They are shouting with their families and neighbors, laughing with one another.

“The Shadow King is dead!” I roar, because Arthur did. But it takes me aback—the Shadow King? My subjects pound the tables beside their plates, raise their leather tankards.

“And the Court will fall in his wake!” The voice beside me carries across the room, rousing another round of applause from the crowd.

My first knight. My Lancelot.

At the end of the table, Bors knocks his helm against the wood, calling for attention. He rises, toasting our victory, giving Arthur—and me—a free moment.

I remember the rules. I hope Nick does, too. My fingers slide to my right, and press against his forearm. The scene shudders, Lancelot flickers…

And Nick is there beside me, eyes heavy with sorrow. He looks out at the memory, and I can see the images fill into his mind as he reacquaints himself with what his ancestor did in this moment, why we are here, what will come next. After he surveys the dining hall, he turns back to me.

“Why?”

“Because I miss you.”

His mouth lifts, half-sad and half-fond. “I miss you, too.”

Nick’s fingers tap against the wood, anxious. “We should talk, as Nick and Bree, not as Arthur and Lancelot. Can we…?”

“Wait,” I urge.

He frowns, eyes darting back and forth to search Lancelot’s memory of what happens next. “For what? There are more toasts and then…” His eyes narrow, catching a stronger moment from the ones we could relive. “Then the crown?”

I swallow. “Yes. Let’s wait to see if it worked. Play it out.” I lean toward the entrance to the hall, and pray that my experiment was not a waste. I will the memory forward.

“To see if what worked?” Nick asks. “What did you do?”

The doors bang open, and a hooded figure in a long cloak strides in, soaked to the bone with rain from the moors, steaming with magic and heat. The hall falls to nervous excitement. The knights are used to Merlin, but the subjects are both fascinated and wary.