“My lady, teach me the ways of—” I did not want to say the word scrying. Magic of any kind was secret, forbidden, dangerous. But my wish to see King Arthur had hardened from whim into resolve, and if the pool would not show him to me, well, then . . . There was only one mirror in Lothian castle, my mother’s dressing mirror of polished silver, and the few times I had been able to look into it, it showed back to me only my own thin young face, my beardless cheeks still childishly soft. I did not know how to see otherways in a mirror. I said, “My lady, teach me the way of seeing, in a mirror, that which is far away.”

Her pebble eyes turned to flint, hard and sharp. “How dare you.”

Danger. I had overstepped. But how? What had I said? “I beg pardon, my lady.” I lowered my head.

“You are the reason my life is ruined. What, would you destroy it anew now?” She did not raise her voice, but it had gone as raw as a scraped knee. She cuffed me, but she did not know how to hit hard; her ragged, bleeding voice hurt me more than the blow. I do not know whether her white face curled in hatred of me; I did not dare to look at her. “Begone,” she commanded, and I rose to my feet and fled, with Gull scampering after me.

Destroy her life anew? What did she mean? What I wanted to see—how could that hurt her?

I wanted to see my father. King Arthur. That was all.

I wanted to see his face.

I wanted to see whether he was as kingly as the bards claimed. I wanted to see whether I resembled him in any way.

I wanted to see whether he looked worthy of my hatred.

The moon swelled yellow. Once again the harvest was plentiful, putting flour in the barrels, apples in the bin. Bless the goodliness of our liege King Arthur.

Shortly after the harvest, splendid in red satin and riding at the head of a shining entourage, came Morgan le Fay once more to visit her sister.

Once again she fussed over me, presenting to me her powdered cheek to kiss, but this time her attentions did not end there. All through dinner I felt her glittering gaze on me, while King Lothe roared with raven laughter at the head of the table and Queen Morgause sat like a white wraith at the foot.

After the meal, Morgan le Fay rustled up to me. “Such a pretty brachet,” she cooed, bending with one hand outstretched; Gull shrank back.