Realization dawned on his face, nearly displacing his delight. “And that’s why you’ve been so cool since Saturday.”

“I haven’t been—” But the knowing tilt of his head stopped me short once again. I bit my lip and shook my head. “What was I supposed to do?”

Bear’s eyes tightened, and he opened his mouth to reply, but the distant bark of hounds snagged our attention.

“That’s the field,” I cut him off, relieved and disappointed, and rode ahead to join them.

The hunters greeted us with a chorus of apologies. A terrier darted between Cotton’s ankles; the dogs were jubilant, scampering around the covert as their handlers and the hunters milled around on horseback or on foot. Only the little red foxes lay motionless on the ground.

“Oh, I’m sure the—Bear had you well in hand,” the Duke of Cornwall called, long teeth flashing. Most of the men frowned, foreheads wrinkled in disapproval, but one or two snickered roughly. I cringed, not sure where to look.

“Mark.” Prince Bertilak’s voice was hard as a stone.

“Your—Highness, I—” Cornwall stammered.

“Enough.” The prince held up a hand, and the field held its breath. And the duke held his silence.

I ate dinner with the royal family again that night, feeling Perrault glance furiously between Bertilak and me. The prince had taken a seat half a table away.

Perrault’s face relaxed when Bertilak called out to remind me of our lunch plans the following afternoon. “I haven’t taken you boating yet, have I?” he called cheerfully. As if he could’ve forgotten.

Maybe he had. Maybe I occupied that little space in his brain.

Heaven knew he occupied a small enough fraction of mine.

My smile was polite. “Not yet.”

But the next morning broke gray and chilly, dark clouds hanging overhead. The prince sent a messenger, suggesting we take lunch indoors.

But after the messenger left, and before I could compose a reply, Bear came to my door.

30

You are making a mistake, my rational mind whispered.

Smothery gray clouds blanketed the sky behind Winchester Castle, their edges twisting in the buffeting wind—not benevolent wisps, but claws, malevolent and grasping. Bear stood on my right, nearer than decorum permitted.

I’d thought at first that he must be the prince’s messenger, come to carry back my reply. I’d nearly slammed the door in his face, surprised to find him stretched against its frame—exhausted but perfect, eyes ringed like mine with sleeplessness. “I want to show you something,” Bear had said, nudging the door open again, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

What could I have said but yes?

I’d sat on my bed, chewing my pencil, and scribbled a note to Bertilak, saying I didn’t feel well and asking if we could postpone our lunch.