“That was a dream; that was a nightmare. You did not turn your back all those years you lived with him,” said Allam.

“That is true. I did not.”

“Gwendo-leen-ah,” he said, “you are not—I am not certain of this—but maybe you are not grieving your husband who died. Please consider. You might be grieving the loss of yourself. All those years losing yourself in that marriage. I may not be right with this thinking, but I want so much for you to be happy. Why do I want this for you? Because you are a fine person. When you were with him, when he was alive, you had bad feelings some of the time. Many people also have bad feelings. If you are able to be free of those, maybe you will be free of this man.”

Gwen looked at him, taking this in. She suspected that Allam could see through the barricades she had built up around her. He could see through what had taken three decades to erect. Who else had seen—or ever known—her true adult self?

“You and I,” he said, “we know how grief can whip through air like a scythe and wound a person. But you were wounded already. I was not expecting to meet you. We have this chance now, Gwendo-leen-ah. You, me.”

He did understand. She was beginning to see.

He put the mugs in the sink and she reached out and he took her hand and they went up to her room and lay on top of the bed, still in their clothes. Allam pulled the new comforter over them.

He was silent after that, and they fell asleep.

When Gwen awoke, Allam was still sleeping. It was almost nine, and she could tell from the glow of the blinds that the streetlights and Christmas lights were on below. She sat up in bed and looked at Allam, who had turned on his side, toward her, in his sleep. She whispered softly: “Then blew men the trumpets, and spread the tables; water men brought on floor, with golden bowls; next soft clothes, all of white silk. Then sate Arthur down, and by him Wenhaver the queen.”

But Arthur, for all his finery, had to fight on the days when he dressed in armour and faced bellicosity. Armour that was so heavy, his knights drowned when they fell into a river or stream.

She looked at Allam again. Thick, dark hair streaked with grey. Worry lines in his face. Kindness that showed, even through the worry, even through sleep.

He was no king. She was no queen. But she wanted to be beside him. The trumpets, the tables, the golden bowls would always be story, legend. She and Allam would create their own story, together.

She lay down again and closed her eyes. He stirred in his sleep, and his arm moved toward her and pulled her closer, tighter.

“Perhaps,” he said, and wrapped both arms around her, “perhaps we are the perfect suits? Suited? How do you say this?”