“It’s Tuesday and Lance and I cook for the week on Mondays, so we have plenty to go around,” she said. “Until next Monday, that is. Doesn’t mean you can’t stay past Monday, of course. We’re just not used to guests . . . or people for that matter. Sometimes Lance and I go days without talking at all.” She sat down and waited in vain for someone to fill the silence. “Hope it’s edible. Tedros always loved my turkey, even as a little boy. He’d come running the second he smelled it from the kitchen, even in the middle of his lessons with Merlin.”

Tedros didn’t look at her.

“Shall we start?” Guinevere said weakly, inching the dishes forward. “You’ve been on a long journey, so load up your plates. I can always make more.”

No one ate.

No one spoke.

“Well, seems like you’re all settled in, so I’ll be on my way!” chimed Merlin, ambling in with his walking stick in hand.

Everyone looked up urgently, as if he were the last lifeboat leaving a ship.

“W-w-where are you going?” said Tedros.

“Just as you are safe here, I must ensure our other friends are safe too, including your fellow students at school,” said Merlin. “No doubt the School Master has accelerated his plan, once the Storian revealed to him that you are under the Lady of the Lake’s protection.” He looked at Guinevere cryptically. “Apologies for not staying for dinner, my dear. Though I did go to the grove to pay my respects . . .”

Guinevere nodded, as if she understood what he meant.

“I’ll see you soon, children,” said Merlin, before he glanced at Sophie, his eyes finding the ring on her finger. “Hopefully with no more blood on our hands.”

Agatha saw Sophie hold her breath as Merlin magically whisked a lump of turkey from the table to his hand and sauntered out of the cabin, the door swinging shut behind him.

Unbearable silence resumed.

Agatha tried to forget about Merlin’s absence and Sophie’s ring and Tedros’ torment and focused instead on the house’s logwood walls, the oval-shaped rooms with crackling fireplaces, the handmade leather couches and sheep-wool rugs, everything so cozy and lovingly crafted, as if two people, without friends, family, community, had made a home at the end of the world—

“White or dark meat, Tedros?” Guinevere’s voice asked.

Agatha snapped to attention to see Guinevere pick up her son’s plate and smile at him.

Her question hung in the air, the first challenge to the silence.

Tedros finally looked at his mother. “I can’t do this,” he breathed.

Guinevere said nothing as Tedros wrenched from the table, his cast-iron chair screeching against the floor.

Lancelot frowned. “Tedros, you don’t have to talk to her, but at least eat your—”

“If you even look in my direction, you dirty fink, I’ll split you in half,” Tedros hissed.

Lancelot rocketed to his feet, but Guinevere clasped his wrist, guiding him back down. Lancelot said nothing as Tedros’ boots snapped out of the room and the farmhouse door slammed behind him.