“What if one of them catches the prince’s eye instead?” her mother had said, daring her to argue. So here she was, all alone, giving up everything for her kingdom, while her parents and elder half brother sat home and congratulated themselves on their cleverness.

Guin dabbed some rose salve on her lips and adjusted a loose pin in her hair. She’d forced herself to stay awake the entire journey for fear that if she slept even a moment, she’d ruin the elaborate arrangement.

She imagined her mother now, smoothing back her hair and pronouncing her ready.

Be steady, my Guinevere, the queen would have said. You have nothing to worry about.

Even though there was plenty to worry about. What if Arthur was awful and ugly? What if some jealous courtier started terrible, unfounded rumors about her pleasuring a horse? What if King Yurien never carried through on his threats of building an empire, and all of this was for nothing?

“I’m not worried,” Guin said aloud to the empty carriage. “I’m merely summoning my nerve.”

With that, she rapped smartly on the door and picked up her skirts.

Arthur raced down the castle staircase, brushing some imaginary dirt from his suede jacket. The wizard had been right; there was no sense pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He’d leave the fashionable opulence—or at least the slashed balloon sleeves and jeweled shoe buckles—to his cousin.

The fanfare sounded again, and Arthur quickened his pace. Of course his rooms were on the opposite side of the castle from the main entrance. Behind him, his guards followed noisily, weapons clattering against their mail.

The courtyard was lined with courtiers eager for a glimpse of the princess. The scene reminded him of his return from Avalon, when he’d presented his father with Excalibur, and for one brief evening, all had seemed right and good at Castle Camelot.

Except he’d begun to worry that he’d foreseen Merlin’s death, had spent the week stuck in endless council meetings, and now his father was presenting him with a bride he had neither requested nor chosen.

And their first meeting was happening in front of everyone, his potential humiliation on public display, as usual. Yet another perk of being heir to the throne.

Arthur took his place on the steps behind his father, and just in front of Gawain. Jereth lurked in the background, scowling as though he’d prefer to be elsewhere. Arthur would have preferred that as well, to be honest. Lance, predictably, was nowhere to be found. Arthur suspected his friend had requested gate duty just to avoid the castle corridors, and by extension, Jereth.

Sard, it was warm out. He had definitely sweated through his tunic.

“Look lively, cousin,” Gawain whispered in his ear. “Or at least try not to look as though you’re digesting spoiled meat.”