Gawain traced his finger along the rim of his goblet. He had to know he was making her squirm. “I do have one condition,” he said with a wide smile.

“Which is?”

“That you stop avoiding me,” said Gawain. “As I said, I could use some company.”

“You seem to have plenty,” Emry pointed out.

“Ah, but with them I have to play a part. There’s no pleasure in paying for an illusion. But there’s little pleasure in maintaining one, either. With each other, we can drop the pretense and just be ourselves. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful, actually.

“Deal,” said Emry, “but no more brothels.”

“It’s technically—” Gawain started to say.

Emry cut him off with a glare. “No bathhouses, either.”

Lancelot stared out at the quiet London night through the narrow slit in his helmet, willing his nose to stop itching. He tried scrunching it, but it was no use. The itch was a fierce thing, and it wasn’t going away on its own.

He leaned his halberd against the gate and wrenched off his helmet, sighing in relief.

Percival hesitated a moment, then removed his helmet as well. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Believe me, I’m not so eager to face the captain’s wrath,” said Lance.

He stared out at the abandoned market square, slouching back against the stone bastion. The night air was still and warm, and if anything interesting was happening in London, it was happening elsewhere.

“You’ve been requesting gate duty a lot,” Percival observed. “And no one requests gate duty.”

Lance shrugged and adjusted his grip on his halberd. Percival was right. It was one of the worst patrols in the rotation, along with the guard tower and the dungeons. Although personally, the assignment he hated the most was the east wing.

His old room had been on that hallway. Now it belonged to Sir Kay’s tow-headed squire, who frequently practiced the lute off-key. Lance hated walking past it. But not so much as he hated walking past another set of doors.

How dare you assault me so, page? I merely asked for help unclasping my cloak.

Lance sighed. At least the gate was quiet, and far away from the castle.

“He’s not like I thought,” Percival said, breaking the silence. “The prince. He doesn’t flinch when he takes a hit. I figured he’d be too precious to get his boots scuffed.”

“Arthur?” Lance chuckled. “He’d jump in the lake if you told him you’d accidentally dropped a book in.”

“Aah, no one would believe I was readin’ a book.” Percival grinned.

Lance smothered a laugh. “About as likely as Tristan winning at cards?” he suggested.

“Or you missing the archery target.” Percival shook his head. And then he chewed his lip a moment before adding, “I never thanked you for what you said to the princess.”

Lance shifted uncomfortably. “It was nothing,” he mumbled.