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The Once and Present King By Rachel J. Badger It started out the same way it had the last several nights. He first caught a glimpse of her on the stairs as he was making his way backstage, a beautiful woman with an aristocratic look. She was dressed in an odd silver gown which fit tightly over her ample curves, but stopped above her knees. Her dainty feet were wedged into a pair of red shoes with impossibly thin, high heels. Thomas had never seen clothes like those before. Her hair, a fiery orange, was piled elegantly atop her head. The colour of her lips matched her shoes, but aside from a healthy blush on her cheekbones, her skin was milk-white; her eyes shone like emeralds. Her appearance and the old world elegance with which she moved reminded him of the mythical Princess of the Kingdom of Hollywood in the story his mother used to tell: 'Oscar and the Red Carpet'. Their eyes met and the beautiful woman gave him a naughty wink and a smile. The curtain lifted; the auditorium was an impossibly huge bowl, with tier upon tier of balconies. All the seats were full. There were more people than he'd ever seen before, maybe more than existed in all of Londinium. Bright electric lights shown from the ceiling of the hall, illuminating the stage. For a moment, he could see himself from the perspective of someone in the audience; her, he knew, instinctively. Thomas was wearing a tuxedo; Long tails trailed from the back of the black jacket. He wore patent leather shoes, gold cuff-links, a crisp white shirt, a silver waistcoat, and a bowtie to complete the ensemble. He was older, his temples dusted with grey, but his shoulders were broad and he stood straight and tall. Calmly, he turned his back to the crowd, lifted his baton and struck up the orchestra. For a blissful interlude, Thomas was one with the music as was it channelled through his hands. The joyous strains and haunting melodies of his composition moved him to tears. When at last he lowered his hands to his sides and gave a bow, the audience broke out in thunderous applause. He looked to where he knew she was seated. As if through a looking- glass, he could make out her form on the third level balcony. She raised a hand and waggled her fingers in greeting. He bowed a second time, in her direction, as the house rose in a standing ovation. Backstage, coat off, collar open, the ends of his tie hanging down his chest, Thomas was receiving the congratulations of the musicians when the red-haired woman approached him. "I hope you don't find me too forward, sir," she said breathlessly. Coyly she dipped her head, a red blush appearing on those pale cheeks, "But I simply had to meet the man whose mind conceived such divine and enchanting sounds." Demurely, she extended a delicate hand whose nails were painted a deep red. "I'm quite gratified by your interest, madam," Thomas replied. Clasping her hand in his, he leaned down to press his lips to the back of it. As he stood, he looked her in the eye, smiled, and asked, "Might I have the pleasure of your name?" "You may call me Meridiana," she answered with a coquettish grin. Thomas awoke some time later, feeling embarrassed and more than a little aroused. Last night's dream was the first time he had actually met her. After their introduction, she had been a great deal too forward; not that he had objected at the time. Sliding his legs over the side of the bed, Thomas sat up with a groan. His body was sore from all the things he'd dreamed she'd done to him during the night. It felt as if it had really happened. Inhaling, he caught a ghost of her scent. Eyes half closed, he perched on the edge of the bed, savouring the lingering memory of her touch. With a yawn and a stretch, he got to his feet and pulled on his housecoat. Stumbling to the window, he opened the curtains, shielding his eyes from the bright rays of the sun. Turning his back on the daylight, Thomas walked to the bathroom. He ran some water in the basin, splashed his face, and rubbed his eyes. As he looked up, his eyes caught a glimpse of motion in the mirror. Reflected through the open doorway he could see a fox, its front legs braced on the sill, peering through his bedroom window. Briefly, it occurred to Thomas that the window was two stories above ground. The creature cocked its head as he turned to get a better look, the corners of its mouth curled in what appeared to be a smile. Drawn by instinct, Thomas returned the smile with a shy dip of his head, feeling the heat of his blushing cheeks as he did so. As he made eye contact with the fox, images from last night's dream replayed themselves in his mind. Shaken, Thomas turned and slammed the bathroom door, the visions slowly subsiding. Slumped against it, his heart pounding, he gave a sigh. Unsteadily, he stood and stepped toward the shower, reaching for the cold water tap. With Thomas out of sight, the fox stepped back and lowered her front paws from the sill. Looking carefully down from the ledge she was standing on, she leapt gracefully to the ground. Tail high in the air and ears perked, she sauntered down the alleyway with what could only be described as a smug look on her face. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she didn't notice the white-haired man in raggedy clothing leaning against the wall of the building at the entrance to the alley. He saw her, though, and called out, "Hey, Meri! How's tricks?" The fox gave a visible start and nervously glanced in the direction of the voice. Her tail sagged when she saw the man. The air around her shimmered and blurred; when it cleared, a woman stood where the animal had been. "Finn," she said, imbuing the syllable with acrimony, "I'd heard you were dead." "Ah, hope springs eternal," Finn said with a philosophical air, "But you can't go believing everything you hear, young Meri." "I suppose you're going to ask for another 'favour'. Something only I can do for you," Meridiana regarded him with a raised eyebrow, crossing her arms under her breasts, "What are the stakes this time? Are we 'saving the world' again?" "It's still here, isn't it? We can't have done that poorly. But, no, it's not the whole world that's in peril, this time. Only Europe. And it's not that I couldn't do the task myself, it's just that you're so much better at it than I am..." "You need me to Charm someone, don't you?" "Aye; you recall the great war, don't you? Death and mayhem, fire raining from the sky, clouds of ash, and the long winter that followed." "It's not something easily forgotten, Finn," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "It's been 200 years, and still..." She shook her head sadly. "So much was lost forever." "Enough was saved; civilization clawed its way back from the brink. I've always said art and science are the two things that make this world liveable, and England is now the world leader in high culture, don't you know?" Finn paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Though it wouldn't take much to make the whole house of cards fall down again." "So who's the target?" Meri asked, arms crossed, fingers tapping impatiently on her forearms. Finn continued on as if he hadn't heard the question. "Anyhow, our glorious King Arthur has gotten a bit too big for his britches. The remains of France have been easy pickings for him. No one in Western Europe is really up for a fight, but to the East, there's a foe that's made of sterner stuff. Arthur sees them as a challenge, and he's eager to test himself." "If your plan is to have me to influence the King, think again," Meri said hopefully, "He's being protected." Finn chuckled, "Was I ever so bold? Subtlety is called for, here. My scheme requires an artist: a poet, a painter," he glanced up at the ledge Meri had jumped from a moment ago, "or perhaps a musician..." "Damn it, Finn!" she said, "I was just getting him broken in." "Aye. I know how the process goes and where it ends. You'd selfishly use him up and discard him," Finn replied, waving away her attempt at protest, "I know, I know. I intend to use him, too; for the greater good, of course. Helping out will go a long way toward settling accounts between the two of us." "Well, when you put it that way," Meri said bleakly, "How can I say no?" It was a warm late spring day; the papers said it might get up to 10 degrees by the afternoon. Thomas was still reeling from last night's dream. That, combined with the weather, had him taking his time on the walk to work. The path along the river was sunlit and pleasant. A tune came to his lips, and he realized he was whistling the violin solo from his nocturnal concerto. Across the water, the windows of the Palace gleamed in the morning sun. The King was in residence; his personal colours flew in place of the Union flag at the top of the Southern tower. An airship floated on patrol overhead. The number of gun emplacements and sweep of the stabilizers, Thomas noted, made it a Carlisle Mk. 7. And that meant it was HMS Avalon, flagship of the fleet. The bells of the clock on the northern tower of the palace began to ring out the hour. Thomas had dawdled too long. With a glance at the clock- face to be sure of the time, and a last lingering look back at the airship, he began to sprint down the pavement. King Arthur stood at the window of the Robing room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes cast, unseeing, over the lawn outside. The kingdom was powerful, but the many threats which existed, both foreign and domestic, must weigh heavily on the man. Mindful of this, Sebastian stepped lightly across the floor of the chamber, so as not to disturb his sovereign's rumination. Regardless of this consideration, the King turned at his approach. The rugged grey-haired counsellor halted and briefly bent the knee with head lowered. "Sebastian," Arthur acknowledged him tersely, with a humourless smile. "Good day, your Majesty," Sebastian said, "How went the speech?" "Well enough; those present proved agreeable to my words. Of more concern to me were the notable absences. The parlour trick with the sword in the stone was convincing enough for the commoners. It was sufficient for the majority of the Lords, as well, but by no means all. Since my ascension, the remainder have become increasingly contemptuous of my authority. I need a strategy to deal with them." He shook his head with disgust, "The French aristocracy holds me in higher esteem than some of my own countrymen." "Regrettable as that sentiment may be, sir, French support will be invaluable in the coming campaigns. Their loyalty is predicated upon the strength of your armies and the value of the estates and titles granted by you," Sebastian lectured, "A more subtle threat and reward are required here at home. Hmm," he intoned, pausing briefly as if in thought. "You hold the future of this nation in your capable hands. Perhaps you should remind these recalcitrant noblemen of that truth in a literal fashion." "Explain," Arthur ordered. "I propose that a missive be issued: instruct the Lords to send a son or daughter, preferably the heir, to live at Court under your Majesty's protection. It should be carefully worded. Emphasize the benefits: a royal education, fraternity with others of like station, perhaps even suggest the possibility of a royal union. But it must also be made clear that this is not a request to be declined." "Yes, I like the idea," Arthur said thoughtfully. "Have a draft prepared for my review this afternoon; we'll send it on the morrow." Out of breath and unkempt from the rush, Thomas slipped in the back door of the office. Up the steps, he straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to be discreet as he walked between the rows of drafting boards to his own seat, the only one still unoccupied. Mrs. Mayock was standing at the head of the aisle, speaking to a colleague as he scooted into his chair. Thomas was a draughtsman and apprentice engineer at Carlisle Aeronautics; she was head of his department. A thin, stern-faced woman in a faded calico dress, she had greying hair pulled back in a severe bun and a pair of wire-framed spectacles perched on her nose. "Punctuality is a virtue, Mr. Canter," she said to him, looking up from her conversation, "take care to possess it in future." "Yes ma'am, thank you, I will," he said abashedly; he'd hoped to be hard at work before she noticed his arrival. Truthfully, Thomas didn't much care for this profession, but as his late father had called in a favour to get him the position, he felt obligated to continue. He had felt some excitement before he started. Flying machines held great fascination for him. His favourite bedtime stories involved such legendary heroes as Chuck Yeager and Neil Armstrong. Thomas had hoped he might get to try his hand at designing a rocket. Instead, his time had mostly been spent making schematics of structural members for the frames of rigid airships. If any heavier-than-air craft were under development at Carlisle, it was being kept secret. With a mental shrug, Thomas turned to the task he'd yet to complete from the day before. The pictorial was all but done; that left only the lettering. Softly, the young man drew the layout lines and then began painstakingly inscribing the text. He didn't realize he was humming as he worked until Reynolds at the next table interjected with a loudly whispered "Do you mind?" It was the same melody as before, the one from Thomas' dream. Grabbing a scrap of paper and his straight-edge, he laid out a set of staves. With great concentration, lest he start humming again, he began jotting down the notes as best he could. He'd filled out one sheet of paper and was at work on the second when a shadow settled over his table. Looking up he caught the full weight of Mrs. Mayock's glare. "Please wait for me in my office, Mr. Canter," she said curtly. A yellowed newspaper clipping hung in a frame on the wall behind Mrs. Mayock's desk. 'The Once and Present King: Arthur Restores Monarchy' read the headline, above a photograph of him holding aloft Excalibur while standing on the empty stone which had been its scabbard. Next to the clipping was tacked a layout of the Mk. 8, the department's current project. Commissioned by order of Arthur himself, it would superlative in every way to its predecessor. The Mk. 7 was only just going into serial production, with an order for 20 units, all going to the Royal Navy. Thomas could think of no need for such a mass of air power. All of France was under British rule and to his knowledge, the resistance in Spain and Italy was minor. A pre-World War globe sat on one corner of the desk, the Americas turned toward Thomas' view. An expedition had been sent there, years ago, a single dirigible, but it had never reported back. Perhaps the King now planned a reconnaissance in force. In his mind's eye, Thomas saw a vast flotilla descending upon the ruined skyscrapers of New York. Or perhaps they weren't in ruins, he thought, gazing through the window at the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, surrounded by scaffolding. The closing of the door behind him shook him from his reverie. Mrs. Mayock swept past Thomas and settled into her chair. She was leafing through the loose papers from his drafting table. "Please sit," she told him. He did as ordered, resting his hands on his knees. A sharp sense of fear was knifing its way through his guts. "As you have at some point no doubt been made aware," she began, "This is a place of business. At Carlisle, we design and build aircraft; you are not being paid to compose music. Were your record spotless, I could perhaps overlook this lapse. Unfortunately, this incident, seen in light of your habitual tardiness, leaves me no choice but to take action. "I am not certain that you are suited for the office environment, but your work, when you do it, has been satisfactory. You shan't be sacked outright. As of now, you are to be considered on a leave of absence, of no less than two weeks. Uncompensated, of course. "Come back when your head is no longer in the clouds, Mr. Canter, or find some way to make a living while keeping it there." Over the last few days Thomas had awoken every morning with a new song running through his head. As he'd worked at transcribing last night's melody, a knock came at the door. A courier waited in the hallway outside. "Are you Mr. Thomas Canter?" she asked. "Yes that's me. What is it?" he replied, curiosity battling with impatience to return to his labours. "Message for you sir," she said, retrieving a letter from her satchel. "Thank you," he answered, taking it from the girl and handing her a coin in return. She tipped her cap and walked away. He stood in the doorway examining the creamy paper of the envelope. It was addressed to him in an ornate flowing script; an embossed seal in red wax closed the top flap. The letter within was written in the same hand which had addressed the envelope, on the letterhead of the Finnegan Publishing Company of Berkeley Square. It read: 'Dear Mr. Canter, 'It has come to my attention, through a mutual acquaintance, that you may have some interest in the field of musical composition. By remarkable coincidence, a position in my organization has become available for a person with skill in that area. 'If it is amenable to you, please join my associate and myself for a drink this evening at 7 pm, at The Fox & Hare Public House. Please bring a sample of your work. Perhaps we can come to an agreement which will be beneficial to us both. 'Sincerely, 'Timothy Finnegan' Thomas hesitated as he reached the door of the pub, still not trusting that the instructions he had received were not part of an elaborate prank. Even if they were, he could see little harm in it. At worst, a laugh at his expense from some work colleagues. Anyhow, it was nice to get away from his flat; he'd barely left it since he'd been sent off from work. With a shrugging of his shoulders, he stepped inside. The slanted rays of the evening sun highlighted a few tables by the windows near the entrance. In one darkened corner, a drunken piano lurched through a song which bore a vague resemblance to 'Whiskey in the Jar'. A pair of men in coveralls sat at the bar, sharing a joke with the bartender, a middle-aged man with thick glasses, a bulbous nose and an obnoxious laugh. Patrons were scattered at tables throughout the establishment. Thomas' eyes darted around, trying to divine the identity of his contact. A barmaid walked by, an empty tray tucked under her arm. "Sit anywhere you like, love," she said in passing. His eyes followed her retreating form until they were distracted by the sight of a face he recognized. The woman was thinner than in his dreams, and her skin was freckled, not pure white. Her lips were a natural shade of pink, and her hair, worn down, was a common ginger. She wore a rather ordinary ankle-length black dress with a high collar. In short, less otherworldly and firmly middle class, but otherwise, she bore more than just a passing resemblance to Meridiana. She noticed him staring and raised her glass with a familiar smile. Thomas crossed the floor to her table on suddenly unsteady legs. A flurry of different emotions ran through his mind. He tried to determine how best to start a conversation with a woman who he knew intimately, but only in his own head; his cheeks turned red and his chest felt tight. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone," he managed to stammer out. "You must be Mr. Canter," she said; the pitch of her voice was what he expected, but she had an odd nasal accent, definitely not British, "I'm Mr. Finnegan's associate. He'll be along shortly. Please, take a seat." She pointed to the folder Thomas held, "You brought your portfolio?" He handed it to her and sat down, feeling awkward as she leafed through the pages within. Occasionally, she would trace a finger across the sheet, lips moving silently, before raising an eyebrow, or giving a non- committal "hmm". The gesture she'd made to draw Thomas to her table had him feeling as if she knew him, strange as that would be. Now she was treating him as a stranger, which, he had to admit, made more sense; it stung anyhow. Absorbed in his thoughts, Thomas only gradually noticed the silence of the piano and the arrival of a thin and raggedy man. He wore a threadbare trench coat over a colourless button-down shirt. His trousers were wrinkled and his shoes un-shined; a faded plaid scarf was loosely wound about his neck. His long white hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he bore a short but ill-trimmed beard on his deeply lined face. He was looking over the woman's shoulder at the sheets of music. When he became of Thomas' stare, he raised his blue eyes and gave a mischievous wink. "Well, then, Meri?" he asked, resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched almost imperceptibly at his touch and instead of answering the question, she spoke to Thomas, "Now that we're all here, allow me make introductions. Mr. Canter, you're already familiar with me," she said, giving him a full-intensity smile. Thomas took this as an acknowledgement of his scrutiny of her earlier and blushed. Meri continued, "And this is Mr. Finnegan." Thomas rose nervously and half-heartedly extended his hand, which the white haired man grasped and shook enthusiastically. He sat down beside the woman and gestured for Thomas to do the same. "Mr. Finnegan, now? No need to be so formal. I'm Finn to my friends, and we're all friends here. Tom, my boy; can I call you Tom? I'm glad you could make it. Now, let's get down to business." He looked to Meri. "What are your thoughts?" "Thomas displays ample curiosity and is quite observant, although he has a tendency to get lost in the moment. That's not always a negative; when focused on a task, he works diligently until completion. His compositions show a great deal of creativity and raw ability. With the right mentorship, I believe he could be an exceptional asset to the organisation." Finn stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Those qualities are certainly what we're looking for. So, Tom, what do you say?" "I'm terribly sorry," Thomas said, "but I'm not entirely certain what you're asking of me." "It's about music," Meri replied, "I know you have a passion for it." "True, I have; ever since the first time my mother took me to an orchestral recital, when I was six. She paid for lessons for a few years, but until recently, I've never shown any aptitude." "Sometimes talent is buried deep within," Meri replied, "It manifests only as a tiny seed of desire. When I shared your dreams, I nurtured it and made it grow." "So you really were in my head, then?" Thomas asked, incredulous, "How is that even possible? What are you two, anyhow? A couple of demons, come to steal my soul?" A look of shocked indignation came over Meridiana's face. "I'd certainly never refer to myself that way," she started. "Look, Tom, We're not here for your soul. You've heard of Merlin, sure?" Finn interjected, "You know, a wizard, a mage, an enchanter? I want you to think of me like that." Meri, having apparently regained her composure, added, "And I'm his apprentice. Finn taught me everything I know about magic." "But not everything I know," Finn said with a grin. "Anyhow, that's beside the point: like Merlin, every wizard worth his salt needs a champion to mentor." "With our backing, your dreams can become real," Meri suggested, "We've chosen you, but you have to choose us, too. That's the next step." "I'd like to, but I have other commitments," Thomas said, not sure how he'd stumbled into this situation, nor how to get out of it. That he should try was a given; it sounded too good to be true. "My father didn't..." "You've honoured his wishes already, lad. Now is the time to follow your own desires," Finn interjected, casting a sidelong glance at Meri and nudging her arm with is elbow. "Thomas," she said entreatingly, placing her hand over his, "If you stick with us, fame and fortune will follow." For a silent moment, he sat still, mesmerized by her touch, then blinked and shook his head. "Wha...what do you get out of the deal?" He asked. "Well, there is a wee...favour we'd ask of you, and after that, a 10% cut," Finn answered, pulling a folded stack of papers from within his jacket, "Feel free to look through it; it's fairly standard contract." Sigr?n H?gnisd?ttir, last of the Valkyries, stood alongside bronze Victory in her chariot atop the Brandenburg Gate. From this perch she watched as the column of tanks, artillery, and armoured personnel carriers passed by beneath her and down along the tree-lined street. A formation of heavy bombers did a fly-by overhead. There had been no fighting, no dying; she would deliver no one to Valhalla today. The people of Berlin welcomed the protection of the Hunnic armies and gladly agreed to join the Empire. The morning sun had risen on a loudly cheering crowd in the plaza below. Not all of the conquests across the East had been so easy. Many of the soldiers on parade were battle-tested veterans. Still, lengthy supply- lines and severe weather were the greatest foes they had faced on the western march. There would be no more soft targets left in Europe. A smile spread across Sigr?n's normally stoic face at the thought of glories to come. Far to the West lay an adversary which would pose a serious challenge for the forces now arrayed about her. This she had learned from a messenger who had come to her camp outside the city in the predawn hours. Though he was in the guise of a travel-worn wanderer, she recognized her former master, Odin. As always, he offered wise counsel. A scheme of his devising, just set in motion, would turn probable defeat to sure victory. He advised that the bulk of the Army should hold here awhile and consolidate its strength. Along the coast, ships must be built or refurbished. When the time was ripe, Odin would visit her once more and they would set sail with their forces. She eagerly accepted her role in the plan; it was good to be in his service once again. The chiming of bells woke Thomas from a dreamless sleep. It took him back to summer-times spent at his grandparents' house. Grandfather Canter's prize possession was a digital clock he'd built with his own hands from spare parts found in the rubble at the outskirts of the city. If the electricity had held through the night, it would ring in the morning to wake everyone with much the same sound Thomas now heard. He sat up, accompanied by a wave of dizziness, and the alarm cut off abruptly a moment after. The room he found himself in was unfamiliar, but clean and nicely furnished. He was still wearing last night's shirt, but his trousers and jacket were hung over the back of a chair in the corner. Beside them stood a washstand with a basin and a pitcher. There was a window opposite the bed with thick curtains tightly drawn. A ray of sunlight shown from a crack under the door. A shadow obscured it, followed by a light knock, and then Meridiana's voice. "Are you awake Thomas? May I come in?" "Just a moment," Thomas replied, vaulting out of bed and grabbing for his trousers. He hauled them up his legs and called out, "Okay," as he buttoned the waistband. The door opened as he was buckling his belt; Meri stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway. "No need to be so modest," she said, laughing, "who do you think put you into bed? Are you feeling alright?" "Nothing a little breakfast won't cure. Where are we, anyhow?" "The Olympic; it's a lodging house not far from the Pub where we met last night. Finn and I stay here sometimes. He has an arrangement with the proprietor." "I...I hope I didn't get up to anything too improper last night," Thomas said, trying in vain to remember how the evening went. "I wouldn't worry about it," Meri said soothingly, "It was a big night for you, and today's a big day." "Yes, quite. Finn's 'favour'," Thomas recalled, his brain having released its hold on that tiny detail from the night before, "I don't suppose you know what he has in mind?" "I never know all the details; Finn likes to keep me in the dark," she replied, drawing back the curtains, "Sometimes that's for the best. He'll let you know what you need to, in order to get the job done." "How very reassuring," Thomas said dryly, pausing in the tying of his shoes, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the sudden flood of light. "Just so you understand that Finn sees us both as pawns," she replied. "Nay, not both of you," Finn said brightly as he stepped into the room, "Meri's a bishop, at least, and pawns can be promoted, lad." He cradled a small dog in his arms, some sort of terrier, perhaps, which turned toward Meri and began growling. "Why did you...?" Meri started to ask, but Finn cut her off with a brief gesture. Closing the door, he turned to Thomas, "We didn't get into specifics about your mission last night, in case we were overheard, but we can speak freely here. Not that I'm asking you to do anything illegal, mind you, but you can never be too careful." "What are you asking me to do?" Thomas asked. "I went over the basics last night, don't you remember? Not to worry; it's all in the contract. I want you to talk to King Arthur; convince him not to attack the Huns. Use whatever method you can to prevent the offensive from going forward." "Is that what the military build-up is all about?" Finn looked askance at Meridiana, who shook her head and raised her hands in a protestation of innocence. "Yes, Tom," he answered with a sigh, "but he's made a miscalculation. The war will most certainly have a poor outcome." "So why can't you tell him that yourself? Surely a wizard of Merlin's stature, such as yourself..." "It's just that I'm known at Court, see, and not well liked. I'd be thrown out, assuming they didn't just try to kill me on sight. Not that they'd succeed, mind you, but my efforts at self-defence would be counter-productive to the whole affair. To tell the truth, you would typically be turned away, yourself, which is why you'll be in disguise. I'm going to place a Glamour on you." "A Glamour?" "It's an illusion of sorts, but for all the senses, not just the eyes. The King has ordered all of his Lords to send their heirs to Camelot as collateral against the Lords' continued good behaviour. That gives us an opening to get you inside, as one of their number." "And what happens when the actual lordling I'm impersonating arrives at the palace?" "That shouldn't be a concern," Finn said with a grin, he eyes briefly darting to the dog in his arms. "The noble in question has been unavoidably detained. Now let's get started." Finn handed the dog to Meridiana who held it awkwardly at arms' length as it wiggled around, still growling at her. Finn had taken a piece of chalk from a jacket pocket and with it drew a circle on the floor around the spot where Thomas was standing, surrounding it with various arcane symbols. "Take care you stay inside that mark until I tell you it's okay to move," Finn said as he got to his feet. After taking a step backward and inhaling deeply, he spoke a phrase Thomas recognized as Latin, though he didn't understand the meaning. "Ex forma, alia," Finn intoned. He plucked a hair from the dog's head, rearing back as it snapped at him. Taking the hair between thumb and forefinger, he rubbed those digits together and there was a burst of flame. "Id optatum figura," Finn spoke again, blowing the fire in Thomas' direction. Thomas flinched, but stood firm as a column of flame fanned out from Finn's hand toward him and engulfed him in a ball of orange and yellow light. Instead of the heat and pain he was expecting, the tongues of 'flame' brushed over his skin, tickling like tiny feathers. After swirling about him for several seconds, they dropped away into nothingness. "Okay, la...d," Finn stuttered, "you can leave the circle." Thomas took a step and realized something was wrong the moment his foot left the ground. To begin with, he could tell that his clothes hadn't survived the spell. The situation only got worse from there. "Why am I suddenly naked?" he asked; the words came out in a feminine voice that clearly was not his own. A quick glance downward at his body confirmed his suspicion. "Why do I look like a girl?" he asked Finn, at once accusing and sorrowful, quietly adding, "this doesn't feel like an illusion." "If you could tell it wasn't real, it would defeat the purpose. And you didn't think you'd persuade the King by appealing to reason, did you?" Finn answered. "Don't bother asking me to lift the Glamour. I can't; it's bound up in the contract you signed. It'll go away on its own, when the job's done." "You are such a bastard, Finn," Meri said acidly, "The least you could do is stop staring." Thomas felt the heat rising in his cheeks; he pulled the duvet off the bed and wrapped it around his naked body. Finn shimmered slightly, becoming hazy and transparent, then snapped back into focus, his appearance changed to that of a prim, white-haired woman, demurely dressed. "Only us ladies here," she said with a grin. "Don't; that's even more disturbing," Thomas said, struggling to keep calm, "so who am I supposed to be?" Finn reverted to his usual self. "You currently bear the form of Lady Gwendoline Pendrick, eldest daughter and heiress apparent of the Earl of Cumbria. She hasn't been out much in society, so with luck, you won't run into anyone who knows her well." "I don't especially feel like luck has been on my side, lately," Thomas said, involuntarily letting out a giggle as a wet nose brushed his toes; the dog had wriggled out of Meri's arms and was sniffing about his feet. "Well, then," Finn answered, bending down to scoop up the dog, "Meri will fill you in on what she can. The Earl's coachman will be here in two days to take you to the palace." He turned to Meridiana, "That's all the time you'll have." "I can do some on the job training," Meri suggested, "She'll need a maid." "If your presence is detected, it might prove disastrous for the mission. No, don't argue," He said with a shake of his head, "I've got to get this little nipper home. I won't be back in time to see you off, Thomas, so we'll meet again when the job is done. The room next door has been rented out to Lady Gwendoline. You'll find some of her things there." Finn disappeared in a flash of light, leaving Thomas wide-eyed. Meri tapped him gently on the shoulder. "Come on," she said, "let's get you dressed." Meridiana observed Thomas as they walked down the hall to the other room. What she saw was not encouraging. Two days. If I can pull this off, she thought to herself, Henry Higgins ain't got nothing on me. Gwendoline's room was easily twice the size of the one Meri and Thomas had just vacated. To one side, there was a chaise longue next to a window, and a pair of wing-backed chairs arranged around a coffee table. The centre of the room was dominated by a rumpled king-sized bed. A pair of woollen stockings, a full slip, a brassiere, and some silken briefs hung over the baseboard above a pair of lace-up boots. Opposite the bed, dying embers glowed in a flagstone fireplace. A pair of banded traveling chests had been stacked against the wall on the far side of the room, between an ornate vanity and a huge oaken wardrobe. The wardrobe stood open, displaying an assortment of fashionable dresses. On the back of one of the doors was a full length mirror. Thomas let the duvet slip from his shoulders and examined the body he now wore; Meri made her own assessment. The girl had striking features: porcelain skin, long dark hair, sea blue eyes, a patrician nose, and full lips. Below average in height and fashionably plump, she had narrow shoulders, large upper arms, and a generous bust. Her gently rounded tummy sloped down to a thatch of curls nestled between thick thighs. Broad hips were complemented by substantial buttocks and solid calves. A tear dripped from the corner of one of those big blue eyes, and Thomas wiped it away with a delicate hand. "She's beautiful," he said, pausing to stifle a sob, "I don't think I can do this." Meri put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Finn manipulates the truth, in a lot of ways," she told him, "he lies by omission, misdirects by avoidance, or makes implications that force you to come to your own incorrect conclusions, but when he says straight out that he can't do a thing, it's best to believe him. If he can't undo the Glamour, neither can I. With that in mind, you have a choice: do the job, or look pretty while you feel sorry for yourself." "You think I don't realize that?" Thomas replied bitterly, "It's not about self-pity. That image in the mirror - that's not me. I'm not that girl, I can't be her; I don't know how. I'm afraid that I'm going to do or say something to give myself away. Couldn't you have just asked the real Lady...?" "Gwendoline Pendrick. It's a name you'd best learn to respond to. Until the Glamour wears off, it's the only one I'll refer to you by. You won't forget how to be Thomas, but for now, you're not him; you need to live the role you've been cast in." "I don't know how to act," Thomas snapped, "And you seem to have learned more than magic from Finn. You didn't answer my question: why me?" "There are several reasons why it had to be you. Arthur has an advisor, a former associate of Finn's. He's got an uncanny ability to influence, to Charm, women into doing what he wants. That would make the real Gwendoline a liability. Men are immune to his power." "So there's that. It's just...the mission... not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not...I mean..." He gave a shudder, "the thought of trying to seduce..." "Remember what I said about Finn and implications?" Meri laughed, "Seduction is best left to the experts. You have other skills. It's been said, 'music has charms to soothe a savage breast'. Some of his opponents claim Arthur is a savage. It's something to consider. As for how to act, Finn said no one at court knows Lady Pendrick. It would be most proper if you were Lady-like in deportment, of course, and I'll teach you what I can in that respect. Otherwise, you get to decide what kind of person she is, what she likes, and what she doesn't." An unrelenting rain fell outside the windows of the manor house. The pale young woman, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow behind her, sat up in bed and looked out at the grey view. A thin hand absently petted the sleeping Cairn terrier curled up beside her. In the hallway outside the girl's room, two men spoke in hushed tones. One, her father, was tall, with hair as dark as his daughter's, and broad shouldered, though at the moment those shoulders were slumped, his face care-worn. The other man was shorter, more slender and seemingly older. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were completely white. He wore a sombre suit several shades darker than the clouds overhead; a slightly damp overcoat was folded under his arm. Despite his apparent age, he seemed to be the most vital of the three persons present. "Don't fret, sir," he said reassuringly. "The arrangements have been made satisfactorily." "Thank you, McNab," Lord William, the Earl of Cumbria, replied. "I much appreciate your service." McNab inclined his head toward the girl, "How is Wendy doing? Any better?" "As well as can be expected," the Earl shook his head with a sigh, "The doctor was here yesterday; he's done what he can to make her comfortable. You've been a help there, yourself, with your recovery of old Terry. How that fool dog got out, I don't know. We had the servants turning the whole house over this morning. Thank you for finding him." "A pleasure, my Lord," McNab said, inclining his head, as he pulled his coat over his shoulders. "Are you off, then? I can't persuade you to stay for a spot of tea?" "I'd love to," McNab smiled sadly, "but other duties call me away." Silence pervaded the room as Thomas contemplated the personality of the girl in the mirror. Like him, she looked frightened, but there was hope in her expression, too; live the role, he thought, though he was not entirely certain what that entailed. She thinks her full name sounds too formal, he decided; she prefers something shorter...Gwen, perhaps? A draught blew through the room, rattling the door, and she shivered. The fat dark nipples which tipped her breasts stood out obscenely; the wide areolae around them were twisted and bumpy from the chill. Gwen knelt to pick up the duvet, but Meri stopped her with a hand on her upper arm. "Why don't you put some clothes on?" she said, "Your underwear's laid out already. Get started and I'll find you something to wear over it. What's your favourite colour?" "Blue, apparently" Thomas answered, looking at the lingerie hanging over the end of the bed. Every piece was some shade or another of it. He picked up the pair of knickers. They were made of powder blue silk with a floral appliques at the hips and trimmed with lace. Thomas' perspective had been off since the spell was cast. In her small hands, they appeared too large until he held them up to her body. Like the girl they belonged to, they were pretty, and the most feminine item of clothing Thomas had ever held. Live the role, he said to himself without conviction. Focusing on the reflected image in the mirror kept the situation from getting too personal. She stepped into the knickers and pulled them up over her ample hindquarters. With the fabric snug against her crotch, the tiny bow on the waistband rested just below her navel. Quickly averting her eyes, she reached for the next item of clothing. The bed in this room didn't seem to be any higher than the one in Thomas' room, but Gwen had to give a little hop to get onto it. Perched on the edge of the mattress, she slid the navy blue stockings up her legs. If one ignored the thinness of the fabric, or the fact that they came up past the knee, they were much like men's socks. The bra matched the knickers in colour, with the same floral decorations. Any girl his age should be intimately familiar with the employment of such a device; regrettably, this version of Gwen lacked any hands-on experience, even with removal, except for once, in a dream. The basics were obvious, but the particulars gave him pause. He turned the garment over in her hands, running fingers over the fabric and experimenting with the clasps. "You look like you could use some help with that," Meri said, walking over to the bed, "There's more than one way to put it on, but I find it easiest to start out with it upside down and backwards." She took the bra from Thomas's hands and demonstrated as she spoke, pushing the cups against the girl's back as she pulled the ends of the back-strap around her chest. "Hook the ends together, then turn it around so the cups are in front." Meri took her hands away. "Now, slide your arms through the shoulder straps, pull the cups up, and then adjust yourself so that everything's straight and comfortable." The procedure was easy enough, but oddly disconcerting. Nothing Meridiana had just done was intentionally sexual, but the prior connections they'd shared rose in Thomas' mind and his body reacted accordingly. Worse, the coping mechanism of disassociating himself from the girl in the mirror was failing. Watching Gwen's hands shifting her breasts took on an embarrassingly voyeuristic aspect. That he could feel everything he saw her doing caused serious damage to the pretence that the two of them were not the same person. He could no longer ignore the other alien sensations provoked by her form. Live the role, she thought, resignedly. "When you're done touching yourself, put on that slip and take a look at the dress I picked out," Meri said cheekily. Mortified, Mirror-Gwen pulled her hands away from her chest, a healthy blush adding colour to her pale face. He grabbed the slip, a pale blue confection of silk and lace, and pulled it over his head. After sorting out an awkward altercation between the shoulder straps and his hair and smoothing out the bodice, he stepped over to the wardrobe. "This is one of the least formal ones I found, and that's not saying much" Meri said, displaying a long blue and white dress with a short sleeves and a high waistline, accentuated by a wide blue sash. She took it off the hanger. "You'll need help to get into it, and back out again." "That doesn't sound very practical," Thomas replied, raising his hands as Meri pulled the skirts of the dress over his head. "That's exactly the point, though," Meri answered, helping the girl slip her arms through the sleeves. She began to do up the row of little golden buttons which closed the back, "It's a sign of wealth and status." "So I'm more or less trapped in this thing?" "Until I decide to let you out," Meri laughed, "If you're flexible enough, you might be able to do it on your own, but you'd probably rip something." She pulled the sash tight and tied it in a wide bow at the back. "There. We're almost done. Comfortable?" 'Comfortable? Ha,' Thomas thought to himself. The gown was snug across the hips and form-fitting above the waist. Bending at the waist seemed inadvisable, but his range of motion wasn't otherwise constricted. "Everything seems to fit," he said. Other than the boots at the foot of the bed, he couldn't think what more could follow. Meri was searching through the contents of the vanity. "We've got to do something with your hair, a touch of cosmetics, maybe? Should have thought of that before getting you into the dress. Some jewellery; are your ears pierced?" She turned to find the Thomas slouched against the bedpost. "You must stand up straight, Gwendoline," Meri directed, "shoulders back, head held high. Mind your bearing at all times. I hadn't planned on making you walk around the room with a book balanced on your head, but I'm keeping that card in my back pocket." The girl adjusted her posture as instructed, but couldn't help a roll of the eyes. It was an effort to compose herself. "I'd prefer to be called Gwen, if you please," he said with cool courtesy, "Do you have any other words of wisdom?" "Plenty," She said heatedly. The bells of a clock tower rang out the noon hour. Her face softened. "Look, Gwen, you didn't deserve that, but I'm only trying to help. If you don't play by their rules, the nobles will dismiss you, or worse, make you an object of ridicule." "Couldn't you at least teach me in my dreams, like with the music? It might be less painful for both of us, that way." "I can't; you'll still be Thomas in your dreams. It just wouldn't work." "Well there's got to be something," Thomas said, "It seems we've a long way to go, and I'm already near the end of my rope." "So let's order some lunch; you'll feel better after you eat," Meri answered. "I'll tell you what, I won't let you go to Camelot alone. Finn worries, but I won't get caught; I'm pretty handy with a disguise. Besides, it's him they know, not me. And you need the back-up." Sir Galeas felt the usual sense of vague unease when Sebastian appeared at the door of his office. Sebastian knew things no one else did. Not just secrets, but also history and trivia otherwise lost in the Great War. It was disquieting to hear him speak, in that calm, grave voice of his, of long ago events as if he was present when they occurred. Over drinks one night, Sir Hector had suggested that perhaps he actually had been. Galeas took it mostly as jest; if true, Sebastian was remarkably well preserved. In moments of greater self-awareness, Galeas might admit to being intimidated. If so, perhaps it was the secret to their friendship. While he enjoyed Sebastian's stories, he felt the need to prove himself to the King's Counsellor, who in turn relished the opportunity to take him on in the practice yard. Galeas could, and often did, beat Sebastian sparing, in both hand-to-hand combat and with a blade, though he secretly suspected the old man was holding back. Galeas put down the report he had been skimming through and waved Sebastian in, "To what do I own the pleasure?" he asked. "I was looking through my things and found a copy of that book we were discussing the other day," Sebastian replied, taking a seat facing the Knight, and placed a worn, leather-bound volume on the desk. "It's mostly rubbish, of course, but quite a good read, nonetheless." "Le Morte d'Arthur?" Galeas said with a chuckle, running his finger along the spine of the book, "Best not to let the King see this, lest he think we're being subversive." He slid open a desk drawer and deposited the book inside. Looking up, he saw his friend Sir Tristram skid to a stop before the doorway. "Galeas!" the other Knight shouted in breathless excitement; his next words made it evident he'd just run from the castle gates, "Two more of the King's guests have arrived. I caught a brief glimpse from the walls. As they appear to be quite fetching, I think it would behove us to offer our services as escort to their lodgings." "Good day to you, Sir Tristram," Sebastian said, rising from his seat beside the door. "My apologies, Counsellor," Tristram replied with the sketch of a bow, "I hope I'm not intruding on important business." "Not at all, Sir; this is merely a social call. Did you perchance note the identities of our new arrivals?" Sebastian asked, "Only a few guests are still expected." "I'm not certain, but I believe the carriage bore the livery of the Earl of Cumbria." "Most interesting, if true," Sebastian replied thoughtfully. "Come, Galeas, let us join Sir Tristram in our chivalrous duty." When the three gentlemen arrived at the entrance hall, a pair of porters, overseen by a tiny ruddy-haired lady's maid, were carefully lifting a large wooden chest from the back of an open top carriage; another had already been taken down. The two elegantly dressed female passengers had alighted and were standing nearby. Tristram's description of them had fallen short of the mark. The taller of the two was slender and blonde, pretty, but lacking a certain je ne sais quoi. She stood with her gloved hands clasped at her waist, gazing disinterestedly at the men unloading the luggage. Whatever she was missing Galeas found in the other young woman: a raven-haired beauty in blue, wonder and excitement etched on her face as she took in her surroundings. Sebastian flagged down a waiting footman, but Galeas only half-heard what was said between them. Tristram clapped him on the shoulder, "What did I tell you? Isn't she exquisite?" he asked. "Yes, indeed...er...which?" Galeas replied with a tinge of jealousy. "The blonde, of course," Tristram answered with a laugh. "I can see where your affections lie, brother, and you've nothing to fear from me. Shall we enter the fray? Faint heart never won fair lady." "If you go in, you're sure to win," Galeas said, grinning, as the three men approached the two women. With a blade, Tristram was precise, if unimaginative; in battle, quietly competent. If he excelled in any area, in Galeas' opinion, it was charm. "My Ladies," Tristram began with a theatrical bow, "I am Sir Tristram of Cornwall, a Knight of the Round Table. The handsome fellow to my left is our Captain, the greatest Knight in all of Christendom, Sir Galeas Lakeland. And the dour old man behind us, who I am sure is glaring at me, is Sebastian, chief counsellor to King Arthur." Giggling, the blonde extended a gloved hand, which Tristram kissed. "Enchant?, Sir Tristram," she replied in a heavy French accent, "I am called Lady Isobel du Mar, of Rouen. My shy travelling companion here is the Lady Gwen." "On behalf of his Majesty, allow us to welcome you to Camelot," Sebastian said solemnly, with a bow of his own. "Rooms have been prepared for you with a view of the East Terrace. If you please, we shall show you the way." The heavily laden porters had gone on ahead. The group began traversing the quadrangle of the Upper Ward. The red-haired maid followed at a respectful distance; Sebastian gave her a searching glance. "I trust you had a pleasant journey," Galeas suggested brightly, addressing the heretofore silent dark-haired Lady, who must be the daughter of the Earl of Cumbria. A Knight was perhaps not a good match for someone of her station, but he could dream. "I had hoped I might take the train, but I was told it is only for the servicemen." Again, it was Isobel who spoke, "Anyhow, the drive from Londinium was agreeable. There was some unpleasantness in the city, though. When it was time to depart, the chauffer of the carriage Papa hired was nowhere to be found. Eventually he was discovered, intoxicated and passed out in the kitchen. Lady Gwen was staying in the same hotel as I. She graciously offered to let me ride with her." Gwen blushed at this and looked down at her feet. "Your maid," Sebastian said, catching her eyes when she looked up again, "How long has she been in your service?" "...Ana...?" the girl began, hesitantly. "About two years. She's been with my family all her life. She's the daughter of one of the cooks." She spoke softly, but clearly, her voice a husky alto. "As we passed through the yard," she added quickly, "I noticed the soldiers were all training with swords. Pardon if I offend, but it seems a bit archaic. Why waste the time? Wouldn't they be better served practicing with rifles?" "Certainly, skill in the use of firearms is paramount in modern warfare, my Lady," Sebastian intoned; if he'd noticed the deliberate change in subject, he didn't let on. "And each of those 'soldiers' is an expert marksman, but it was not so long ago that our armies fought using bladed weapons. As well, the sword is the badge of Arthur's rule. In their devotion to swordsmanship, our Knights honour both our past and our King." "Those were Knights of the Round Table like Tristram and myself; Arthur's personal guard. Some of our number travel with him wherever he goes. Aboard our airships, the use of firearms are forbidden; we're all armed with a cutlass," Galeas explained. "The practice spread from there. It's a useful exercise in the discipline of body and mind; I could teach you, if you'd like," he suggested to Gwen. "Sir Knight, the martial arts are no fit occupation for a proper lady," Isobel interjected reprovingly, before Gwen had a chance to speak. Tristram and Galeas held the doors as they reached the entrance to the Private Apartments at the south-eastern corner of the quadrangle. The party filed in; Gwen's maid seemed to give a shiver as she passed through alongside Sebastian, whose gaze had fallen on her once more. Up a grand staircase to the first floor, then halfway along a wide hallway, they came at last to the two Ladies' assigned rooms. Isobel thanked Tristram warmly, and Gwen gave Galeas a shy smile. Ana passed into Gwen's room and busied herself unpacking clothes from the Lady's trunk. "Two nights hence, the King will host a formal dinner in the Grand Hall for all his assembled guests," Sebastian told the women in parting, "In the meantime, enjoy the hospitality of Camelot." The three men walked away down the corridor, headed in the direction of Galeas' office. When they were beyond earshot of the new arrivals, Sebastian turned to the other two. "I trust that you will do your best to make our guests feel welcome," he said, "but remember your station, and do try not to overreach." In the overcast skies, the propellers of the Avalon could be heard long before the airship itself was in sight. Sebastian closed his journal, set down his pen, and slid back from his desk to stand at the windows of his personal quarters in the Round Tower. As he watched, the silver teardrop which was the Avalon's gasbag breached the clouds. He pulled out his watch and checked the time; they were ahead of schedule. A short time later, there was a commotion on the stairs outside as the mooring crew climbed to the roof to prepare for docking. Sebastian put his journal away in a desk drawer and locked it with the key he kept on a silver chain about his neck. He hesitated, reaching for his jacket. Remembering his earlier suspicions, he waved his hand over the lock and whispered an incantation, "ad me autem nemo aperit." That spell was sufficient only to keep an honest mage honest, but he would at least be able to tell if it had been broken, if not by whom. Satisfied with his precautions, Sebastian shoved his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and shrugged it over his shoulders. After straightening the lapels, he buttoned it with deliberate slowness, and then ran a cloth over his boots. Sedately, he left his chamber and ascended to the docking platform, attaining it just as the accommodation ladder was set in place. Arthur brushed past his security personnel when he saw his advisor waiting. "What news?" he asked in his usual brusque manner. At a nod from the King, the two headed indoors and down the stairs. "Your most serious rival has sent his daughter in response to your invitation, Your Majesty. While he may have done so as part of a political manoeuvre, I believe it to be a miscalculation on his part, which we can use to our advantage." "He's delivered a great prize into our hands," Arthur said with a gleam in his eye. Shaking his head, he continued, "surely he realizes this; there must be an angle." "Perhaps, and I shall endeavour to discover it; either way, complying with the order constitutes a tacit acknowledgement of your legitimacy..." "...or an exercise of mere prudence..." the King interjected. "Which itself is a concession to the reality of your power, although his supporters will not see it as such. A stronger statement is required, one we can't rely on the Earl to make. But with the girl in our grasp, we can engineer it." "Oh? What is your proposal?" "Not mine, Sire, yours." Sebastian chuckled at his own joke, "An announcement of betrothal between yourself and Lady Gwendoline. Her cooperation, which I believe we can secure, would lend authenticity." "This requires contemplation, Sebastian," Arthur replied warily. "Politically, it would be difficult to form a more perfect union. Beyond achieving our overarching goal, she's of high rank and heir to a sizable fortune. If she's not otherwise to your liking, then behind closed doors, it need not be treated as a conventional engagement." "I've not even seen the girl yet." "Well, then. We shall have to remedy that." Sebastian had an arrangement with several of the parlour maids, one of whom informed them that Gwen could be found in the Music Room. Arthur himself had never been there; the servant led them through disused passages deep within the castle to the hallway outside the chamber. From within drifted the haunting notes of a wordless melody delivered in a high, clear voice, accompanied by an ethereal tune picked out on piano. At a nod of dismissal from the Counsellor the maid scurried off with a curtsey. The Music Room was high-ceilinged, with wood panelled walls and gilded embellishments. Cobwebs hung from the corners, and from the chain and branches of an unlit chandelier. Rays of gloomy light slanted through gaps in the heavy curtains and played off the dust in the air. The irregular, bulky shapes of sheet-covered furniture sat around the periphery. Amidst the shadows in the centre of the room sat the piano, an ornate grand, its own protective cover lying in a heap atop an oriental rug. The girl sat at the bench, singing as her hands moved across the keyboard. The instrument was angled toward the windows on the far wall and she sat with her back to the door, unaware of her audience. She played either from memory or from the heart; no written music was in evidence. Arthur stood in the doorway, transfixed, watching the young woman perform. A crooked smile crept across Sebastian's face. A more perfect introduction could not have come about by chance. The smile slipped away. Was it chance, or had this situation perhaps been arranged? The thought circled around his brain and gnawed at his suspicions. If someone else within Camelot had guided the girl here, then for this moment, their agenda and his seemed to coincide, but caution was required. "Best not to disturb her, now, Sire. You can speak with her at the dinner tomorrow evening," Sebastian spoke quietly, a hand on Arthur's shoulder, gently guiding him away from the Music Room. "Now you've seen her, perhaps you're more favourably inclined to my scheme?" "She's impressively talented. I should like to see if she has wit to match," Arthur replied. "Too solidly built for my desires. A pity; but as you said, 'behind closed doors...'" 'Lady Gwendoline Pendrick,' the herald announced, as Thomas stepped across the threshold into the dining hall. For just a moment, he was able to lose himself in wonder. The scale and the opulence of the place was astounding. A high, vaulted ceiling, brightly illuminated with electric lamps, hung overhead. Arched windows in alcoves along the walls were flanked by shining suits of armour bearing the crests of long-dead Knights. An immense mahogany table ran the length of the room. Thomas' survey of the hall was cut short by the appearance of a footman at his elbow. "If Madam would allow, I can direct you to your seat," the servant said, nodding toward the head of the table. Meri...or should he call her Ana even in his own thoughts? Her paranoia was both exhausting and infectious. At any rate, she insisted that a few minutes late would be just on time, and she'd been correct. About half the places were full, with names being called out more frequently now at the entryway behind, as Thomas was escorted to the far end of the room. He had studied the girl in the mirror before leaving his chambers. Gwen's dark hair was piled atop her head in the currently popular Edwardian style, a few loose coils of curls framing her pale, red-lipped face. A beaded choker adorned with sapphires was fastened about her neck. The dress she wore was cerulean blue and ivory; a belt of paler blue accentuated an artificially enhanced hourglass figure, and loose, lace-cuffed sleeves fell just below her elbows. The tips of a pair of black low-heeled shoes peeked out from the long skirt. While standing still, Gwen seemed the very picture of modern elegance, but in motion, Thomas was certain the image was shattered. He tried to walk as he had been instructed, head held high and shoulders back, taking small steps. The last was easy enough; anything else seemed rather precarious. It had taken two hours to be made ready for this event. Through much of it, Thomas felt like an object, rather than an active participant. At the point where the tedium threatened to become overwhelming, a strange sort of peace fell over him. All sense of Thomas-ness faded away, the residual Gwen-ness gaining pre-eminence. A surge of excitement had risen within her. For an instant, she was fifteen again, being dressed for her first ball. She sat in her mother's dressing room, imagining, as Mrs. Hill tightened the laces of her corset, all the handsome gentlemen with whom she would soon dance. With a particularly sharp tug of the laces, the memory was dispelled. With its departure, Thomas found his own self reasserted. The experience had not left him unchanged; a modicum of Gwen's enthusiasm remained behind, manifested now as a sort of pleasurably expectant nervousness. Upon reaching Gwen's assigned place, the footman pulled out the chair and Thomas dropped stiffly into it. From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw another diner being seated to his left. He turned to get a better look, the motion becoming an awkward roll due to Thomas' unfamiliarity with his female form and the layers of undergarments in which it was encased. He nearly overbalanced, and fell forward, barely arresting his momentum with a hand on the table.