”Unnnh,” Gaiane groaned as she stood up and stepped away from the waste bucket. Her stomach wasn’t settled but there wasn’t much left to bring up and she didn’t have time to feel sick. She turned to the mirror and the wash basin underneath. Cupping the water in her hands she splashed it on her face, but no matter how much she wished it would, it didn’t wash away the dark circles under her puffy eyes, nor did it soften the edges of tension that had developed in her face over the last few days. It didn’t return the spark to her eyes. All it did was make her wet.

Her fingers twisted into fists as she leaned over the desk, turning her gaze away from her smooth reflection in the glass down to the rippling water so she didn’t have to see. Seeing the grief would make today harder and she didn’t have a choice. Whether she would need to kneel and swear fealty or not today, she didn’t know but she wouldn’t put it past Tristan. She wouldn’t put it past any new king after a war for the throne. If so, she needed to be the portrait of contrition and loyalty to the new king. She needed to swear off Mordred and her own former position.

Truth be told, she had never cared for being queen. She appreciated having friends at court she supposed, but the constant meetings and appearances and the stress that she worried was being put on Loholt were things she was happy to be relieved of. But without that position, without that security, she had nowhere to go. Lo would have nothing. The baby, she thought with a soft brush of her hand over her still-imperceptible stomach, would have nothing. This was supposed to be their home together. She wanted to hold on to that even if, right now, it felt like anything but a home.

With enough force to push her motivation into gear, she stepped away from the mirror and water to the wardrobe of dresses. So much of the fabric was blue or black. She so wanted to wear black, to properly mourn. Well, actually, she wanted to forget about the coronation and curl back under her covers. How much of the fatigue poor appetite and nausea was the baby and how much was grief, she couldn’t define. There was no line between them. Even the thought of morning sickness, reminding her of the life inside her rendered her weak with grief. Hide it, hide it, hide it she repeated to herself as she pulled one of the few dresses she had from before her husband’s coronation. Red and silver might not be Tristan’s colors, but they weren’t Mordred’s either.

She smoothed down the fabric over her front and turned back to the mirror. In a single, hopefully unnoticeable act of mourning, she did weave black ribbons into her hair. She’d used pale blue ribbons that matched her eyes since long before she met Mordred, but one of those ribbons had been a favor for him in a tournament shortly after they’d met. She couldn’t bare the thought of wearing them now, but presentation was expected so black would have to do.

---

She stepped into place for the ceremony, wanting to fade into the background as those who she’d considered friends whispered behind their hands about her, avoided speaking to her at all. Even Thea, who had disappeared shortly before Gaiane’s world imploded, had returned and was flitting from person to person talking and looking like she was having the time of her life. Gaiane didn’t begrudge her closest friend’s happiness but she didn’t really understand it, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted her confidante with her, or if it was better this way so Thea’s happiness didn’t highlight her own misery.

Attention turned toward the dais as the coronation began, and then to the air as Morgana and a stranger came forward. When the projection began, Gaiane’s eyes met her love’s, and his voice rang out to everyone, but the hardness in the gaze and the words from his mouth weren’t him. Gaiane knew Mordred and that wasn’t him. However the show was occurring, it wasn’t true. She turned away before the slander about the Arthur’s death began, looking pointedly at the hem of her skirt as her arms folded protectively over her chest. She was glad Loholt had been permitted to skip the ceremony. After all, he was too young to given meaning to any sworn oaths.

And yet he screamed out just after the sound of the knife struck home. Gaiane’s head whipped around to the source of the shout, to her son’s window. She could hear her own misery reflected in his voice and she imagined if he were closer, she’d see it on his face as well. But what exactly was Tristan going to do about the outburst. She wasn’t supposed to think it, but if Tristan were capable of killing his father and then his uncle for the throne, what exactly would he do to a cousin who interrupted the coronation. For the first time in several days a true emotion replaced the sadness in her heart and on her face: fear. Her heart stuttered in her chest and breathing became a chore, even as the ceremony resumed and then broke up, the crowd returning to mingle in the gardens in celebration. Gaiane didn’t move from her spot semi-hidden by a column along the walkway, hoping that her son’s outburst hadn’t ruined any chance she had of convincing the king to allow her and what family remained to stay in the castle.