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Chapter Text

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. 

However. 

Truths universally acknowledged mean little when the situation at hand is not universal—or at least not so universal or common to merit good, reliable advice. 

For as often as there is a single young man in possession of a fortune searching high and low for a wife, there the misfortune of a Mama and Papa having eligible bachelor of a son whose interest in the gentler things in life is so stunningly absent that they must resort to pointing at any passing object of general human features and asking (pleading) if such a person might strike a flame to his interest. 

To put it shortly, the Lady Ygraine is desperate. 

Her son has yet to take a wife and worse, his half-sister (and Ygraine’s daughter by marriage) has failed to take a husband. 

Every Mama for one hundred miles seems to be beating down her door, demanding to know the whereabouts and preferences of the children at every hour. Every breakfast comes with stacks of letters received the evening before. 

Ygraine positively perspires upon reading these missives. 

The most insistent of them she reads aloud to her husband and children over breakfast, pleading with them all to do something already. 

But alas, it is all to no avail. 

Since his return from Leipzig, Arthur has taken to slumbering through breakfast in the morning with his cheek resting upon his fist, making himself effectively deaf to the offerings of all these hospitable ladies and gentlemen. 

And Morgana, once Ygraine’s ally in this on-going battle, has changed course in light of her brother’s war-time injuries and has instead begun stripping each letter-writer clear down to the quick with gossip she’s learned in salons and drawing rooms the county over. 

Uther chides them and tells them, as any good husband should, that the family name depends on their successful engagement and subsequent marriage, but the two have heard this scolding so many times that the words have become more of mantra than threat in their minds. 

In fact, Ygraine has heard Morgana and Arthur hurling the same language at each other through slammed doors and open windows in the manner that less couth men tell each other to ‘go to hell.’ 

For months now, only she has taken the matter as seriously as such a thing deserves, and now she finds herself at the end of her rope, wringing her hands and desperately in need of comfort and solace and more than that, a sensible, trustworthy, empathetic friend. 

So, in protest, she throws down the letters at breakfast and stands up right there to gather her skirts and announce to the family and all who are eavesdropping that she’s had it and is going to see Nimueh.

The Lady Nimueh is a lady thanks more to the death of her husband than her marriage to him, and to that Ygraine says ‘good for her.’ 

The Viscount Howard presented himself to every woman in the town in Ygraine’s youth and proposed marriage to so many of them unsuccessfully that he gained a reputation as a fickle, and unreliable Tom. 

Everyone knew his true aim in these meetings was to coax a young lady into the grand bed in his grand house with designs to leave her weeping at the altar with the priest and the shattered remnants of her ruined reputation.

Ygraine, who would never boast of coming from a family of great status or means, turned him down twice before requiring the assistance of her brothers in helping him understand what she meant by it. 

Nimueh, however, readily accepted the man’s proposal, and for three years lived with him in happier and happier matrimony. 

Did the Viscount’s skin grow loose and sallow? 

Did he develop the most alarming cough and did his nails take on the most peculiar white markings? 

Yes, but none of that is Ygraine’s business. 

There has never been a better woman to her in all the world than her dear Nim. And when she erupts through the doors of Nimueh’s strange and unearthly bedroom doors in light of her family’s present issue, she is met with all that she needs: a fierce embrace and the most tender stroke of her cheek. 

“Come with me,” Nimueh says. “This is work that calls for something much stronger than coffee.” 

Over glasses of strong wine in Nimueh’s purple drawing room, Ygraine lays out her woes and begs for advice. 

“I feel like they don’t even care,” she laments. 

“Probably because they don’t,” Nim says. “And why should they? The status quo suits Uther well, and the children take all their cues from him. Until he is in a proper fury about it, they are likely not to do anything about anything at all.” 

“My father never once needed to work himself into such spirits to receive our obedience,” Ygraine pouts. 

”Your father used love as his sword, and as a result, you would rather have druink poison than incur his disappointment, which is what I’ve been telling you since the beginning—“ 

“Yes, yes. You’ve made your point. But I can’t go back and change things now,” Ygraine sighs. “What am I to do? Arthur is all but the walking dead and Morgana has not shown interest in a man since she trapped poor Leon in that mine seven years ago.” 

Nimueh snorts disgracefully and doesn’t even try to cover it up. 

“I’d want no other daughter in your place,” she says. 

“Well, have her then.” 

“Perhaps I shall.” 

“Be helpful, dear.”

“I’m thinking,” Nimueh says, stretching her long legs across the plush velvet of her purple divan. 

The close-cut men’s trousers she has adopted are a pair she once made Ygraine try on. Doing so in the safe cocoon of Nim’s black-painted chamber was exhilarating, though in the end, when she turned away from the mirror, she was left feeling more short and stumpy than anything else. 

On Nimueh, however, the same trousers look like freedom and forests and other wild things. 

Ygraine longs to lay her cheek upon them.

“So I have a good and naughty thought, which do you want?” Nimueh asks. 

“Oh, always the naughty one,” Ygraine says. 

Nimueh smiles and lifts her long, wild legs off the divan to twist and cross them instead the way young, rakish men do along the walls at parties.

”Are you sure?” She asks. 

“I’m desperate, Nim,” Ygraine says. “And up to here with being good. They’ve lost their rights to all my goodness. Help me be naughty.” 

Nimueh’s grin grows even wider. She flicks her fingers, calling Ygraine closer to her until Ygraine is close enough for her to wind her arm around her waist and tug her in to sit indelicately upon her trouser-covered thigh. 

What a thrill. 

All the silk of Ygraine’s gown bunches and tumbles over that thigh, forming waterfalls of gauzy pink from the divan’s edge to the rug. 

“I’ll help you,” Nim says. “But you must abide by every thing I say. Can you do that?” 

“Does it have to do with chickens? You know how much I love chickens.” 

“No chickens, you classless beast.” 

“I can get on my good boots?” 

“Igs, we already did the chickens. We can’t do the same tricks twice. I’m thinking bigger. Better.” 

“Bigger than a hen house?” Ygraine asks with large, innocent eyes. 

“Not bigger, but better. I know a man among my people with a good, eligible son.” 

“Oh?” 

“A gardener.” 

“A gardener? But one of yours?” 

“Yes. The son of a lord.” 

“As a gardener?” 

“His are a humble people. Quiet about their true nature, you know, but the father is of noble blood and the mother is the sister of an esteemed physician.” 

“A magic physician?” Ygraine squeaks, unable to keep her excitement unbound for even a second longer.

“Shhhhh. Here’s some gossip among our people you mustn’t tell anyone—anyone, do you understand?” Nimueh says, 

Ygraine nods frankly and mimes locking her lips and tossing away the key. 

“This young man—we call him Emrys—is a born spirit of wisdom and magic beyond you Normals’ comprehension. He is sacred to many of our kind, but to any others looking in, he is nothing more than a common man. A laborer, darling. A gardener.” 

“What is he like?” 

“Strong-spirited and fond of animals and ladies.”

”What sorts of ladies?”

”Most of them.” 

“Does that include Morgana?” 

“Not only Morgana. I’ve heard he’s taken up with a few lucky suitors among the hoard of ladies vying for his attention.” 

“Witches?” 

“And more,” Nimueh says. 

How exciting. Ygraine can barely keep herself from wriggling. 

”Is he handsome?” She asks. 

“He’s clever and hates nothing more than spoiled nobility, magic or no,” Nimueh says, “And anyways, I’ve heard his father’s employer gambled away all his inheritance. The family’s now in a difficult situation. They’ve let go of half of their servants already. I’d say there isn’t much time now left before Lord Balinor begins seeking new opportunities in the west country. What do you think?” 

“I think we already have a gardener,” Ygraine huffs. “And Uther will notice if I send him away.” 

“I think the man ought to take a trip then, of his own volition,” Nimueh says. “Mine has just left me on account of his wife’s father dying of fever. I’ll offer yours what you pay him and fifty percent more and give Uther my recommendation for a replacement. What do you say?” 

“I say it’s brilliant, but Uther’s too clever,” Ygraine pouts. “And stubborn in his ways. He won’t allow it. What if you hire Lord Balinor yourself? And we organize a few chance meetings?” 

“I can work with that,” Nimueh says. “Is it a deal, then?”

”Must you always ask?” 

“It is literally part of these sorts of contracts, so yes. Is it a deal?” 

“Oh, but it’s all so formal like this.” 

“Do you want the children married or not?” 

“Well, are you sure this Emrys will do it?” 

“I’m sure he’ll startle them into feeling something, and either to escape that feeling or recapture some portion of it, they’ll seek their mother’s counsel. You can be their savior then.” 

“I do like that sound of that.” 

“Yes, so is it—“ 

“Yes, yes, it’s a deal. Have your blood or whatever else you need.”

Nimueh takes the last of the pearls on Ygraine’s bracelet—just the one—and tucks it away in her pocket before Ygraine kisses her cheek and hikes her skirts up once again to make the journey home. 

“I don’t like you seeing that woman,” Uther says that afternoon when Ygraine finally emerges from cleaning herself up and soaking the hem of her skirts in cold water to present herself in his study. 

”Nimueh was telling me about the most wonderful novel,” she says. 

“Tramping across the pastures like a horse,” Uther says testily. “You are a gentleman’s wife, you know.” 

“Yes, yes. There was a lord in this one.” 

“More fairytales.” 

“And a magic physician, darling.”  

“Arthur is thinking about going to London for a time.” 

“What, now? He just came home.” 

“And now he wants to go to London,” Uther says. “His colonel has called upon him there.” 

“The colonel?” 

“Yes. Apparently, he made quite an impression.” 

“But he only just came home.” 

“They’re not going to send him back out already, my love. Calm your beating heart. This is an opportunity for him,” Uther says. “I am thinking I will allow it.” 

Ygraine clenches her teeth with all her might to keep her ‘drat, drat, drat!’ from escaping. 

Thinking quickly, she instead blinks her eyes until they begin to gloss over with water. 

“Yes,” she says slowly. “I suppose it is an opportunity he could not wisely turn down.” 

Uther pauses in scrutinizing his collection of ledgers and looks up at the solemnity in his poor wife’s voice. 

Seeing tears gathering before him, he stands immediately and goes to her. He takes her hand in his and strokes it, saying the whole while, “Now there, there, pet. There, there, my love. What brings this on? Are you homesick for him already?” 

“Not homesick,” Ygraine says between soft gasps. 

“Then what ails you so?” 

“My heart cannot take all the rushing and stopping and going in this house, Uther,” she says. 

“Darling, there is no rushing and going.” 

“There is nothing but rushing and going,” Ygraine cries, snatching her hand out of his. “Morgana is home for but hours during the whole week and I hardly see you and Arthur, so busy you are at the office or in town or going to Saxony or going to London—all day, I am here by myself, sat on my thumbs and then scolded like a child for meeting with our neighbors, my friends. A heart can only take so much, Uther. I am a kept thrush trapped in the most beautiful cage.” 

“You could go to town,” the baffled husband says. “You could go shopping. All the other ladies go shopping in town.” 

“I don’t want to go shopping.” 

“Why not?” 

“The house is already plenty full and my wardrobes are bursting as they are.” 

“Ygraine, other women—“ 

“Have we not long established that I am not other women? Oh, you could never understand. No one listens to me in this house. I might as well become a chair for all the lot of you care about my feelings.” 

“Ygraine. Ygraine, listen to reason,” Uther pleads as he coaxes the same miserable woman into his arms. “A woman of your status must act like one; she must be seen like one, you know this. If someone were to witness you trampling about these grounds like a servant or some sort of mannish waif, that would reflect on my ability to keep you as you are, safe and lovely and perfect.” 

“You like me headstrong. You like me mannish,” Ygraine says. 

“Yes, and dear, nothing could suit you better. But look how difficult Morgana has become in your example.” 

Shame in the face of this truth prevents Ygraine from arguing against it and carries her instead to the study’s window where she gazes out across the grounds until the warmth of her husband’s body slips into the space behind her. 

His big hands find her shoulders and slowly begin kneading. 

“Perhaps having a job would please you,” he says. 

“What sort of job?” Ygraine pouts. 

“Any job you wish for, my dear.” 

“Any?” 

“Say the word.” 

“A fairy garden.” 

“Ygraine.” 

“I will not dig it up myself nor go about planting or any of it. I swear upon my mother’s grave.” 

“We already have a garden.” 

“Yes, well. I want a fairy garden with dandelions and vetch and—and—“ 

“Weedy things,” Uther says in exasperation. “You ask for a forest on civilized land.” 

“Yes, well, I’m sure I can do it,” Ygraine says. “Let me work with Mr. Michaels and we’ll sort it out, you’ll see. Just a little garden, dear. Over there, on the south side, there. The old stables have been rotting for years, and they’ve got that lovely little tree. It’ll keep me busy for months, won’t it? And by the time Arthur comes back from London, I’m sure he’ll be so happy to see it.” 

Uther clasps one great arm around Ygraine’s waist and the other across her shoulder. She feels the heat of his breath as he sighs. 

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. You may have your garden. Provided you work with Mr. Michaels.” 

Together, the happy couple rocks, argument all but forgotten now with the promise of new, distracting things just upon the horizon. 

Just as promised, within days, Nimueh hires herself a new set of gardeners. Upon receiving Ygraine’s letter announcing her intent to build a garden, she declares that she must have an exact replica upon her own grounds. 

They are soulmates after all. It is only right for them to have and share the wonder of all things in this physical realm. 

Uther scoffs and Morgana rolls her eyes as both always do in the face of Nimueh and Ygraine’s past times, but Arthur, ever Ygraine’s good and loving son, tells Ygraine on the day of his departure to London that he cannot think of an idea more suited to either of them. 

“I’ll plant vetch,” she tells him fondly. 

“I don’t know that you’ll need to plant it,” Arthur says. “It’s more of the type of thing that finds you first.” 

”Well, I shall.” 

“You mean Mr. Michaels shall.” 

“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean.” 

Arthur smiles his first real smile in weeks at his mother’s silliness. Overcome with affection, Ygraine picks an eyelash off his cheek and smooths down his lapels. 

“When you come back from London, you’ll be impressed,” she says. 

“You make it sound like I’m going to sea. I’m not going to be away all that long, Mother.” 

“I’ll move so swiftly, it’ll be but a matter of weeks before it’s all in bloom.” 

”You mean Mr. Michaels will move so swiftly.” 

“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean.” 

Arthur laughs and it is wonderful to behold such a rare and fleeting thing. Ygraine can remember years before when she heard such a sound every day. Now, she is lucky to hear it once or twice a month, so dour has her son become. 

“Are you going with Leon?” She asks. 

“Leon and the others,” Arthur says. 

“Who are the others?” 

“Filthy peasants,” Arthur teases, “One day I’ll introduce you.” 

“You know, I wasn’t much more than a filthy peasant when your father first met me.” 

“I don’t believe you were ever anything less than a princess, Mama, and nothing’s changed since.” 

“Terrible boy. You scoundrel.” 

“I’ll see you soon and the garden. Don’t miss me too much,” Arthur says. 

He says goodbye to the grooms and off he goes, on horseback, again. 

This time, at least, Ygraine is comforted by the knowledge that all that stands between them are fields of grass and time. Anything is better than an ocean and the great, opaque wall of war. 

A week of wallowing in self-pity follows Arthur’s departure. Even with his poor moods as of late, Ygraine has gotten used to the clatter of his boots upon arrival home and the sound of him practicing at the piano throughout the day. 

Morgana tells her on the way to town on the sixth day that people are starting to say Ygraine is a recluse.

She says Ygraine should come have a dress or a hat made or something to put them off their chattering, but Ygraine can’t force herself to. 

The De Bois family has always had an excellent reputation, which has been helped along via the orchestration of beautiful evening parties and ladies gatherings and recitals. But little did the attendees of those gorgeous affairs know that the vegetables in the dishes before them were chopped in turns by the ladies of the house as well as the servants and the china was cleaned thereafter by the same. 

They did not see the penny-pinching Papa who had his daughter instructed in the arts of dress-making so that the boys could each afford to have a tailor see to their clothes.

They only saw the girl later on in all the newest styles in the colors which suited her best (those of her old frocks). 

And because of this shrewd and industrious upbringing, Ygraine has never particularly wanted in the area of fashion or shopping. There are so many more interesting things to do, which Ygraine’s husband appreciates about her—or appreciates so long as those interests do not draw the notice of others, apparently.

Regardless, Ygraine cannot bear the thought of climbing into a carriage and sitting and bumping along, uselessly, watching the world through the carriage window, uselessly, to go strut about town in shoes that pinch the backs of her heels all to buy a piece of fabric she has not a clue what to do with.

No, there is a garden and there is Nimueh, and that way, true delight lays. 

So on the eighth day after Arthur’s departure, Ygraine throws off her yoke of depression and hikes up her skirts to go on a walk to inspect Nimueh’s garden. 

On the shady side of Nimueh’s manor, the earth has already begun to be dug up and mounded in various knolls. A perimeter of loose bricks has been laid in a rectangular shape around them. 

Ygraine marvels at the whole scene, stopped in place on the manor lawn. 

She can see men working and knows one of them must be the magic lord and the other his son, the magic Emrys, but the men are too distant for her to make out which is which. 

When one of them notices her, she practically leaps into the air in alarm and thrashes her held skirts from side to side in her rush to get to the manor door. 

Nimueh comes downstairs, again in trousers, to greet her. She intuitively understands Ygraine’s breathless fluttering and fetches her a small glass of brandy to settle her nerves with. 

“Have you gotten started yet?” She asks. 

“No, I was miserable, but I’m on the job now,” Ygraine says. 

“Miserable?” 

“Arthur left for London.” 

“Already? A pity. He’ll have to meet Emrys later. Is Morgana still home?” 

“Never until six in the evening,” Ygraine says. “Will you introduce me to the lord and Mr. Emrys?” 

Nimueh gives her a good once-over and bats at her hands until she stops her fluttering and smoothing. 

“You’ll do,” she says. “Come with me.” 

Through the manor’s garden entrance, the wreckage of the landscape makes itself better known. The piles of soil Ygraine saw on the outside have been pushed around within a slightly smaller rectangle that is in the process of being dug directly into the earth. This gives the area the impression of being sunken into the ground. 

When Nimueh calls ‘Balinor,’ a man emerges from the towers of soil and comes forward taking off a set of leather gloves. 

He looms over Nimueh as she introduces him to Ygraine. 

“My lady,” he says very respectfully and with a slight bow. 

Ygraine curtseys and is graced then by the arrival of a second man, this one obviously younger. 

“My son,” The senior gardener says, as if there could be any mistake. 

The lad looks just like him, from head to toe—if smaller by maybe two inches in height and maybe a stone or two in muscle. 

His eyes are the color of the darkest shadows of snow: a cool grayish blue. And his black hair would curl into spirals, probably, if only he let it grow longer than its few inches. 

Despite his somewhat sickly pallor, Ygraine is pleased to see plenty of blood in his cheeks and the creases of his soil-covered hands. 

For a lad so striking, he carries himself with a languid nonchalance that lends him an air of mild disinterest even when he has been directly addressed. 

Immediately, Ygraine can see him and Morgana stood side by side in her mind’s eye; the most handsome couple for miles around. 

“You must be Emrys,” she says. 

Emrys inclines his head.

“I’ve heard so much about you both,” Ygraine says to both father and son. “It’s excellent to meet you. I do hope you might have some advice for me. You see, I am hoping to create the same garden you’re making now on my husband’s estate.” 

Nimueh smiles at her in approval, but Emrys frowns and looks to his father. Ygraine spies him mouthing ‘the same?’ the older man’s direction. 

Mr. Abbel silences him with no more than a look. 

“We’re happy to help where we can, madam. Have you started digging yet?” he asks.

“Not yet, but we’ll get right on it,” Ygraine says. “Would you mind perhaps lending me your son sometime to make sure we’ve got it right?” 

Mr. Abbel turns to consult with Emrys again in silence. Emrys gives nothing away. 

“That’s alright with me,” Mr. Abbel says. “Merlin, go with her for now. Draw the lines for ‘em.” 

Emrys goes to pick up his tools without another word. 

Emrys is, in fact, a title, not a name, Ygraine learns. Embarrassingly, she has blithely gone on using it improperly for the whole first week of her and Merlin’s acquaintance. 

He is gracious about it but does finally correct her at the end of that week when Mr. Michaels has set himself off the task of fetching a few men to help he and Emrys break through the rocky soil behind the manor. 

“It’s sort of like calling a cat ‘Cat,’” Emrys explains with his hands in his pockets. 

Afterwards, Ygraine calls him as his father does: Merlin.

His surname, Ygraine comes to find out, is in fact ‘Abbel,’ or at least his lord father goes by ‘Mr. Abbel’ in all his endeavors outside of his magic ones.

Mercifully, Merlin is a relaxed young man with a pleasant temperament. He does not mind being just Merlin to his Father’s ‘Mr. Abbel,’ and while he comes off as somewhat idle and unserious about his tasks, he is no stranger to hard work. Ygraine can see it in the wings of his shoulder blades when he drives a spade into the earth. 

She also sees the expression on Morgana and her friends’ faces when they gather around the manor’s windows to see it, too.

Every scrap of good-breeding vacates that silly, blustering troop of spring chickens to make room for the appreciation of young Merlin’s tight waist and manly, flexing forearms.

“Good lord,” one of Morgana’s friends says, “What is his name?” 

Morgana turns and, spying Ygraine watching the crowd of them with a smirk, clears her throat and straightens herself out before asking very pointedly where Ygraine found that young man outside. 

“His father is Nimueh’s new head gardener,” Ygraine says breezily. “We’re making matching gardens you see; Mr. Abbel sends Merlin over to ensure there’s not a leaf out of place.” 

The ladies sigh and the ladies swoon. A few of them ask God why He would bless a common man with such a physique when they are present, eligible, and weak. 

Morgana cools her passions and watches the garden’s progress way hawks watch mice trek studiously through fields. 

She doesn’t ask about Merlin again. She doesn’t need too. Ygraine already knows she’s going to try to chase him away.

The auspicious event arrives during the four week since Arthur’s departure. Merlin, having failed to arrive the day before as has become his habit, is replaced by his father late in the evening that day and Morgana, who has been laying in wait for her guileless prey, becomes incensed. 

She is so offended that at supper she asks Ygraine why ‘that man’ replaced ‘the usual boy’ at work in the garden today. 

Uther, who has never once heard his daughter speak in such a manner about any man, living or dead, drops the edge of his newspaper in alarm. 

“What man?” He asks. “What boy?” 

“Are you talking of Mr. Abbel?” Ygraine asks. 

“You know I am and you know I am not,” Morgana says stiffly. 

“Who is this Abbel?” Uther demands. 

“Nimueh’s gardener, dear,” Ygraine soothes him. 

“Why did he show his face here today?” Morgana asks. 

“I don’t know that Mr. Abbel deserves such a contemptuous tone,” Ygraine says. “He was only here to make sure things were moving along as they should be.” 

“That’s Merlin’s job, is it not?” 

“Who’s Merlin?” Uther demands. 

“The gardener’s son, dear,” Ygraine says. “He can’t always send Merlin, Morgana. An artist must supervise his apprentice’s work if he hopes to improve him.” 

“He always sends Merlin,” Morgana says. 

“Well, he didn’t today. My apologies he failed to consult with you first,” Ygraine says. 

“What business have you with a gardener’s boy?” Uther asks Morgana.

“I have no business, Father,” Morgana says. “But at least six of my friends have convinced their mothers to look into fairy gardens, and I think that Merlin is the cause of it all.” 

Ygraine blinks as slowly as she can manage, then resumes pouring Uther a new glass of cordial. 

“Dearest, you daughter seems to think it against the law for ladies to admire a young healthy man,” she says. 

Uther is equally unimpressed. 

“My daughter would do well to admire a young healthy man and keep whatever thoughts that result betwixt herself and God,” he says. “Merlin. What kind of boy is he? Do you know him?” 

“Nimueh introduced us briefly. I have spoken more with his father since,” Ygraine says. “Mr. Abbel’s circumstances were most unfortunate until Nimueh offered to have him and his family join the estate. Just terrible, dear. His lord gambled away his entire inheritance, and the family was forced to give up so many of its loyal servants.” 

“Are you certain it was the lord? Perhaps it was Mr. Abbel who caused this unhappiness,” Uther huffs. 

“I doubt it was so,” Ygraine says. “Mr. Abbel is a sober, serious man. You can see how he is in the good manners of his boy. I dare say Arthur could learn a thing or two from Merlin in that area.”

“If the father’s behavior reflects on the son and vice versa, Father and Arthur must be a disgrace,” Morgana says. 

Ygraine throws her a threatening glance over her shoulder. Morgana withstands it with a proud, raised chin. 

“Perhaps my daughter could learn a thing or two from this lad, too,” Uther says coolly. 

“There is nothing a man can teach me that I cannot teach myself,” Morgana says. 

“In that case, I hope that Mr. Abbel comes again next week,” Uther says. “That way, you can show us how little the matter affects you.” 

The first flag has been raised. Ygraine celebrates it in her nightdress before she goes to sleep. 

Chapter Text

For the first few days of the following week, it is too wet to work much on the garden outside, which is sorry news for Morgana and her friends. They are forced to go entertain themselves in someone else’s parlor.

The ground dries enough that by Friday, their abstinence is rewarded. Merlin arrives early in the day with his shoulders laden with seedlings balanced on either side of his yoke. Uther, who is now aware of the object of his daughter’s company’s fascination and on high alert to catch sight of it, ruins their view by stepping out into the garden to greet him. 

Ygraine delights herself by trailing after him to make an proper introduction. 

“Merlin,” she says. “Thank you for coming so early today. This is my husband, Mr. Draig.” 

“How do you do, sir?” Merlin says politely. 

“Very well, thank you. I have been made to understand that your father was hired by Lady Nimueh, is that true?” Uther asks. 

“Yes, sir,” Merlin says. 

“You have quite an accent. Are you from the east?” 

“Have you been there, sir?” Merlin asks. 

“A few times, yes. Might I ask who your previous master was?” 

Ygraine tsks and bats at Uther’s arm, but he won’t be swayed, so she must convey her apologies to Merlin with her brow instead. 

He accepts them with grace. 

“Lord Whitehorn,” he says. 

“Lord Whitehorn, you say? I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.” 

“With respect, sir, I don’t know that anyone would have taken any pleasure from making it.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes, sir, I have it on good authority that you would’ve had better evenings catching angry bats, tigers, snakes, pus-filled boils—”

“That’s enough.” 

In the time of their conversation, the true Mr. Abbel has caught up to his son with more seedlings in a barrow. 

“Forgive him, sir. He speaks out of turn,” Balinor says. “Merlin, it is bad form to speak ill of your past employer. We are grateful to Lord Whitehorn for providing for our family.” 

“Providing what exactly?” Merlin asks. 

“Merlin.” 

“My apologies, sir. Lord Whitehorn did provide for us,” Merlin says. ”He gave us loads of—“

“Mouth,” Mr. Abbel warns. 

“Love,” Merlin finishes emphatically enough to make Uther laugh. 

“Right, you can see yourself off, boy. Go make yourself decent company before your mum hears of this,” Mr. Abbel says. “My apologies again, sir and madam. Is there something amiss with the earth?” 

“Nothing amiss,” Uther says. “I was only curious. If I may be frank, the ladies upstairs are quite interested in your boy there.” 

Mr. Abbel’s eye seems to twitch minutely. 

“I regret to say he’s been known to draw interest,” he says. 

“How old?” 

“Exactly as old as he looks. Have a guess.” 

“Twenty?” 

“Spot on.” 

“Remarkable,” Uther says, “How long has he worked at your side?” 

“Since he was ‘round twelve years or so, but he works two days of the week for his uncle and has done in that time as well,” Mr. Abbel says. 

Aha. And so the cause of Merlin’s occasional disappearance makes itself known. 

“Your brother?” Uther asks. 

“My wife’s brother,” Mr. Abbel says. “He is a physician. It’s a better trade than this.” 

“A physician, you say? Does he work for Nimueh as well?” 

“No, sir. He’s lived in the area much longer than we have. Doctor Emerson, you might have heard of him.” 

“I have indeed heard of Doctor Emerson, in fact, he’s the reason I stand before you now, and my wife and my son,” Uther says. “What a pleasure to meet more of his family. Please send him my regards.” 

“I will do so, Mr.—?” 

“Draig.” 

“Mr. Draig. Now, if you’ll forgive me, we’re trying to beat the weather.” 

“Of course, of course.” 

Uther steps back and takes Ygraine with him to make room for both men to pass by with their seedlings. 

Morgana is furious when her father re-enters the house and starts listing out the merits of Doctor Emerson. 

His whole impression of the gardeners has changed now that he knows of their connection.

 Morgana cannot stand the thought that she might have shown even a flicker of interest in someone associated with her father, so in retaliation, begins talking about a regiment of soldiers meant to pass through the town in the upcoming days. 

She wants to go see them, she says. 

“For what?” Uther asks. ”You know what soldiers look like. Your brother came home in all his colors, and your father, too, need I remind you?” 

“How am I to be married fruitfully away if there is no man outside of these walls I am allowed to witness?” Morgana demands. 

“Oh, now she wants to be married,” Uther tuts. 

“Anything to escape this prison,” Morgana sighs. 

“Be careful what you wish for or else you’ll end up like Nimueh,” Uther says. 

“There is no happier widow in the world than Lady Nimueh,” Morgana says. 

“So there you are. I’ll arrange for you to marry the next wheezing bag of bones I see.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine, she says.” 

“That’s right, and I’ll say it again.” 

“I think it would be nice to have our good doctor around again sometimes, don’t you?” Ygraine says brightly. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen him, and wouldn’t it be funny to see Merlin outside of those rags of his? We should invite them both as master and apprentice.” 

Morgana mutinously lays down her spoon as Uther hums and haws over the matter. 

“It has been some time since I’ve heard sense in this house,” he says.

”Don’t you dare,” Morgana mouths at Ygraine. 

“I wonder what Doctor Emerson thinks about the marble business,” Ygraine goes on regardless. 

“Well, he would know; he was in granite at the start of it all. His father, you know, was a farmer-mason,” Uther says.

“I hate you,” Morgana mouths viciously. “I hate you. I hate you.” 

Ygraine beams. 

“I’ll make up a menu,” she says. 

Doctor Emerson accidentally delivered Arthur twenty three and one half years ago, and Ygraine is sure that neither he nor she will ever forget it. 

Generally speaking, it is improper for a doctor to concern himself with matters of childbirth, but Doctor Emerson, in his generosity, just happened to be on his way out the manor doors when Ygraine’s midwife ran into trouble with more blood coming out of Ygraine’s unspeakable parts than she was then prepared to deal with. 

She called upon the doctor to hold just one rag in place while she and her last standing, exhausted assistant rushed off to fetch more boiling water and linen and in that time, little Arthur made his first real escape attempt. 

Ygraine was too weak to assist him more than a cursory wail and clench, and Arthur, bless him, was nigh blue by Doctor Emerson’s standard and unable to help himself. The doctor could not bear to stand by while the proceedings proceeded as they were, so ended up maneuvering the babe safely out of what might otherwise have been a dire situation and untangling him from that horrible cord.

It is Ygraine’s understanding that the man has sworn off all calls regarding childbirth ever since and outright refuses to visit any residence in which a woman is confined or lying-in.

Still, she will be grateful to him until the day she dies. 

The realization that he is a magic physician on top of all that is enough to make her flutter about her rooms with intrigue.

Merlin the magic physician’s apprentice.

Merlin the next Lord of the Garden.

There is nothing that magic cannot do, it seems, and Ygraine can only pray for weather bad enough to prolong the garden project until Arthur arrives back on the grounds.

She can just imagine his face when he sees his sister absolutely smitten.

On the evening of the dinner, Ygraine slips out of her room to knock on Morgana’s door. At the first knock, there is no answer, but on the second one, there comes a groan and unhappy permission to enter.

Inside the room, in the plushest, most green chair of all sits a lady fit to make a princess flush in jealousy.

“You are beautiful,” Ygraine says.

Morgana purses her lips and tosses her head as if to deny it, but the care she’s given to her shining hair and the state of her gloves and the smooth dusting of rouge on her cheeks speaks plenty for her.

Ygraine slips inside and picks through all the ornaments left out on the room’s table until she find the set of star-shaped hair pins in the box.

“Close your eyes,” she says, and pins the set of six through Morgana’s dark hair so that it resembles the midnight sky.

When she is done, Morgana again pretends that she is unbothered.

“You look just like your mother,” Ygraine says.

She starts to stand and leave when suddenly, a hand wraps around her sleeve and holds her fast in place.

She stops.

Morgana says nothing for a long few moments.

“He’s too poor for Father to truly consider,” she finally says.

Ygraine races to school her expression before it takes on insulting airs. She takes the hand away from her wrist and replaces herself on the footstool, this time to clasp it properly in her lap.

“Your father married a woman with less than a tenth of his money to her name,” she says. “Allow him to surprise you now and again. But also, dear, does Merlin matter that much already to you?”

Morgana rolls her eyes in anguish.

“I wish ardently that it were not so, let me assure you,” she says.

“Oh, it’s alright if it is,” Ygraine says. “My dear, you needn’t be so upset. It is fun to play and admire pretty boys like this. Allow yourself to have that fun. Allow yourself to play. It’s good practice for later on when you are searching in earnest for a long-standing match.”

Morgana’s half-lidded gaze is skeptical.

“Something is strange about him,” she says. “Something I’ve never seen before in a man.”

Yes, that will be the magic, but Ygraine isn’t about to mention that.

“He’s quite delicately featured,” she says instead. “And you two have much of the same wit.”

“Do we?”

“Indeed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I watched him be told off for comparing his last employer to catching a hoard of angry bats.”

Morgana finds it in herself to smile a little smile at that.

“Alright, then,” she says. “We’ll play.”

“Good girl. That’s the spirit,” Ygraine says as she gets up and shakes her skirts smooth. “I’ll see you shortly.”

Doctor Emerson arrives exactly on time, as he is to every job and function and, at Ygraine’s request, he has brought along his charming nephew.

“We meet again, Mr. Draig,” Merlin says much more formally now that he’s buttoned up in an exceedingly well-fitted navy wool jacket with shining brass buttons with matching trousers and taller (almost certainly borrowed) boots.

A tiny spray of miniature pink roses and white baby’s breath pinned to his lapel gives away that this ensemble is not one of his choosing but rather the tender work of a mother at home.

“So we do,” Uther says. “A marvelous suit of clothes you have.”

“His mother is an excellent seamstress,” Doctor Emerson says.

“Your family is full of surprises, Gaius,” Uther says.

Merlin’s empty-eyed stares speaks volumes on his opinion of being dressed up like a doll and talked over like one, too.

Ygraine gives him a little wave and instantly, his whole person brightens.

“My father sends his regards to the lady,” he says, and produces from behind his back where a hat should have been a bouquet of magnificent aroma.

Ygraine hurriedly accepts it and splits it in two, to Merlin’s surprise. She gives him the second half of it back and stuffs the first in the nearest vase. At his perplexed, but thankfully unoffended, head-tilt, she flicks her eyes up to the stairs where, only seconds later, Morgana arrive with her hand trailing across the banister.

Merlin goes as still as a corpse at the sight of her.

“Doctor Emerson,” Morgana says as she comes down the stairs step by pointed step. “It’s been so long.”

Doctor Emerson smiles and accepts her hand when she comes close enough to greet him.

“It has been indeed, my girl,” he says. “And what a privilege it is so see how much you have grown since. Allow me to introduce you to my nephew here, Merlin.”

“We’ve already made each other’s acquaintance,” Morgana says, turning to smile directly at Merlin, who has yet to break out of his stupor.

Ygraine stifles a high-pitched giggle with the side of her hand and masks it as a cough that thankfully no one pays much mind to.

“Are these for me?” Morgana asks of the bouquet in Merlin’s hand.

He snaps out of his trance and takes a step back.

“One moment,” he says.

In surprise, everyone else watches him turn around and hustle right back out the front door. Doctor Emerson doesn’t call after him, however. He waits. His patience is contagious. Ygraine clasps her hands in front of her stomach and rocks from side to side.

Uther clears his throat.

That’s all it takes for Merlin to come rushing back inside, this time with a full bouquet laden with hyacinth (which has been out of season for weeks) and chamomile (from God knows where) among the cream and orange-tinged roses and chrysanthemums sent by his father.

Morgana receives this new bouquet with looser jaw and wider eyes than she normally would have.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says. “It was lovely as it was.”

“But it didn’t suit you,” Merlin says. “Now it does.”

Morgana clears her throat lightly and blinks her eyes back to a less-impressed size.

“Charming,” she says.

“May I prepare you a drink?” Merlin asks.

“You’re not a servant tonight, Mr. Abbel. You’re a guest,” Morgana says.

“Does that mean you will prepare it?” Merlin asks.

Ygraine seizes a fistful of Uther’s jacket and squeezes the life of out of it and her knuckles.

But after that one, heart-stopping moment, Morgana throws her head back and laughs.

“Charming,” she says again. “Why not? What can I make you, Mr. Abbel?”

“Something frivolous,” Merlin says. “May I show you the way?”

“You may,” Morgana says, smiling wider and more honestly than ever as Merlin’s clever hand finds her waist and begins leading her deeper into the house.

The parents and doctor stand back and watch the two of them saunter off to the drawing room until they realize the chill brushing them is coming from the still-open door.

“He’s never done that before,” Doctor Emerson says.

“Nor she,” Uther says.

“I’ll take him aside,” Doctor Emerson says.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ygraine snaps. “And if either of you tries, I shall birth a second child on that table tonight.”

Nimueh holds Ygraine’s hands as they shriek and wail and jump together in a circle at the side of her breakfast table. They calm themselves enough to sit, but cannot withstand it for more than ten seconds before they must do it all over again.

Finally, when the nervousness and joy has more or less settled into buzzing satisfaction, they recommence with their bread and butter.

“It’s going better than I ever dreamed,” Nimueh says.

“I know,” Ygraine says. “You would not believe how much she has changed in just a day. Sighing and wandering—wandering you know, listlessly from room to room.”

“She’s gone. She’s lost. It was over before it was even started,” Nimueh says. “And here I thought she would never look at anyone besides that maid.”

“That maid?” Ygraine asks.

“Yes. Yes, the maid,” Nimueh says. “Do you not remember Guinevere?”

“Oh, the Bors’s maid, yes, I do know her,” Ygraine says. “What a gorgeous girl.”

“So sweet,” Nimueh says.

“So sweet,” Ygraine agrees. “What about her?”

“Oh. Well, see, I thought Morgana would never see anyone in the world beyond this maid,” Nimueh says. “That’s all she does when she goes to town, you know. She goes and calls at the Bors’s house to have coffee with Lady Bors, but really to sneak away with the maid and chat in the corners of the house—or, get this—she’ll go to town to have a dress made by the maid’s mother. Mm-hm. Yes. But the whole thing is an excuse again to chit-chat with the maid. She barely says a word of the frock and just pays for it when it’s finished, not once looking in the mirror.”

Ygraine’s mouth drops open.

“I thought she was calling among half the town,” she says.

“She does that, too, but I thought only to cover up the love of the maid,” Nimueh says offhandedly.

“Wait,” Ygraine says. “Wait, wait. Oh no. Oh no, the maid. What if she finds out about Merlin?”

“What if she does?” Nimueh asks. “It’s nothing serious.”

Right.

Yes.

That’s what Ygraine told her.

“They are a handsome couple, though,” Nimueh says. “I tell you what, their children? They’d look like me.”

“Oh, they would,” Ygraine says. “How lucky for them.”

“I know,” Nimueh says. “I know.”

The bread in Ygraine’s next mouthful goes stodgy and thick between her teeth. She can scarcely swallow it. She manages it just barely and quietly lays the rest of the piece down.

Nimueh notices immediately.

“What’s happened?” she asks. “What have you just thought?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” Ygraine says.

Nimueh points at her with her butter knife.

“Talk,” she threatens.

“Well, what about this maid,” Ygraine blurts out. “Can—can a girl be in love with another girl?”

“Yes, next question,” Nimueh says.

“But how do you know?”

“I said next question.”

“I’m trying to understand. How do you know? It’s not like you’ve done it, have you?”

“Done what?” Nimueh asks.

“Fallen in love with a girl, darling,” Ygraine sighs.

“Haven’t we all?”

“What? No. Obviously not. I mean. Have you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh. Oh! That’s—no, actually this is perfect. What was it like?” Ygraine asks.

Nimueh blinks painstakingly while hunched over her breakfast.

“Tragic,” she says.

Ygraine feels herself deflate.

“That’s awful,” she says.

“It’s something, that is for certain. But frankly, it’s better for both if they break it off now,” Nimueh says. “Otherwise, it sticks with you no matter what you do.”

Ygraine fumbles with the napkin in her lap now, more disquieted than ever.

“Right,” she says. “If you say so.”

Morgana is smitten and judging from the various bouquets of wildflowers and late-blooming spring beauties that begin to appear in various vases conspicuously around the manor, Ygraine thinks it is rather safe to say that Merlin feels close to the same.

One afternoon, she slips out of the house while she thinks Ygraine is busy tallying up the weekly expenses with the cook and butler.

All three of them peek out the window in turns to watch her wait anxiously along the cobbled path in front of the manor until Merlin arrives alongside it walking two horses.

As a girl who’s been riding since Uther could reliably sit her upright on a horse, Morgana does not need any assistance getting herself up onto one, and yet Ygraine does not fail to notice how easily she accepts Merlin’s aid in this respect.

Ygraine’s hands twist the edges of her apron while she watches the two ride away with Morgana in the lead.

Her mind keeps going to that maid in town.

Oh, how she pities her. Oh, how she despairs.

Had she known that was the true reason for Morgana’s frequent outings, she would have found some excuse for the girl to come and join them here.

To think that all this time, her step-daughter was merely lonely—it is too much for Ygraine’s heart.

She has just decided to make up a basket to have sent to the maid and her seamstress mother when a letter from Arthur arrives to the door.

Ygraine nearly shreds the paper in her rush to unfold the missive. Once she has done so, she is met with her boy’s spidery letters announcing his departure from London on the upcoming Friday.

Morgana is still not home upon her father’s return from the office in town, which starts the evening off on the wrong foot. The mishap is corrected somewhat through Uther’s pleasure at his son’s impending return.

When Morgana does finally creep through the door, windswept and ruddy-cheeked, his mood rises violently again.

“What nerve you have coming home this late,” he booms.

“I was only riding, Father,” Morgana says. “I lost track of time.”

“In this rain? You’ll catch your death.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left.”

“Wasn’t it?” Uther says. “You mean to tell me you left this morning?”

Morgana, caught, digs deep into her well of creativity.

“I—” she begins.

“Say nothing,” Uther says. “I happen to know exactly where you have spent this day. Why, you ask? Because Doctor Emerson and I met for lunch, and who was he missing but his apprentice, who also happened to be riding this day. Do you take your father for a fool, daughter-mine?”

Morgana purses her lips.

“It is convenient indeed that Mr. Abbel the Younger was missing from his post, but I fail to see what that has to do with my own exercise, sir,” she says.

Uther’s brow furrows even deeper than it did before, then all at once, he heaves a great sigh and gestures for Morgana to come close to his side.

Hesitantly, she indulges him and thereafter even allows herself to be sat on his knee as she did when she was a little child.

“Morgana, my star,” Uther says. “My sweet light, listen: I know this boy is treating you fondly, and I do not deny that he is treating you well, but please remember that he is a gardener.”

“He is a future-physician by his own admission,” Morgana says stiffly. “He only assists his father when other hands can’t be found.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s equally one and the other,” Uther says.

“And why not?” Morgana asks, standing sharply. “Why must I spend my days stuck in the company of vapid ladies when there are men and women out in the world who freely converse on the most interesting, useful things? Do you know that Merlin is cultivating a garden of poisons for his uncle to study the medicinal effects of? They each brew and test these plants on themselves, Father. The hives on that man’s arms, you’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Showing you his arms now, is he?” Uther rumbles.

“They are arms, Father. As mine are, too. These are learned men. Physicians. They see worse than arms.”

“I am not suggesting that I dislike Doctor Emerson or his nephew,” Uther clarifies. “I am asking you to be frank and tell me if you are imaging a future as a doctor’s wife. If so, you would do well to caution young Merlin to spend more of his time with his uncle than his father, lest he gain a greater reputation as a gardener than a man of medicine.” 

Morgana goes quiet.

“He is rather nice,” she finally admits. “But I could not answer your question yet, sir, as I do not know the answer myself. As such, I fear the caution would be first, unwarranted and second, insulting should I deliver it now. Mr. Abbel is a generous man and an interesting one, but should a greater option come along, I would not want to leave him broken-hearted.”

Uther rubs his lips together seriously and then nods.

“I can live with that decision,” he says. “Does this mean you are now amenable to meeting other young gentlemen?”

“I suppose I am,” Morgana says. “I suppose first I needed to meet one who was not as terrible as the others to get used to the idea.”

This pleases the father, and eases the burden of secrecy on the daughter, which is all fine and well, but it does nothing for the coldness growing in Ygraine’s own breast.

It is the outcome that she so badly wanted all those weeks ago, yes, but now flooding her mind are worries and worries for both the maid and now this gardener.

The days pass by and nothing much changes besides the progress on the garden. It is taking shape now, and beautiful already, though much of that which is planted are still only tiny seedlings.

Mr. Abbel has created a small pond in the back-most part of the area and somehow overnight cultivated a whole miniature wetland around it, complete with tadpoles and waterlilies.

Above that are beds of thick-stemmed water plants and above them, on higher ground, are patches of nasturtiums and ivy with spring bulbs hidden between, all of which Mr. Abbel assures Ygraine will fill in the area with little to no effort on her or Mr. Michaels’s part.

The crawling plants will form a wild hedge and, if all goes to plan, will hide the newly planted young willow’s roots from pests and rain until the thing has grown strong enough to bury them itself in the soil over the miniature pond.

The whole endeavor has been gated with a hip-high black wrought-iron fence, surrounded on the inside with hydrangeas and small jasmine bushes.

A small, extremely fashionable pergola has been erected to the driest, flattest part of the new space to accommodate in future one set of chairs and a small table. Several climbing rose bushes have been planted at each corner of its supporting beams so that in spring and summer, the area will be nicely perfumed and shaded by their leaves and blossoms.

All in all, it is a marvelous feat, efficiently managed, and Ygraine can see now why Lord Whitehorn retained Mr. Abbel’s services as long as he was able.

The man is an artist, truly.

She can only imagine what the cottage he and his wife have moved into on Nimueh’s estate looks like now.

Still, Ygraine is sorry, somehow to see all these lovely things take shape and each completed stage draws her time with her new friend Merlin to a close.

He is such a dear boy, she has come to see.

A little awkward, yes, and prone to expressing himself a tad more honestly than he really ought to, but there is a sweetness about him and an eagerness for friendship that Ygraine cannot help but be taken in by.

It is like looking upon the best parts of herself in the shape of a young man with sky-colored eyes and a real magic touch.

He brings her cakes his mother made and insists that Ygraine tries a mouthful.

Undeterred by the slight cooling of Morgana’s passions towards him, he threads flowers into her hair before she leaves home for town and calls them ‘day-stars’ and her a ‘day-moon-queen’ if such a thing could exist.

In town, Ygraine has finally seen him working at the side of his uncle, flirting with old poor women to distract them from their treatment and chasing children away from the doctor’s doorstep with various implements in hand to make the hoard shriek and squeal and scatter in heart-throbbing delight.

The only issue that has arisen, is that Morgana is not the only lady with an eye on him.

And though this is a singular issue, it is the one which most changed the mood at the manor in the days before Arthur’s return and which most occupies Ygraine’s time now.

See, there is a maid who often goes to the doctor’s doorstep every day.  

She stands on her toes to peer inside the window, and some days, if she is lucky, there is a handsome young man mixing medicines behind the counter.

Her smile is bright with good, white teeth and her hair, no matter how carefully brushed, always releases a few curling tendrils to frame her lovely face.

Morgana stopped walking at Ygraine’s side the moment she saw her when they last ventured into town.

This is Guinevere: the object of Morgana’s previous attention and now, it seems, her competitor.

On that day, Ygraine and Morgana watched as Guinevere waved through the window and called to Merlin using his first name.

How quickly he dropped his measuring cups as soon as he saw her!

He threw open the door with a cry of “Gwen!” and invited her inside to sit on the high stool behind the counter with him and make conversation while she rested her feet and he went about his daily duties.

They are not only friends, it seems, but bosom ones.

The kind who, like Ygraine and Nimueh, can talk about everything and nothing at all for hours on end and who leave each other with the same regret that wives feel when their husbands and sons trudge off to war.

Ygraine thought Morgana might burst into tears right there and then, so directed them swiftly back to the carriage.

At home, she explained the situation to Uther before he dressed himself for supper to avoid any further damage done to the poor girl’s heart.

Uther only sighed.

“I can think of no better woman than Miss Guinevere for our young Mr. Abbel,” he said.

“I know,” Ygraine sighed. “Both of their families would do well with such a match, but you know how new Morgana is to love found and lost at the minute. Be tender with her, darling.”

“This is exactly why she ought to look among landed people for friendship,” Uther huffed and puffed.

“I know, dear. I know. She will learn in time.”

Such is the state of the family and manor when Arthur arrives home.