TWENTY-TWO
Several days passed before Guinevere had a chance to peer into the magic mirror again, for even with her minimal magic, she recognised an enchantment when she saw one. She hung the looking glass on the wall, on a hook that sat at such a perfect height, it must have been made for it.
She stared at her own reflection for a moment, relieved to see the shadows beneath her eyes had not darkened, even after days of presiding over hearings where Sir Dagonet or Sir Lancelot passed judgement while Melwas glowered at her. That was as close as he'd get to her. She'd barred the door again, and Lancelot stood outside it – unless Melwas could best the knight, which she highly doubted, she would be safe.
"Show me my brother," she whispered to the mirror. The surface misted, before the for
