“They never knew it was magic,” she whispered. “I don’t talk about it much. Mine is so little it’s easy to hide, easy to make it look like I’m not using it, when I always am. I’ve only had to defend myself with it a few times, and nobody looks in the forest for the burned bones of bandits.” She shuddered hard with that memory, of dealing death with her magic while her mind was caught up in theirs. The cup rattled against the table.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you to know this. I didn’t mean you to have to carry this.” It always came to this, to the ache of being different spilling from her lips and driving people away. “I don’t want to be alone any more.”
He leaned forward, placing his hand on the goblet, ceasing the movement for a moment. “Do not apologize,” he tells her, his voice smooth and calm, “do not apologize for feeling, or for remembering, or anything. You have nothing to be sorry for. You have every right to defend yourself.” Mordred smiles, taking her hand. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me that.”
Summer blinked hard, and a few tears trickled down her face. “Trusting you is easy. I look inside you, and there’s nothing to fear.” She clung to his hand, laying her face against their joined hands. “I’m sorry.”