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Mordred grunts, his eyes fluttering open after a few seconds and he smiles. “Good morning” he mutters, moving into a sitting position “you didn’t have to.”
Winter smiles, somehow edged. “Let me guess, our darling braud has been at you. Summer,” she laid her dark head on the empath’s shoulder, “has been at pains to tell me of you, Medraut.” Her voice is lighter than her twin’s, somehow less sweet for it, and more strongly accented.
Summer glances away, turning her head to kiss her sister’s hair. “Nothing she would not have guessed in a moment,” she assures Mordred.
The knight’s cheeks flush crimson and he glances away, looking back up when he is certain the colour has faded from his face. “I’m unsure of whether to take that as a good thing or a bad thing,” he tells Winter truthfully. “How bad was what she told you?” he asks. “You didn’t tell her about the horse thing?”
Summer smothers a giggle. “No, I did not, and now you shall have to, for waking her curiosity.”
Indeed, Winter’s expression is of avid curiosity. “She sang your praises til I was like to be deafened by it. Indeed, if my sister is to be believed, you should have a halo of light and be more noble than Sir Lancelot.”