“I haven’t lifted a sword in over a year!” she snapped. “Of course I am not as skilled as Arthur’s most skilled knight! Even at my best I was not a match for you, and I never will be; I have accepted that!” She put her hands on his chest and pushed a little. “I will never be worthwhile at anything men value. I know this. I am neither a seamstress nor a chatelaine nor a mistress of the distillery, I am not pretty or witty in the way that men value. My worth is only that I might be married off for some alliance!”
Then she sat down on the bench and burst into tears.
Mordred crossed his arms over his chest, allowing her to rant to him, half listening and half not. He knew that even though he could dispute these things she wouldn’t believe him, and she never would. It was only when she began to cry did he lower his arms to his side. “Summer.”
“What?” she sniffed, and rubbed at her face. “Oh, fine, I know. You don’t think that. It’s not what you meant when you said that.” Summer sighed and sniffed again. “I’m sorry. It’s this place. I need — I need to get out. I’m … I’m going down to the shore. Do you want to come with me?”