Blindly, drowning in his loyalty and caring, Summer held on to Percival. She didn’t have either the heart or the energy to say no, to tell him that she couldn’t quite believe him. He believed, so strongly, all she could do was nod, helplessly. “It’s not your fault,” she managed to say. And, “If you think it will help.”
But the drop behind her still beckoned.
Percival slowly began to get up, taking Summer’s hand. “Come on, we’ll have your things moved right now. You’ll have the guest knight’s room, right between Mordred’s and mine, we’ll find another one of those elsewhere.” He didn’t think pointing out all the things he’d done wrong would help, so ignored her first statement. “Everyone will be glad to be closer to you. I’ll carry your favorite things myself, is that alright?” He knew this problem wasn’t going to vanish with a few kindnesses. Percival would quietly inform Mordred and the other most trustworthy close friends of Summer of the requirement for continued support. There was certainly more he didn’t know yet, but he reassured himself that it would come in time. And whatever it was, it would not rob him of his friendship and loyalty. “Watch your step, this tower’s always been a bit rickety.” Releasing her hand, he rubbed the tears from his own eyes before holding her face and wiping her’s away gently with his thumbs.
She let him lead her down from the tower; let him help her gather up her few things: some books, some dresses, her small physician’s gear. Her voice shook still when she asked, “What will the King think? I can’t just — ” She faltered to a stop, staring down at the cloak in her hands, and the tears rose up again, closing her throat. I don’t belong here. This isn’t — my family — no one cares. No one will care. She sat down, hands fisting around the fabric, despair rising up again.