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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.”
“Yes, my lord,” she says obediently. That nagging feeling has grown stronger, and she moves through packing in a half-daze, straining her senses south and east. But there is nothing. Only the same feeling as before, of something wrong, of her twin in need.
She hurries to the stables, pack bouncing at her hip and dressed for hard riding. No pretty dresses, and a dagger at her waist, hair bound up firmly.
All he had needed to get was food. Out of force of habit Mordred kept a satchel packed just in case he needed to leave on a whim. Mordred had been readying the horses when Summer arrived, attaching a satchel to the saddle before fiddling with the reins. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She keeps glancing unerringly south and east, toward Dover. It’s a second to affix her pack to the back of the saddle, then she swings up. “I’m ready.”