by Ines Johnson
And then there was Morgan's pride and joy, Annora Godfrey. Annora had built a functioning nuclear reactor.
Nuclear was such a trigger word this century—no pun intended. The overreaction was due to power-hungry, egomaniacal, little men with twitchy, tiny fingers who didn’t understand the science behind physics and chemistry, getting a hold of the mechanisms. Nuclear energy powered homes with zero carbon emissions. You’re welcome, Mother Nature. Radiation was one of the best weapons against cancer and helped saved many a tata. You’re welcome, men.
It was only when people tried to tear apart atoms that there were problems. Shooting a blast of energy at a reactive element caused instability. Hence, the bang.
Annora had used deuterium, which was an explosive gas. But Morgan had made sure to do all the safety checks. The one thing she overlooked was that the castle would be filled with little witches and wizards who weren't taught to curb their magical abilities.
So, when little Giles Fletcher sent a magical blast of green witch fire from his palms aimed in retaliation at his older brother, Niles, and he missed, it hit Annora’s project and let loose a reaction.
Deuterium was an odorless, harmless gas. It was the stuff of stars. Scientists believed it had its origins in the Big Bang.
Morgan itched to stop and make a lesson of the event. But that was neither here nor there. There, the children and their parents fled out of doors. Here, was a big, green gas billowing throughout the hall.
With the children and parents all cleared out of the hall, Morgan lifted her hands to call the gas back. Nothing happened. Her belly grumbled because it was empty of food. It, too, was empty of magic. Because Morgan no longer had any magic herself. It had been stripped from her in an act of heroism. But she didn’t like to think about that during the day. She had enough unwelcome thoughts of it at night when she closed her eyes and tossed in her bed.
She had once been one of the most powerful witches in all of Camelot, second only to her sister, Gwin. Morgan may have had her magic stripped away from her, but the violation hadn't touched her mind. She had always been, and still was, the smartest person in the town. She just needed to think, and she’d find a way out of this jam.
The smoke wasn't harmful. Not really. Just annoying and cloying. And getting smeared all over her clothes and face. She was certain she resembled Elphaba from Wicked with green smut on her nose and cheeks.
She could fix this. First, she’d employ dispersion. She set about opening windows and doors. But the smoke didn’t go out of the doors. Instead, a breeze pushed it back in and spread smoke through the Great Hall.
Think. What else could she do? She had to stop the source of the explosion. But with what?
There was sand from little Benji Clarendon’s project where he’d made magic sand that kept its shape. But Morgan knew better than to reach for it. The main component of sand was salt. Salt was the great destroyer, eroding most everything it came into contact with.
Think. An explosion was a rapid oxidation of gas. She needed an acid to stop the reaction. Wait. That was it.
Acid.
Vinegar.
There were tons of science projects using that particular acid. Morgan set about grabbing the volcano, eggs, and rockets. She tossed them onto Annora’s project and … the smoke immediately began to dissipate!
That worked faster and more efficiently than she’d postulated. Score one for science. She’d pat herself on the back if she didn’t have green soot and vinegar all over her hands.
Behind her back, Morgan heard chanting. She turned around, and there stood her sister, Gwin. Gwin’s lithe body was framed by the sun. Her slender arms raised. Her blonde hair shimmering over her shoulders as she used her abundant magic to push the smoke up the chimney and out of the castle.
Morgan had once believed she was adopted because she looked so different from her older sister and their mother. But Morgan took after her father with her dark hair and olive complexion. The only thing she received from the Galahad line were her blue eyes.
"I thought you were at the hart hunt," Morgan said instead of thank you.
"Once the guests were settled, I came back to the infirmary to check on ..."
Gwin didn't say his name. The sisters had an unspoken agreement not to say the name of the man who'd stripped Morgan of her powers. It already hurt enough that he was being taken care of in her home by her own sister, who also happened to be the villain’s wife.
His perfect wife who took care of everyone and everything and never had a hair out of place. Morgan didn't hate her sister. Gwin was her favorite person in the world. Morgan just wished Gwin didn't have to be so perfect all of the time. If she could just spill coffee on herself once. Or if she got something stuck in her teeth at dinner. Or if she’d even trip coming into a room—just once. To just give someone else a chance to stand in the sunlight. But no, the sun tracked Gwin as she moved into the room to check on Morgan.
"I'm fine," said Morgan. But she let Gwin take her hand and check for injuries. It was the best part of having an older sister; they liked to fuss over you. "No one got hurt. It was just a mistake. I need to get this cleaned up before the Fascist catches wind of—"
The sound of booted footsteps storming down the hall came closer. Morgan had lived in a castle filled with knights all her life. But she knew the sound of Arthur's booted heel like she knew the sound of a match thrown to gas. She braced for impact.
Morgan wanted to shove Gwin away from her. Not because she didn't need her big sister’s protection or support. She just wanted Gwin's perpetual spotlight shining someplace else when Arthur entered the room.
She needn’t have worried about the spotlight. Arthur’s hulking mass blocked out the sun’s rays as he filled the hall. Like Morgan’s, Arthur’s skin was sand-kissed, a nod to his forefathers who hailed from the Holy Lands.
Contrary to the storybooks in the human world, the Pendragons didn’t all spring from Britain and Rome. A branch of the family was from ancient Biblical stock. Arthur’s great-great-grandfather was Joseph of Arimathea, the brother of a woman who would give birth to the greatest prophet the world had known.
Arthur’s dark head swiveled as it panned the room, cataloging each item as though it were evidence. His gray eyes settled on Annora’s reactor, blinking slowly as though he took in the prosecutor’s case. He scratched at his beard, then his gaze found Morgan, and without hearing any defense, he rendered his verdict.
“Morgan.”
It was only a word, not even a phrase. But Morgan felt as though she’d been sentenced.
Gwin stepped back. She’d learned over the years that it was best to stay out of their rows and, instead, to referee from the sidelines when necessary.
“I knew this fair was a bad idea,” Arthur began. He strode across the room to Annora’s reactor. It still huffed and puffed, but very little smoke escaped now.
“You couldn’t have known,” Morgan said. “You may have formed a hypothesis in the form of a question, like ‘Could this be a bad idea?’ But based on previous evidence, all data would’ve pointed to no.”
“It’s always a bad idea when science and magic mix.” Arthur poked at the sodden project.
“That is the most elitist, prejudiced—”
Arthur waved her insults away without turning around to address her. “You obviously didn’t take into account every variable.”
Morgan went stock still. Her belly was a ball of fire. Her finger itched, wishing for a trigger to push to blow Arthur’s big head off his body. “Did you just question my research methodology?”
He turned to look at her now, but Morgan was eying the ancient swords on the walls of the Great Hall. She willed one to come into her hand or simply to fall down and clobber Arthur over his raised brow. It’d be hard to miss. But he moved out of reach.
"I need to inspect the chimney to see if there's any damage from those chemicals,” he said.
"It was vinegar and…”
Arthur
paused when Morgan didn’t end her statement definitively. "And? Was that all?"
"And deuterium.”
“Which is?”
Morgan gulped, but she came out with it. “Which is an explosive gas."
Arthur blew air out through his nose, doing a perfect impression of a bull seeing red and eager to charge. Too bad for Morgan that she’d worn a red bodice today. She felt the strings of the top strain as she inhaled under Arthur’s glare. But she didn’t back down. She put her hands on the denim jeans that covered her ample hips and held her ground.
"I'm trying to expand these children's minds,” she said. “To get them to think of more than promenading around a court or going off to fight Templars and Banduri.”
"You want to teach them to blow up the world, including everything that this town stands for."
“That’s not true.”
“Even when you had power, you used it to advance science. The realm of humans. Scientists who’d pick apart a witch to discover how her magic worked.”
“Science expands our minds,” Morgan insisted. “Boiling, bubbling, and brewing is the way of the past. We need to question, analyze, and share findings in this new world.”
Arthur leaned into Morgan. The heat coming off of him singed the fine hairs at her temple. His eyes burned her, stealing the moisture from the air and leaving her throat in desperate need of a tall, cold drink.
Morgan licked her lips, surprised to find they were moist and not dry. Arthur’s eyes tracked the movement. His gaze narrowed. Then he blinked and turned away from her.
“This isn’t the new world,” Arthur said. “It’s Camelot.”
“Then let me go to the human world. I just got an acceptance letter to Oxford and—”
“No.” Arthur had his back to her now. His attention focused on the chimney. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It was too dangerous fifty years ago. It was too dangerous seventy-five years ago.”
He didn’t respond. Was he even listening to her?
“Look at it this way, if I go now, I’ll be out of your hair.”
His shoulders tensed. Morgan wondered if the motion was an attempt to conceal his joy at the idea.
“You’re my responsibility,” he finally said.
“I don’t want to be a man’s responsibility. I want to get an education. But I suppose that’s just as dangerous in your archaic mind.”
Morgan didn’t wait for his response. She’d heard it all before. Instead of standing up to him or yelling at him, she did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She turned on her heel.
But before she stormed off, she did offer him one last piece of advice. “There’s already vinegar in there.” She tilted her head to indicate the chimney. “Just add some baking soda and the combination will clear the rest of the debris.”
Arthur smirked, his expression clearly reading that he was not about to take chimney cleaning advice from the woman who’d nearly burned the castle down.
Whatever, thought Morgan as she turned and finished storming away. If he wanted to doubt her on chemistry, that was to his own peril because she was right. But she doubted she’d be upset if his ignoring her words caused the entire castle to burn down with them all in it. At least she would have the right of it.
3
It took Arthur the rest of the day to straighten out the mess crafted by Morgan. He had to inspect the chimney for damages, and then clean it of green gunk. None of the normal methods worked.
In the end, Lance had suggested using an old witches’ concoction. The paste he spread over the brick worked wonders. But when Arthur asked what the goop was made of, his molars ground. The magical cleaning product was made of vinegar and baking soda.
Arthur finished up the work himself. He didn’t trust the matter to the young squires or any of the castle’s helpers. Tintagel didn’t have traditional help. Everyone who lived in the village was family and all on equal footing. There were no class distinctions in Camelot. Not officially in any case.
Just as the tables they all sat at were round, so too was the social hierarchy. There were knights and squires. There were witches and wizards. And there were also magical kind without any practical magic. Protectors, practitioners, and regular people.
The terms lady and lord and sir were used as honorifics, just as miss or mister or doctor were used in the human world. They might have different labels in Camelot, but they were treated no different. They all might look to Arthur for leadership and guidance, but every soul under his protection had the free will God had given them to live out their lives.
That will was another word for good sense. There was a natural order to the world that it made sense to follow. Unless you were one of the Galahad girls. Those three women had the power to flip Arthur’s day on its head with a snap of their manicured fingers or a collective cackle from within their exclusive coven.
A crashing sound had Arthur tensing. He let out an exhausted huff of air before turning his head. But he didn’t see a shock of defiant blue eyes flash him like a cat who’d flicked something from a high shelf with a nudge of its clawed paws. No, it was just the hunters coming in from the hart hunt, empty-handed, and laying down their weapons.
The sun was setting outside and the hunters were all coming in for the night. No one bothered with hunting the hart at night. It was near impossible to track the stag under the cover of darkness, even with magic. The animal and tradition demanded it would only give its life in the light of day.
Arthur began making his way toward the eldest sons of Camelot. It was his duty to greet them and see to their comfort during their stay in Tintagel. But someone had beaten him to it. Someone with eyes the color of a still loch on a clear day.
Gwin greeted each man at the door of the castle with a warm beverage and a smile. Gwin was the Galahad girl who gave him the least amount of trouble. In fact, Arthur couldn’t remember the last time Lady Gwin had so much as raised her voice in challenge to him. But he knew that just as still waters ran deep, a calm loch hid areas of undergrowth and obstacles beneath the surface that could present many dangers.
On the surface, Gwin was the picture of everything a witch should be. As the Lady of the Castle, she was proper and demure, a consummate hostess. She tended to everyone’s needs, often before the person realized they had a need. She ran the castle so that things moved like clockwork and not a shield or broomstick was ever out of place.
The two of them got along well enough. Their minds were often of one accord. They would’ve made the perfect marital partners. Except for the fact that she was in love with Lancelot. Had been since they were all children. Unfortunately, their attraction was ill-fated.
The star-crossed nature of the love between Lance and Gwin was a result of the other reason Arthur would never have Gwin as a wife. She was already married. To Arthur's older brother, Merlin.
The marriage had been arranged—a better word might be arbitrated—by Gwin’s mother to forge an alliance between the Pendragon and Galahad lines. Though Merlin was the eldest of the two Pendragon heirs, Excalibur had chosen Arthur to wield it. When that happened, Gwynfar Galahad had tried to foist her youngest daughter onto Arthur. But the younger Pendragon son and the younger Galahad daughter were like oil and napalm together.
Arthur took his traditional duties seriously while Morgan didn’t take to her duties at all. She turned her head toward the human scientific world. Where he towed the line, she was adversarial for sport. If Arthur said go left, he’d certainly find Morgan had stormed ahead of him to make her own path. The woman couldn’t follow a direction to save her life. That was a factual statement. She’d nearly died once rather than do as she was told.
She still hadn’t learned her lesson. That was evidenced by the stain on the ceiling of the Great Hall. Arthur had no idea what to do with the headstrong witch. Maybe he should unleash her onto the human scientific world. Let her blow up their labs for a change.
Tension pulled at a vein in his throat.
Arthur noticed his jaw was clenched. He turned from the hunters, whom Gwin had well in hand, and headed to check on the night’s meal. As he walked, he ran his hand over his face to lessen the strain on the muscle and then continued the motion through his hair, trying to wipe the annoyance away. He was certain he’d be dealing with Morgan’s next antics soon enough.
And, speak of the devil, there she was.
He cracked open the kitchen door to see that her profile was to him as she stood at the stoves, stirring a pot. White tendrils curled up from the pot, wrapping around her defiant chin like a lover’s caress. Her rose pink lips curled as the vapor rose higher to tickle her nose. She lifted her head. Blue-eyes arrested him, and Arthur’s heart stopped.
Morgan smiled; huge and bright and dazzling. It was a smile filled with so much joy and love that Arthur’s heart pounded once, twice, and then a third time against his chest to get out of his rib cage and touch it.
He’d seen Morgan smile before. He was sure of it. It was usually when she was up to no good. Like when she’d read something in one of her academic journals and tried to explain it to the townsfolk. Or when she and her cousin, Loren, were solemnly up to no good. Twin pairs of faux innocent gazes would lock on him and send anxious shivers down his spine.
Something else went down his spine now. There was no mischief in Morgan’s gaze. Just happiness. His body demanded he get closer, and his feet took two steps into the kitchen.
And then she laughed; a low rumble that jostled her shoulders. It didn’t tinkle like a squeal. It shook something loose inside him. Morgan had a deep, throaty voice, and the sound of her laughter landed somewhere in his gut, nearly knocking him back out of the door.
She must have sensed him then because her gaze shifted. She hadn’t been aiming her smile or her laugh at him. She’d been speaking with Igraine, Arthur’s aunt by blood, whom the whole town claimed as their own auntie. With her attention now on Arthur, Morgan’s blue eyes darkened. The storm moved in so quickly Arthur had no time to prepare.
