Royal Enchantment. Sharon Ashwood

single afternoon than she had during her entire life. And there were so many colors and shapes of footwear! Every shoe had a personality, and Gwen saw a slice of herself in each—feminine, adventurous, bold or hardworking. Picking a pair—or several—was almost impossible.

      Nowhere, not even in Camelot’s greatest markets, had she seen so many goods for sale. The abundance was dazzling at first, but after a few hours of rambling from store to store, it became overwhelming.

      “I need to stop,” Gwen finally admitted. “Surely I have enough shoes.”

      She was wearing her latest purchase, low ankle boots of maroon leather. According to Clary, they paired perfectly with Gwen’s new black skinny jeans and turquoise silk sweater. Compared to the gown that was now packed away in the trunk of the car, the clothes felt tight but almost weightless.

      “It’s not possible to possess enough shoes,” Clary said, threading her arm around Gwen’s. “Trust me on this. I’m an expert, and you have the king’s credit card. I won’t be happy until it melts.”

      “I need to sit down,” Gwen moaned. “My new boots are pinching my feet.”

      The restaurant Clary chose was cheerful, with large windows overlooking the street. They crammed a mountain of shopping bags in beside them as they squeezed into a booth. A moment later, menus sat open before them, promising an abundance of treats. It was sunny, and the golden light felt good on Gwen’s skin. She turned her face toward it for a moment, soaking in the warmth.

      Her companion typed on her phone, engaged in a world as ephemeral to Gwen as the Faery kingdom. Over the course of the day, Gwen had learned Clary and Tamsin were Sir Hector’s daughters, though they had been born in modern times. The circumstances of it all formed a convoluted tale she’d have to hear again before she understood it. It was enough to know the young woman was part of Camelot’s extended family. Finally, Clary closed the case of her device.

      “We’ve been talking nonstop all afternoon, but it’s mostly been about clothes. I’m sure you have more questions about this time,” Clary said. “Feel free to ask whatever you like.”

      Gwen didn’t hesitate. “What is a woman’s life in this time like? Surely you don’t go shopping like this often?”

      “Not often,” Clary said. “Arthur doesn’t usually loan out his charge card.”

      He probably never would again, judging by the number of shopping bags they’d accumulated. They gave their order to the waitress as Gwen smothered her guilt about everything she’d bought that day. She liked nice things, but had no desire to empty the treasury. “But what else makes up your daily routine?”

      Clary played with her napkin. “I’m not sure a witch is the best person to ask about the average experience.”

      “Because you used your power three times this afternoon to summon clerks to help us?”

      Clary shrugged. “In some department stores, it’s the only way to get service. It helps with finding parking spaces, too.”

      Coffee and blackberry pie arrived, the sturdy dishes filling up the table of the booth. Gwen was hungry, and the pie wasn’t that different from what she was used to, so she ate it with relish. The coffee was hot, but bitter and she spooned a lot of sugar into it before she could get it down.

      “Then again, maybe I’m wrong. I don’t think magic makes us all that different from other women,” Clary said once the first few bites were savored. “We go to work and pay our bills just like everyone else.”

      “What do you work at?” Gwen asked.

      “Computers.” Clary shrugged. “I’m bored with the job I’m in and looking around for something else. While I’ve been visiting in Carlyle, I went for a few interviews. I’d like to get into social media marketing.”

      “And you can find employment wherever you wish?”

      “Pretty much. I have good skills.”

      Gwen pondered that. Such independence! She’d never earned money herself.

      No wonder she felt invisible. How was she supposed to be equal to someone who paid for everything she ate or wore? “How did you learn your skills?” Gwen asked, suddenly aware this was important.

      “I went to school,” said Clary. “That’s normally how people learn their trade.”

      That fit with what Arthur had said.

      Gwen chewed her lip. Could I study at a school? Maybe she could learn how the great, towering buildings of this time were made. “I’ve always had a knack for constructing things—fences and sheds and even my father’s war machines. I understand siege towers and catapults better than most soldiers.”

      Clary looked impressed. “You’re an engineer at heart?”

      “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Some people carry a tune or bake perfect bread. I know what makes things stand up or fall down. Is there a school for that?”

      “Yes.” Clary nodded. “People pay well for that expertise. It’s a long course of study, though.”

      Gwen didn’t say more. This was a ridiculous conversation. She hadn’t been in this world for a day, so any plans she made were castles in the air, without foundation or substance. And yet, the idea intrigued her. She’d always envied the monks their great libraries. Here, she could read her fill and become whatever she liked.

      Or could she? What would Arthur do if she spent her days with her nose in a book, too busy to meddle with Camelot’s affairs? Would he be grateful to be rid of her, or would he consider it disloyalty?

      Sudden doubt seized her, and she stared down into her coffee cup. The drink was half-gone, for all she disliked it. Sugar only masked some of the taste, but the bitterness lingered. She’d swallowed it because it was expected of her, just like she did most things.

      “Is there something wrong?” Clary asked.

      “I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I like coffee.”

      “Then try something else,” Clary said with a laugh. “There’s lots to choose from on the menu.”

      Would it be that easy, Gwen wondered, to place an order for a completely different life?

       Chapter 5

      Swords rang and whistled in an elaborate dance, splashing shards of light on the walls. Tall windows opened onto a vista of wind-tossed trees, but inside the long fencing gallery, all was pristine order. Except, of course, for the deadly dance of the fae.

      Talvaric executed an expert feint, swinging in a circle to cut high. His step was light, barely making any sound—though the force of his blow sang against his opponent’s saber. Barto, Lord of Fareen, was almost his equal, which was saying something. Though of insignificant lineage, Talvaric had made his fortune as a professional.

      Barto doubled his attack, striking over and over in a pattern that should have brought Talvaric to his knees. For an uneasy moment, Talvaric retreated. Fear needled through him, exhilarating and rich. It was said the fae had no souls—not since Merlin’s spells had stripped them away at the end of the demon wars. It was also common knowledge that the lack of a soul meant a lack of feelings. That was and was not true. Fae were immortal, but they could be killed. The desire to survive and the fear of defeat remained. That was why Talvaric had taken up the sword as his life. It was a splash of red against an otherwise-eternal gray.

      With a pounding heart, he let Barto drive him back another step, then twisted away. He went low this time, aiming for his opponent’s legs. It was a move of cool precision, but Barto escaped with a backward leap. It didn’t matter. With a turn of the wrist, Talvaric changed direction, sweeping the blade upward until it pricked Barto’s chin.

      There he stopped,