Chapter Five

Buffy's hands flew to her temples and she screwed up her eyes. "Not so loud, Winnie!" Her voice was as dry and rough as old parchment. "My head," she pleaded. "It's pounding."

Winnie's face looked no less anxious, but her voice dropped to a rushed whisper. "It's Lavonia!" she said again, her hands twisting into her apron. "She's not here! And the king's scones came out of the oven ages ago. What am I going to do?"

Buffy attempted to keep her face still—it hurt too much to express how she really felt. "And that's our problem, how exactly? If the king wants his freaking scones so bad, he can come down here and fetch them himself. I don't see why we have to worry over it." Her tongue tasted as sour as her mood. "I'd kill for a coffee . . . "

"There's fresh tea on the table. But, Buffy—"

"It's too early for 'buts,' Winnie," she said, moving to pour herself a cup of tea. It felt tepid within the already too-warm baking area, but Buffy made a satisfied sound as she swallowed. Having a hangover was thirsty work. She tried to remember the activities of the previous night. There had been music, surprisingly good without modern synthesizers.

There had been a boy, too. Not Jinx. He'd been a good dancer and . . . had she kissed him? No, she didn't think so. Grimacing, she gave up trying to tease memories from the alcohol-induced fog. Perhaps that third goblet hadn't been such a good idea. As a matter of fact, it had been stupid. It wasn't just because she had to serve at the feast tonight—she was exhausted just at the thought alone—but by the fact she was more vulnerable without her powers. In Camelot, she was just like everyone else.

There was something important about that thought, something about being normal, but all the thinking was killing her head. Sweeping the thoughts gently aside, she poured herself another cup of tea and turned to face Winnie.

Her friend was still standing there, her pale face pinched with worry and fear. Buffy sighed. "Winnie, if it upsets you so much about the scones, why don't you take them up to the king yourself?"

"Me?" Winnie's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "That's, like, a big no. No way. What if I trip? What if the scones go flying? Oh—! What if a scone hits the king in the head?" Her hand fluttered to her throat as though imagining a guillotine. "I can't."

Buffy made a little gesture for her to calm down. "Listen, you won't even see the king. He has two guards posted outside his room, right? Just hand the plate to them. That's all you have to do. Trust me, it's easy peasy."

"There's nothing easy about peas, Buffy! You try to shell them and they go all over the place!" Winnie waved her hands over her head. "It gets crazy!"

Clearly Willow's social anxiety had followed her into Camelot, and she loved her friend too much to keep her in such a state. Silently cursing Lavonia, Buffy relented. "Give me the plate. I'll do it."

Just give the plate to the guards, she told herself, feeling her own anxiety begin to rise as she climbed the stairs. That's all you have to do—the guards will handle the rest. You don't have to see him. You don't have to talk to him. Just give the plate to the guards.

"What do you mean you can't take it?" Buffy hissed, shoving the napkin-covered plate into the guard's chest again. "I told you these were for the king!"

The guard on the left side of the door winced but refused to take the plate. He glared at Buffy. "And I told you we are the king's guard. We can't move from this spot!"

Buffy growled and started to turn toward the other guard but he held up his hands quickly. "Don't look at me. I ain't doing it."

She actually stomped her foot. "Then what am I supposed to do with these damn things?"

The first guard made a face. "Gee, I don't know, maybe take them inside like the pretty blonde usually does?" The guard's face dropped to Buffy's chest and quickly darted away, clearly unimpressed.

Lavonia. Buffy seethed silently, feeling herself go rigid with indignation. She scowled at him. "Fine."

Without letting herself think—thinking would only make her hesitate— she gripped the handle to the king's chambers and yanked the door open.

Buffy crossed the threshold, and the door closed behind her with a soft click that made her jump. Her eyes darted around the room, and she relaxed ever-so-slightly when she saw that it was unoccupied. The king was elsewhere. There were two other doors on the far side of the room, leading off to more personal chambers no doubt, but for the moment, Buffy was alone.

Instinct told her to leave the plate on the table in the middle of the room and leave, but Buffy continued to hesitate. She hadn't imagined what the king's personal chambers might look like, but at the sight of it, a familiar ache bloomed in her chest.

Books. Books were everywhere. They lined the walls in cases, sat stacked in chairs and on the floor, littered the table, and lined the mantelpiece above the fireplace.

In the fireplace, a low fire crackled pleasantly, just enough to remove the morning dampness from the air. In front of the hearth sat a comfortably-worn velvet chair and footstool. On either side of the chair were more stacks of books, and balanced on top of those, an assortment of tea cups. An old-fashioned magnifying glass rested on the footstool.

In a sentimental urge, Buffy wished she could have curled up in that chair. It reminded her of the couch in Giles's office. Cozy. Safe. Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away only to have them land on the bookcase to her right. It was close, only a few steps away. Unable to resist this time, she moved silently to the bookcase and leaned in close. A thread of happiness worked through her as she inhaled the scents of ink, paper, and leather. It was like a balm to her aching head.

"Do you just smell books?" A voice asked. "Or do you read them as well?"

Buffy jerked back so sharply that the scones nearly slid from the plate. Whirling around, she saw Giles—no, Uther, she reminded herself— leaning against the doorway to one of the other rooms, arms crossed, watching her. He wore an ivory shirt, brown britches, and matching brown boots. His hair and skin looked damp, liked he'd just come from a bath.

"Um, what?" Buffy asked dumbly.

Uther arched an eyebrow. "Of course, that's assuming you can read."

His tone caught Buffy's attention. It was the same voice Giles used when explaining a difficult (to her anyway) concept for the third (okay, fifth) time. "Of course, I can read," she snapped, her irritation momentarily overruling her better judgement. She was also embarrassed that she'd been caught snooping. Well, sniffing anyway.

Heat prickled her cheeks as she stomped across to the table. She looked for a bare spot to set the plate down and, finding none, set it on top of a leather book. "Your scones, Sire." With that, she spun to leave. Already regret was sinking its claws into her: she shouldn't have come. Seeing Giles again, surrounded by all these books, it was too painful. She was just lucky Uther hadn't—

"Wait."

—recognized her. Buffy's arm froze in an outstretched position, the fingers just shy of the door handle. She squeezed her eyes shut and swore silently. It took great effort to rearrange her face into polite neutrality, and when she finally did, turned back to face him. She settled her gaze just over his left shoulder on an oil painting of a knight astride a black horse. "Do you need something?" A moment passed, and she remembered to tack on "Your Majesty." It felt silly, addressing Giles in such a way. He was a bit old-fashioned but even he cringed whenever students addressed him as Mister Giles. Apparently it had something to do with his father.

And yet—Buffy let her eyes flick to him briefly before darting back to the painting—this Giles looked like he wouldn't cringe if a blade were held to his throat. If this confidence was born from a time before Buffy had met her Watcher, she wondered what had happened in his past to change him into the man she knew. Whatever it had been, he had hidden it well.

Uther uncrossed his arms and straightened. He strode to the table, picked up the plate, tossed the napkin back to the table. "I remember you," he said, selecting a raspberry scone. "You're the survivor from the slaughtered village."

Buffy remained silent.

He bit into the scone, tossed the remaining portion back on the plate, and returned it to the table. Running a thumb across his lips, he sucked the crumbs from it. The casualness in his movements felt deliberate, and Buffy found something about it intimidating.

"Buffy," he said finally, nodding to himself as though confirming her name. "Tell me something"—he paused, waiting until she finally met his gaze—"do you still think I'm your long, lost friend?" His voice sounded amused, as if he'd just heard one of Jinx's jokes, but the expression in his eyes was unreadable.

Buffy blinked. She had been expecting questions about her lost memories, and had been mentally scrambling for some excuse, anything that might put him off considering 'alternative' methods in curing her amnesia. But this line of questioning had taken her by surprise. Frowning, Buffy wasn't sure how to answer him. Barrod had warned her that the king could tell when people were lying. And yet, in truth, Uther Pendragon wasn't her friend.

Buffy shook her head. "No." And then, like pounding the final nail into a coffin, she added, "Your Majesty."

His lips twisted then, as though he hadn't found her answer as amusing as he'd expected. He stared at her for several long seconds then flicked a hand in a dismissive gesture.

Buffy bolted.

She stood on the other side of the door, panting, as though she'd narrowly escaped a pack of hungry vampires. What the hell had that been about? she wondered.

"You alright, love?" the guard on the right asked. He had seemed the kinder of the two, and he looked at her with concern now.

The other guard snorted. "Oh, jeez. She looks like she's gonna cry. Look, don't take it personal. Plenty of girls try to bed the king—you just don't have the tits." He paused to leer down at her. "But you could do worse than me. Maybe later we could—"

"Shut up!" Buffy voice shook. "Just . . . shut up."

Instead of returning directly to the kitchens, Buffy wandered aimlessly. Nobody bothered her or asked where she was going. She was just another servant, too low in status to notice.

And for once, Buffy was grateful to be overlooked. She drifted from one hallway to another without being noticed until, somehow, she found herself outside on one of the high balustrades. Propping her elbows on the stone, she leaned forward and gazed out at Camelot.

The view was magnificent. Just below were the castle's spacious courtyards. Cobblestone walkways cut paths through green grass, some leading to flowering gardens, others to elaborate statue displays. Benches dotted the walkways, creating the perfect place for rest or meditation.

Beyond the white wall that encircled the courtyard, sprawled Castle Town. From this angle, it was an eccentric mash-mash of structures: some were made of stone, others wood; tall and skinny, short and crooked, earth-toned, colorful. It piqued an onlooker's curiosity, promising a variety of delights along its crooked lanes, a bit of escape from life's troubles.

Escape. Buffy doubted Castle Town had anything that could help her escape this curse. She'd made a few inquiries in the shops yesterday about a wizard named Merlin, but no one had recognized the name.

Too early, she realized, remembering an old movie she'd seen. Merlin didn't come into the story till Arthur Pendragon was ready to claim the throne. And since the king's son was only seven years old (she'd never seen him for herself; apparently he was being raised elsewhere in the kingdom, safe from assassination attempts), she had quite a wait until the wizard arrived.

A heaviness settled over Buffy's heart. She missed home. She missed her mom. She missed Mr. Gordo. She missed her Giles. She even missed—

—well, she didn't miss school. That was going a bit far.

Buffy's eyes drifted off to the right where the thick, northern woods lay. Like a diamond nestled among hills of emerald, she could just make out the glassy sheen of Lake Avalon. She wondered briefly if that was where the Lady of the Lake was supposed to dwell. Not for the first time, Buffy wished she'd paid more attention in Mr. Blowski's literature class. If she ever got back to Sunnydale, she promised herself that she would work harder at school.

Sighing, Buffy reluctantly pushed back from the stone. She felt guilty for leaving Winnie for so long. There was still plenty to do before the feast tonight.

As expected, the kitchen was a hive of bee-like activities. Staff scurried to and fro, carrying sizzling pans and clattering dishes. Steam plumed above boiling pots and smoke drifted outside the windows where seven, huge hogs were roasting over open fires.

Somewhere cutlery crashed to the floor and was followed immediately by shouts. Buffy had to dodge two trolleys before finally reaching the baking area. "The traffic is seriously scary today," she announced. "What are we working on? Pies?"

Winnie looked up from where she'd been rolling out dough. Instead of looking relieved or even angry, she looked riddled with worry. "Where have you been?"

"I am so sorry, Win. I didn't mean to—"

Winnie shook her head hard enough to whip her red hair. "Lavonia was just here," she whispered fearfully. "She knows, Buffy! She knows you went to the king's rooms!"

"And so what?" Buffy snorted. "It's not like I didn't have things to do. Maybe now she'll learn to get to work on time."

"No. You don't understand—"

"You!"

Startled by the shrill screech, Buffy whipped around to see Lavonia standing behind her. The girl's face was flushed dark with fury. It stood out almost comically beneath her white-blonde hair but her delicate features were twisted into something ugly and cruel. The bustling kitchens suddenly fell silent and a hushed expectation filled the room. Everyone's attention was on the girls in the far corner of the kitchen.

"You are to never serve the king again!" Lavonia shrieked, flicking her hair aside with a snap of her head. "If I'm not here, then you come and get me. Do I make myself clear?"

Buffy let out a sarcastic breath. "I'm not your servant, Lavonia. Don't be late and I won't have—"

The crack of Lavonia's hand against Buffy's cheek could be heard clear across the kitchens. Buffy gasped in shock and pain. Covering her burning cheek, she retreated several steps, afraid the crazed girl would hit her again.

Winnie was shouting something, surprisingly loud for her, but Buffy wasn't listening. Something sticky had coated her fingers, and when she pulled her hand away, she saw blood. One of Lavonia's fingernails must have scratched her. She explored the skin and winced as a fingertip probed a cut just below her right eye.

Buffy was still too stunned to speak. Lavonia had actually hit her! The girls she'd known usually fell back on savage comments about weight or acne. At worse, a little hair-pulling in the bathroom but never—

"What the hell is going on here?" A voice bellowed. Gerdy, the short, heavy-set Head Cook, pushed her way through the gawking kitchen staff. "Why is no one working? We've got a damn feast to prepare for, or has everyone forgotten?" She stopped just short of Lavonia. Her hound dog jowls wobbled as she glance between Lavonia's rage-filled face to Buffy's bloody one. "We got a problem here?" The tone of her voice suggested that they'd better not.

"No, Ma'am." Lavonia's voice was a shaky sneer. She was still glaring at Buffy. "Not anymore."

Gerdy looked like she was about to ask a question, but then heaved her massive shoulders in dismissal. "I want those tits at the pasta station the rest of the day," she said to Lavonia. "No sneaking off to fuss with your hair or powder your nose. And you"— she looked at Buffy as soon as Lavonia stalked off—"clean your face and get back to work. And if you want to avoid shit like this in the future," she added, "know your place." The kitchen staff burst into frantic movement the moment Gerdy's bulk turned around.

"It's not fair!" Buffy cried once the Head Cook was out of earshot. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

"I know," Winnie said, giving Buffy a sympathetic squeeze. "Lavonia gets away with being a bully because she acts like the king's pet. No one really likes her, not even Gerdy. They're just scared of the king. Come on," she added, "let's get you cleaned up."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Buffy picked up the lump of dough and slammed it back against the table. She folded it in half and punched it again.

"I think it's had enough." Winnie was looking concerned. "Are you all right?"

Buffy grabbed the end of her apron to wipe perspiration from her face, careful not to touch the cut beneath her eye. She scrunched up her face. "It stings."

"And your pride?"

"That, too," Buffy admitted. "If I still had my—" she broke off suddenly. She'd just freak Winnie out if she started talking about supernatural powers. "I don't want to serve at the feast tonight," she said instead. "Not with Lavonia there." The thought of the other girl simpering around her Watcher made her sick.

"Someone would take your shift," Winnie said slowly. "If that's what you really want."

Buffy frowned. "What do you mean? Of course that's what I want."

Winnie's attention seemed caught by a bit of flour on the table. She dragged a finger through it. "You'll miss Jinx's act though. All because of Lavonia."

"She's a total bitch!"

Winnie nodded. "She's mean all right."

Buffy frowned, something was off about her friend's posture. Winnie was shy, but she had the look of a kitten who'd been left on a curb. "Win, has Lavonia done something to you?"

Winnie looked up. "Me? No. She mostly ignores me. I'm not a threat in the whole looks department. It's just . . . " Sadness flickered across her face. "Jinx and me, we went out one time. As friends, of course, but it was still real nice." A small smile formed at the memory. "We got all fancy and went to one of those nice restaurants for my birthday. You know, where we get waited on for a change." The smile faltered. "But Lavonia was there with her friends. She flirted with Jinx the whole time, to the point he even forgot he was supposed to be sitting with me." Winnie's lip trembled and she made an embarrassed face. "I was such an idiot to think . . . . Anyway, it doesn't matter. She was just using him because there weren't any knights there to flirt with."

"I'm so sorry, Win," Buffy said, stepping forward to embrace her friend. "From the way Jinx spoke, I thought he hated her."

Winnie nodded. "Yeah, he does now. He didn't know what she was like back then. He was really sorry about everything." Winnie shrugged and stepped back. "He took me to the Goblet the next night and we just hung out together. That was nice, too."

Buffy ached for her friend. It had been obvious, right from the start of their friendship, that Willow had a crush on Xander. "First of all," Buffy announced, "you are beautiful, Winnie. And you know what? You're the kindest person I've ever met, and if Jinx can't see that"—she hesitated to emphasize her next words— "then he really is a fool."

Winnie flushed pink with happiness, and Buffy pretended to realize something. "Hey, are those uniforms as ugly as you say?"

"Uglier," Winnie said, frowning at the sudden change of topic. "Why?"

Buffy gave her a catty grin. "Well, I can't miss seeing Miss I'm-So-Perfect Lavonia wearing one, can I?"

Winnie grinned back. "Nope."

Buffy leaned in close to the mirror, inspecting the cut. It was still angry-looking and a bit swollen but the cool of the shower had taken the sting away. If she'd had a little foundation or concealer, it could have been hidden. Buffy sighed and added it to the list of things she didn't love about Camelot, right after "no strawberry roll-ups."

She continued to stare at her face. It was slightly warped by the mirror— her forehead looked slightly too large, her chin too narrow—but overall she looked all right, if a little plain. Maybe a little worried. Maybe a little more than just worried.

"What are we gonna do, huh?" she asked her reflection. The corners of the mouth grew pinched even as it gave her a blank stare. Clearly it didn't have any ideas, either.

The door to the east washroom swung open, admitting a dark-haired girl with straight, serious-looking eyebrows. She nodded at Buffy but bustled toward the shower, an ugly-gray dress draped over one arm.

Buffy stepped back from the mirror and tugged at the collar of her own uniform. It was made from a stiff material which resisted both wrinkles and slouching. She stretched her arms and twisted from side-to-side. Ugh, gross. A garbage bag with a hole for the head would have looked more flattering. That's what her new title could be: instead of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, she could be Buffy the Bag Lady.

Puffing out her cheeks, Buffy blew out a breath.

Why was it even bothering her? It wasn't like anyone was going to notice her anyway. Although Frannie had mentioned that Sir Percy might be coming, but honestly, what was the point of thinking about boys? She didn't plan on staying in Camelot forever.

Besides, being the newest member on staff, she'd been assigned the table furthest from the king—where the less influential guests were placed—and that was perfectly fine with her. She was just as determined to be the best server they ever had, and by the end of the feast, she'd have enough coins for a new pair of shoes.

She gave a final glance at her face. And maybe enough leftover for a visit to the beauty apothecary, too.

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