I uncap a dry erase marker and start editing the family tree we’ve been working on as a class throughout the fall semester, writing a question mark next to Mordred’s name.

“The King Arthur legend is famous for many things—the Holy Grail and the Round Table, of course—but maybe it’s most famous for the epic love story between Lancelot and Guinevere.” I draw a heart between their two names on the board, and giggles ripple through the class. “But as we saw moving backward from Chretien de Troyes to Geoffrey of Monmouth, Lancelot was a character invented by the French to satisfy their need for courtly romance. He’s not in the earliest mentions of the legends at all.”

I cross out Lancelot’s name on the board, writing made up by the French above his name. More keys clacking.

“But there is the hint of another romance, older than the Lancelot story and even more dangerous.” I draw a new heart, this time between Mordred and Guinevere. “After the Annals, the next mentions we get of Mordred almost always depict him kidnapping the queen or trying to marry her. This is usually pointed to as the source of the strife between him and King Arthur—who long before being depicted as Mordred’s father or uncle may have simply been a romantic rival.”

I cap the marker and turn back to the podium. “I think Mordred, more than Lancelot, highlights the central problem of King Arthur’s court…which is that trust, love, and family don’t always come packaged together.”

I can hear the old wall clock behind me tick over, and the students slowly begin closing laptops and opening bags, trying to appear attentive but their minds already out the door.

“That’s all for today,” I announce. “Next week, we’ll start into the Welsh Triads. And don’t forget to submit your final project proposals!”

They finish packing up as I walk back to my desk to pack up my own things. A few students stop by with questions and to pick up graded assignments, and then I’m alone in the room.

For a few minutes after they’ve left, I stare out over the vacant seats, as if trying to remember something I’ve forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything, of course, and nothing is wrong, but an empty restlessness chases after my mind all the same.

You have everything you need, I remind myself. A good job, a nice house, a grandfather who loves you, a cousin who’s your best friend.

I don’t need anything else. What I have is enough.

But then why do I feel so lost all the time?

My office at Georgetown is small and shared with two other lecturers, so it’s crammed with desks and file folders and books and stacks of neatly stapled handouts. I love it. I love it so much that I’ve been known to sleep here instead of my small townhouse near Dumbarton Park (which of course, I can only afford to live in because it belongs to Grandpa Leo and he refuses to hear anything about me paying rent.) It’s something about being in the old stone building, alone in the hallway of mostly empty offices, the darkness falling through the office window…it’s easier to remember why I sought out this life. A life of books instead of kisses. A life where Merlin’s warning doesn’t feel like a curse, but a choice.

I’m used to working late into the night, to being the last one left in the English department, and tonight’s no different. I grade a few papers and then move on to the book I’m trying to write—a literary examination of kingship as chronicled through the multiplicity of Arthurian legends throughout the ages.

I know it sounds boring, but really, I promise it’s not. At least not to me. After all, I met a real wizard once, my very own Merlin…even though as an adult I can laugh down the idea of magic and tell myself that his warning was nothing more than nonsense.

After all, I ignored it twice and nothing happened.

Other than my heart breaking both times, nothing happened.

I’m buried deep in my own mind, trying to recreate a line of thought I had last night about leadership in the Dark Ages, when the back of my neck prickles with awareness, as if someone is standing behind me.

Someone is.

I turn in my chair to see a man leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over a muscular chest, his bright blue suit stretching across his shoulders. Even with the jacket buttoned, I can see the way his tailored pants hug his hips and thighs, the way his white silk tie lies flat against the tight button-down underneath.

I tilt my face up to his, swallowing.

Ice-blue eyes and day-old stubble. High cheekbones and a straight nose, full lips and a tall aristocratic brow. A face made for brooding on a moor somewhere, a face made for Victorian Books or Regency period dramas, the face of the prototypical elitist stranger at a ball in a Jane Austen book.

Except this man’s no stranger to me.

Embry Moore.

Vice President Embry Moore.

I scramble to my feet. “Mr. Vice President,” I manage. “I didn’t—”

His eyes crinkle at the edges. He’s actually a year younger than President Colchester, who took office only six months before turning thirty-six, but years of sunshine and four tours of duty have given him the tiniest lines around his eyes, visible only when he smiles.

Like right now.

I swallow again. “How can I help you, Mr. Vice President?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Okay. How can I help you, Mr. Moore?”

He steps forward into the office, and I can smell him. Something with bite—pepper maybe. Or citrus.

“Well, Ms. Galloway, I wondered if you were free for dinner tonight.”