John William Waterhouse. He wondered how Waterhouse would have painted Queen Elowen. Probably just like that.
When he said good-night to her at the Giant’s Head, Brendan wondered what it would be like to kiss her. And then he told himself he was being an idiot. He’d just met her, after all, and she was leaving in a week. But he did offer to show her around the countryside. “We’ll have tea at Pengarth. I’ll show you the historical museum. We can walk on the beach, although it isn’t much of a beach, really, just rocks.”
“I’d like that,” she said. And he’d been glad to know that he would see her again—even if she was leaving. After all, a lot could happen in a week. He wasn’t sure what. He just knew that he wanted to spend time with her, maybe get a chance to kiss her, put his arms around her. He shook his head. Time to get back to work. His father was returning in a couple of days, and he had a lot of books to catalog if he wanted to catch up.
I n the next couple of days, they went to the church where Brendan had attended services when his mother was alive. She had died of some sort of cancer when he was seven. His father had never talked about it, and he’d never asked. His father was a taciturn man who had left his son mostly to his own devices. Brendan had grown up reading books and running around Clews, the town and the forest that was left. It was his father who had told him the story of the Green Knight. His father was a good storyteller. One would never have expected it, but when he was telling stories his face would light up, his thin mouth would smile, and he would become a different man, for an hour or so. That was when Brendan liked him best. At other times, his father felt as distant as the clouds above Gawan’s Court. He remembered his mother as a woman who was always smiling, but wondered if that was because she was always smiling in photographs. Perhaps that was all he remembered, really.
He had always gotten along easily with the other boys in Clews but never made friends among them, not real friends. Sensing that he was different in some way, they had respectfully left him alone. And when he started doing so well in school and then studying for his A-levels, it all made sense. He was different, a scholar. They’d been right to treat him well but leave him to himself. They nodded to him in the street, asked how his studies were going without really expecting a response. And although he’d had a few girlfriends, none of the relationships had become serious. One of the girls, who had broken up with him before he left for Oxford, had explained it to him: “A girl wants a man with a boat of his own or a bit of land, see. You’re smart and all, Brendan. Smarter than anyone else in Clews, I’m sure. But you’re going away, and who knows where you’ll be tenyears from now. I want to be settled next to my mum and have kids. You understand, don’t you?” And he had understood.
But Oxford hadn’t been much different. It had been filled with Lady Chloe Whatevers who had no interest in a boy with a Cornish accent whose father owned a bookstore. Or with girls who were so immersed in their own studies, working toward degrees in physics or engineering, that they had no time for Brendan Thorne. He had dated, but never seriously. And though he’d imagined he was in love several times, he had eventually realized that desperately wanting to get a girl into bed was not love—not the Gawan and Elowen sort of love, anyway.
Now he was falling for a girl who, at the end of the week, would be leaving for America. As they walked among the graves in the churchyard, he told himself how stupid he was being. It was an infatuation, obviously. After all, they had just met. He told himself the same thing the day they went out on a fishing boat as he held her hair back while she threw up into a bucket. She’d been fine afterward, and he had liked watching her, with her hair whipping in the wind until
When he said good-night to her at the Giant’s Head, Brendan wondered what it would be like to kiss her. And then he told himself he was being an idiot. He’d just met her, after all, and she was leaving in a week. But he did offer to show her around the countryside. “We’ll have tea at Pengarth. I’ll show you the historical museum. We can walk on the beach, although it isn’t much of a beach, really, just rocks.”
“I’d like that,” she said. And he’d been glad to know that he would see her again—even if she was leaving. After all, a lot could happen in a week. He wasn’t sure what. He just knew that he wanted to spend time with her, maybe get a chance to kiss her, put his arms around her. He shook his head. Time to get back to work. His father was returning in a couple of days, and he had a lot of books to catalog if he wanted to catch up.
I n the next couple of days, they went to the church where Brendan had attended services when his mother was alive. She had died of some sort of cancer when he was seven. His father had never talked about it, and he’d never asked. His father was a taciturn man who had left his son mostly to his own devices. Brendan had grown up reading books and running around Clews, the town and the forest that was left. It was his father who had told him the story of the Green Knight. His father was a good storyteller. One would never have expected it, but when he was telling stories his face would light up, his thin mouth would smile, and he would become a different man, for an hour or so. That was when Brendan liked him best. At other times, his father felt as distant as the clouds above Gawan’s Court. He remembered his mother as a woman who was always smiling, but wondered if that was because she was always smiling in photographs. Perhaps that was all he remembered, really.
He had always gotten along easily with the other boys in Clews but never made friends among them, not real friends. Sensing that he was different in some way, they had respectfully left him alone. And when he started doing so well in school and then studying for his A-levels, it all made sense. He was different, a scholar. They’d been right to treat him well but leave him to himself. They nodded to him in the street, asked how his studies were going without really expecting a response. And although he’d had a few girlfriends, none of the relationships had become serious. One of the girls, who had broken up with him before he left for Oxford, had explained it to him: “A girl wants a man with a boat of his own or a bit of land, see. You’re smart and all, Brendan. Smarter than anyone else in Clews, I’m sure. But you’re going away, and who knows where you’ll be tenyears from now. I want to be settled next to my mum and have kids. You understand, don’t you?” And he had understood.
But Oxford hadn’t been much different. It had been filled with Lady Chloe Whatevers who had no interest in a boy with a Cornish accent whose father owned a bookstore. Or with girls who were so immersed in their own studies, working toward degrees in physics or engineering, that they had no time for Brendan Thorne. He had dated, but never seriously. And though he’d imagined he was in love several times, he had eventually realized that desperately wanting to get a girl into bed was not love—not the Gawan and Elowen sort of love, anyway.
Now he was falling for a girl who, at the end of the week, would be leaving for America. As they walked among the graves in the churchyard, he told himself how stupid he was being. It was an infatuation, obviously. After all, they had just met. He told himself the same thing the day they went out on a fishing boat as he held her hair back while she threw up into a bucket. She’d been fine afterward, and he had liked watching her, with her hair whipping in the wind until
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