This year, Easter doesn't come in the bleakness of Dark. Galahad marks it, because he's continued to keep the days, although it's become more difficult now that he has to calculate the waxing and waning moon himself -- the little pocket calendar Claudius gave him only went through one year, and now is used up. The computus paschalis would ordinarily be made by the local priest, anchored on the March equinox, but in this place with its twin moons this is not an observable phenomenon. But Galahad knows the equation. He remembers everything.

It no longer matters the way it used to. He doesn't fast during Lent, because self-denial without purpose is pointless: why should he hunger, if not to remember Christ's hunger? Why should he keep a vigil, if not to remember Gethsemane?

Why should 8th Menestheus matter except that it's 8th Menestheus, and outside the snow is piled deep?

Galahad wakes early, as always, and goes downstairs to prepare breakfast. Without Dark to limit the mansion's supplies, he has everything he needs, and this does matter: like the moons, this place's bounty does wax and wane, and Galahad offers up a prayer of thanks for the time of plenty. Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt: And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land.

He makes quickbread with the sweet potatoes Laertes gave them at the end of fall, and cooks rounds of pork sausage flavored with brown sugar, sage, and pepper. He brews coffee, as strong as he can make it, and prepares tea for himself. When breakfast is ready he carries the tray back upstairs and sets it down on the kotatsu, where Claudius likes to sprawl on cold mornings like Regina on her favorite sun-dappled armchair.

Instead of waking Claudius, though, Galahad sits on the edge of the bed to watch him. Last Easter, Galahad was adrift, hurting, barely connected to his body; he remembers going numbly from the lake to his old room to their shared one, how he wrapped himself in one of Claudius' robes and tried to become warm again. He remembers his vision of Percival, and his despair.

This year is different. His husband sleeps a hand's-breadth away, close enough that Galahad can smooth back the errant curl at his brow. He has more friends than he did last year. He's chosen things for himself. He's lost God's favor entirely, and found better favor to replace it. Over the last forty days, he and Magnus have talked about this, because Magnus wants Easter to be better for him than it was last year -- Magnus wants to give him everything he needs, but what Galahad needs from the Paschal miracle has changed. The meaning of rebirth and salvation have changed since he came here.

Yesterday, instead of fasting and grieving for a martyred savior, Galahad and Magnus dyed eggs and hunted them with Drosera, who gleefully snapped them to shards with her bill, and Galahad meditated in his chapel, but didn't pray to God. A week ago he wove the palm leaves Magnus carefully curated all year for him, but not into crosses; he's teaching himself to make dragonflies like the ones he imagines Lan Sizhui loved in the marketplace in Yiling.

And today he's watching Claudius' chest rise and fall beneath the filmy negligee he wore to bed. There's a livid bruise on his throat where Galahad kissed him too hard the night before.

When Mary met her lord outside the tomb, she supposed him to be the gardener, and said unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. But Galahad knows that his lord is the gardener, and he knows where he's laid.

He bends down and kisses Claudius' cheek, and says, "Husband. It's time to wake up."

After way, way too much research and overthinking, the kind of research and overthinking that had Janet feeling uncomfortably like Quentin and Alice's ill-gotten love child, she's been ready for a while. So, yes, maybe she wanted the dramatic gesture of giving this to Galahad as a wedding gift. Can you blame her? Nothing says “I hope you're really happy in all your marital bliss with that guy who always seems like he's trying to sell me a protection plan” like the promise of turning someone into a cat.

Whatever. It's also kind of anticlimactic at this point. Janet has a bowl of white paste and a whole lot of gumption, but as far as supplies go, that's it. She eyes Galahad. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Galahad says, in his usual too-serious way. He's excited, but that only means his affect is flatter and blanker than usual. He told Mothwing that he would come to her for a lesson this afternoon, but not what shape he'd be in.

“Okay. You're going to have cat-brain, and herding cats is famously impossible, so where do you want to do this?” Maybe Janet should have made the mansion generate a cat carrier. But it seems rude to show up to a meeting with a human person with one of those, and not her preferred brand of rude.

“In the garden. I want to go to Mothwing afterwards.”

“Sure thing.” She lets Galahad lead the way. She has a bowl of weird white gunk to manage.

Once they’re in the garden, surrounded by the riotous summer flowers, Galahad stops. “Will my clothes transform with me?”

“Nope.” Janet raises her eyebrows at him. “You'll be naked when I turn you back. I won't let your tiny cat body suffocate or anything, if you're worried about that.”

“When you have transformed me, will you please put my watch around my neck?”

That is… so cute. He's so cute. Every time Janet has mentally compared Galahad to an adorable talking woodland creature feels completely justified. “Yep,” she says, instead of oh my God, you're adorable. “Any other last requests before you can't talk anymore?”

“No. Thank you.”

Okay, sure. Janet scoops some of the chalky shit onto her fingers and invades Galahad's personal space. She swipes it onto his forehead, under his shock of marshmallow-fluff hair, then onto his bare shoulders. She steps back, looks him over like he's a used Chevy Malibu and she's about to try and talk him up to a family of four, then says a single harsh syllable out loud.

It's not a pretty transformation. Galahad kind of… crunches forward, folding up like a piece of paper crumpling in someone's hands. Cats are a lot smaller than humans. Fur is sprouting, his collarbones are melting away, a tail is crackling out from the other end of him. It's really, really not cute. But it does work, and Janet feels like the world's coolest magician when there's a little white cat with blue eyes staring at her from under his sundress.

It feels like falling down a cliffside – a whirling, disorienting feeling, but not the freefall in air of being thrown from a horse. When the world around Galahad comes to a halt, he looks up, and up, and up, to see Janet’s distant, blurry face.

He takes a careful step forward on his paws, getting used to his new center of gravity. His whiskers feel as though they’re constantly brushing against things, picking up every vibration in the air, and the world’s colors have changed into shades of yellow and blue. His ears twitch and swivel towards sounds.

He takes a practice run, and finds his stiff, awkward body has become graceful, fluid, as he bounds in a circle around the garden. He can’t tell how, but he knows his tail is important, as much a part of his balance as his four paws.

Finally he comes back and sits on his hindquarters in front of Janet. He knows he’s not supposed to be able to talk, but he tries anyway, and meows, “Thank you.”

“Holy shit!” Janet stares down at him. That doesn't make any sense. She remembers being a goose. All she could do was honk. She honked for days on end. It was actually really fucking tedious. “Whoa. I'm good.” She told him she would, so she kneels in the grass and swipes his watch from the pile of his clothes. “Here, kitty.”

Galahad pads over to her on his soft, silent paws and puts out his head for the watch-collar.

Feeling a sudden sense of portentous responsibility, Janet buckles it around his neck. She's careful not to make it too tight or too loose. He's so, so cute. “Okay.” She gives him a little scritch under the chin, like Regina likes. “Do whatever you want, but I'm gonna keep an eye on you.”

“I understand. Thank you, Queen Janet,” he meows again. Then a butterfly passes in the corner of his eye, and he springs after it, unable to stop himself.

Aornis is dead.

Galahad would be here, crowded in at the desk beside Claudius, the two chairs dragged so close together that their knees touch, whether or not she still lived, but now he can do it without the heaviness he hadn't even truly realized had settled onto him for the last three months. Everyone he loves is safe -- as safe as possible in a world that allows in people who kill for chaos' sake. He doesn't have to worry about another sword striking down Magnus, or whether his memories will be taken again without his permission. He looks down at his wrist and thinks: the speckled band. That was the thing he'd forgotten, the thing Aornis had told him. His braided watchband sits there now, coiled like a snake.

His gaze flicks back to the notebook in front of Claudius. This wedding is, above all, for Claudius, not for him. It's a gift of planning and control and spectacle, the opportunity for Claudius to have everyone's eyes on him; envious or admiring or joyous for his joy, it doesn't matter. Claudius has thought of every detail, has consulted Lady Post on every particular. It's the wedding he never had the chance to have with Gertrude, the laugh in the face of God and the church. Galahad's purpose is to make sure it's perfect for him. It's a purpose he can give his whole heart to.

Now Claudius is reminding Galahad that he won't be allowed to look at his bride until the wedding itself; Galahad nods.

"Dost thou want Lan Wangji and Crowley to come here?" he asks. "Or wilt thou go to them?"

The day after Evil Twin Magnus leaves, Galahad shows up for his training with Lan Wangji exactly as he always does (although later in the day, because Lan Wangji asked him to wait until afternoon to meet) -- if Lan Wangji were going solely on his appearance, he'd see absolutely nothing out of order. He throws himself into the sword forms with his usual focus. But he's gripping the hilt of his sword too tightly, and his movements are tense; he's never graceful, but today he's almost clumsy, and each failure or misstep only seems to pull him tighter, like an overwound watch.

[cw grief and grieving]

Often it's a struggle for Galahad to talk about important things when they happen. Sometimes it's because he's not yet sure what he thinks about them, and he has to roll them around in his mind like grains of sand until they coalesce. Sometimes it's because he knows exactly what he thinks, and it's something too great for him to express right away. He still hasn't told Claudius that he saw Percival on the day the visitors came -- it's too much. Every time he considers it his words dry up, like dew when the sun comes up.

When he gets back to their room, Claudius takes one look at him and asks, "What happened?" with a touch of sharpness in his voice that Galahad knows is only worry, not rebuke.

And this time Galahad speaks right away. "Shen Yuan is dead," he says.

Claudius arises from his desk and crosses the room, and pulls Galahad into his arms. For just a moment, Galahad wonders if he should feel childish for needing so much comfort, when Magnus and Lan Wangji have already worried about him. But Shen Yuan was his friend, his first friend, someone he wanted to know better. Shen Yuan was important. It's all right that Galahad can't do anything but put his head down on Claudius' shoulder and weep. Claudius brings him over to the bed and gathers him in and rocks him a little, smoothing the thistledown of Galahad's hair with a hand that doesn't shake, until Galahad's tears are finished.

That night he has to tell Claudius to sleep. Claudius stays up at his desk, writing in his dossier, tapping his pen against the surface of the paper and twirling it between his fingers. He looks off towards the wall thoughtfully, and Galahad can't read his face at all, because there's nothing there to read.

When he's ordered, Claudius does come. He takes off his dressing gown and places it carefully over the back of his chair, as he does every night, and slips under the covers in his silk pajamas, and lets Galahad hold him -- as he does every night, as they do every night. But this time Galahad doesn't know whether it matters.

This is the pattern of the next few days, a pattern where not everything is the same, like compline (this or another suitable reading may be used). They make breakfast together, as they often do now, but Claudius doesn't eat until Galahad orders him to -- as if he's forgotten until Galahad reminds him. Galahad goes to his training with Lan Wangji, because now it matters even more. While he's gone, it's impossible to clear his mind; all he thinks about is Claudius/Magnus/Shen Yuan/this or another suitable hymn may be sung. Whenever he's not with Claudius or Magnus, he worries about them (is Magnus safe? Whatever killed Shen Yuan tried to kill Magnus also. Whatever killed Shen Yuan killed him while Luo Binghe was present: it doesn't matter whether Galahad is with him. Is Claudius safe? Is he taking care of himself? Will he eat a midday meal without Galahad present to tell him to do it?). There are a hundred things Claudius does in a day that Galahad likes to think of him doing: meeting with his friends, reading, listening to the record player, spending time in his alchemical workshop with Laertes, playing weiqi with Lan Wangji, choosing the flowers for the welcome table, working in his trauma book. It's early in the spring, but there are plants in the greenhouse that need to be prepared to be placed back outside. Galahad can't trust that Claudius is doing any of those things, because it's just as likely that he'll be walking by the front entrance, pacing back and forth, waiting for someone to come by so he can talk to them -- but it's talk that's like eating without tasting. It's not the usual pleasure Claudius takes from information and its exchange; it's just something to do instead of starving.

He and Claudius are often apart during the day, and it's never bothered him before. They always rejoin each other to sleep in their shared bed. Now Galahad is anxious every moment he can't see Claudius and doesn't know where he is.

After training, Galahad goes to the chapel Magnus made for him and sits at the base of the tree, listening to the string of bells, or he finds Laertes and they work on casting the wax for Claudius' ring (although Laertes is anxious, too, and downcast, worrying about Claudius and Sagramore and everyone else), or one of the following short lessons or another suitable passage is read.

There are so many things Galahad wishes he had said to Shen Yuan. He could have talked more. He could have tried harder to spend time with Shen Yuan, despite his disdain for Luo Binghe. He remembers them writing their love letters together. He remembers them playing Jenga. He remembers Shen Yuan explaining Pokemon to him and to Magnus, the half-finished book of illustrations he and Magnus had been working on before Galahad resumed training with Lan Wangji. He remembers the spiderflower and the gentle touch of Shen Yuan's fingers against his cheek, healing him. He remembers Shen Yuan choosing his clothes for the dance, piercing his ears, painting his portrait. He turns all those memories over and over, innumerable grains of sand, rolling between his fingers -- he thinks of them constantly, every moment he's not thinking about Claudius and Magnus. There is nothing he could have done to stop Shen Yuan from dying, but he could have done more while he was alive.

He misses Percival still, but Percival is alive somewhere, living a life that doesn't have Galahad in it. Shen Yuan is just gone.

In the evening, Galahad goes and finds Claudius, wherever he is, and brings him back -- from the entryway, from their room, from the parlor where Lan Wangji likes to meditate. It feels like journeying down a distant path to bring back a lost animal. If no one has made Claudius eat, Galahad leads them to the kitchen to prepare their evening meal; Claudius is obedient and quiet, and does every task he's given, but he doesn't seem present. Sometimes he seems as faraway as Percival, as Shen Yuan. When the food is finished, he eats because Galahad tells him to. He doesn't tease or smile, not in the right way.

Prayers or thanksgivings may be offered here.

It's easier for Galahad at night, but he doesn't think it's easier for Claudius, because at night there's nothing to do. At night Galahad knows exactly where Claudius is, and whether or not it matters, whether or not there's any way he could possibly protect Claudius, at least he knows that he can take care of him; he can tell him to eat and drink and sleep and Claudius will do it. It's not enough.

One night he sends Claudius to Sagramore and Laertes, because they've experienced more things that he has, they know more, and perhaps they'll know better what to do. He's not jealous, and he wants something to help. But he doesn't think it helps. It doesn't make anything change.

How could it?

Maybe it will get better with time. All the worst things in Galahad's life have softened with time, even his despair, and perhaps that's a pattern, too. But if it is, it's a slow one, and Galahad doesn't know how much time they have. Magnus is afraid. Lan Wangji is afraid. He is afraid, and tired, and sad, and it's only because of the people he loves that he keeps getting up in the morning over and over.

He lies in bed, with Claudius in his arms, and listens to the sound of him breathing. Whatever peace and safety Galahad feels at night, it can't last. Morning always comes, and the pattern repeats, and Shen Yuan is dead.

Shen Yuan is dead.

Amen.

Galahad has, now, a secret. He doesn't often have them -- if there's information he isn't sharing, it's because it doesn't occur to him that anyone would care about it, or he hasn't decided to have the conversation yet. This is different. This is a secret, known only to Claudius and God, who knows all the deep and secret things, and what is in the darkness; but Claudius will keep it for him as long as he asks, he knows, and God and the light dwelleth with him no longer.

It's a secret that requires action, and Galahad intends to act, but in the meantime he has a promise to keep for Claudius.

He meets with Grantaire on a schedule that's somewhat irregular, which he endures because he likes Grantaire and because it's nice to work with him, because Grantaire always has something helpful to say when Galahad asks him for advice on his sketches, and because he's always interesting when Galahad asks about his own work. Today he has his sketchbook with him as usual when he arrives at the cafe, fully expecting to see Grantaire in his usual place.

It's a secret that requires action, and Galahad intends to act; linearity being what it is, he makes his way to the parlor where Lan Wangji likes to meditate with the rabbits.

Christ is risen. He is risen, indeed. Alleluia.

Last night, Galahad kissed Claudius while he was reading and explained that he was going to keep the Easter Vigil, and Claudius tsked and fixed his collar, and then fixed his collar again, and then said Galahad should take a scarf -- he unfolded himself neatly from the bed, his dressing gown swirling about him, to take one of out of the closet. He knotted it around Galahad's neck, and kissed him, and then kissed him again, and then said in the morning they would have to eat something special to break the Lenten fast. Galahad knew he was worried, and he was grateful to Claudius for letting him go anyway.

Holy Week has been a crushing weight, hard in a way it's never been. Galahad doesn't know why, but he knows Claudius can tell; Claudius knows him better than anyone. Galahad has been reminding himself that it will change on Easter. That's what the miracle is about.

With no chapel to keep his vigil in, Galahad took the thick wax pillar he'd chosen for his Paschal Candle outside to the lake. He should have asked Magnus to come with him -- he knows that. Magnus wouldn't mind, and he would have kept Galahad warm, too, and been glad he'd been asked. But after his Good Friday vision, Galahad has felt so detached from his body that remembering to do anything outside of the strict soothing rituals of Holy Week is a struggle. He shivered through the night alone, thinking about the past Easter Vigils he and Percival kept in Camelot, huddled around their bonfire, laughing when they were supposed to be serious, knowing the priest was scowling at them.

The Lucernarium is supposed to be joyful, hopeful, but the hour for Matins ticks by -- Galahad checks his watch by starlight, because both moons are new, and there's hardly any light in the sky -- and dawn doesn't come. He reminds himself that it's because it's winter, and daylight takes a long time to break across the horizon.

By eight-thirty there's finally a hint of sunlight, wan and wobbly as Magnus in the greenhouse on Passion Sunday. Galahad's hands are so cold he can hardly feel them, and they shake on the matches, but he lights the Paschal Candle and cradles it against his chest as he goes back to the mansion.

In Camelot, he would have followed the procession into the church for the Lumen Christi. This morning he does it alone. When he gets to his chapel-room, he unveils his altar and sets the candle down, then lights the votives from it, until the room is bathed in weak candlelight. He sings the Exultet to himself, softly, both parts. There's no assembly to give it power.

Galahad knows the Liturgy of the Word by heart. He's always been able to remember written words with little study, especially when they're important to him. He can recite all seven scripture readings and all of the psalms and canticles, the Gospel of the Resurrection.

In Camelot -- he can't keep thinking in Camelot; it only makes him feel more lost, less tethered. But in Camelot, there would be baptisms after the Liturgy. Then all the congregation would renew their baptismal vows, and be sprinkled with holy water. Galahad would stay stone-still as water freckled his face, hating the sensation, and Percival would laugh at him, and surreptitiously dry it off with his sleeve when no one was watching. The priest would give the Eucharist, and it was Easter.

In Camelot, there would be a great feast. Percival would get a little drunk; Galahad would sometimes forget to break his fast slowly, in increments, would be giddy from small beer on an empty stomach, and Percival could make him helpless with laughter. The stone was rolled back from the tomb. Everything in the world had more color. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

There's no Eucharist here. The Mass can't ever truly finish.

Galahad stays on his knees in front of the dresser-altar, watching the candles burn down, and waits to feel himself return to his body, but there's no return. He feels like a fish that can't be reeled in, thrashing in the stream. He feels like a threshed field. He feels like an empty tomb, with only the linens inside, because the Lord has been taken away, and he knows not where they have laid Him. He feels lost.

After hours of kneeling he manages to get up off the floor and slip into the bed, at least, but he doesn't manage to go any further. He's distantly aware that he's cold, that his head is aching with hunger, but those things are easy enough to ignore when he's so far from his body. He could be dead already.

When he was first restored to himself by the angel, he felt as though he were flour being ground under the weight of a millstone. It's an apt metaphor. He tries to remind himself that Claudius is waiting for him in their room, to end the fast together. He reminds himself that he is beloved, favored among men. There are good things ahead -- Easter heralds the beginning of a season of good things. But all he feels is tired and empty and spent.

[This post is open to people who already know galahad and might have a reason to know something is wrong]

When Galahad was a child, Holy Week marked the most important seven days of the year. On Passion Sunday morning he would rise early for Matins and then Mass, where the priest who visited once a week to preside over their naked altar and give communion would tell the story of Christ's arrival in Jerusalem. Instead of a sermon the Passion would be read like a prophecy, foretelling the week to come, from Jesus' interrogation by Pilate to the freeing of Barabbas to the crown of thorns and the whipping, even unto death upon the cross.

After Mass there was a procession. In a village, the children would have led it, but in the nunnery there was only Galahad, and he preceded the Abbess and the priest, his arms full of boxwood, yew, and whatever spring flowers were blooming -- the children of Jerusalem laid palms before the Messiah, but no palms grew in Britain. Behind him the nuns carried their relics as he led them out of the chapel and into the courtyard, around the kitchen garden and back to the chapel. The priest would take the processional cross and strike the door with it to demand Christ's entry.

All through Lent a huge painted veil had been suspended between the chancel and the nave to shield the great wooden Rood on which the crucified Jesus had been carved, but now it would be drawn away. Galahad remembers kneeling before it, still clutching his flowers while around him the nuns sang All Glory Laud and Honor -- with jubilation, but careful to arouse no passion, in keeping with Isidore of Pelusium's exhortations that music must not inspire emotion, only express it, lest it cause listeners to succumb to base desires.

Passion Sunday is only the beginning, and this one is the first one Galahad has ever commemorated alone. The year before Percival came to Camelot there was still a church to go to Mass in; after Percival, Holy Week and every other feast and fast was something to be shared between them.

He doesn't want to bother Claudius with it; he knows Claudius and God are, as Claudius likes to say archly, not on good terms. But it's not just that. Over the last week, Claudius has been irritable, complaining often of headache and a shaking in his hands. The mansion isn't providing the things he likes, and he's openly unhappy about it. The silver strands are showing in the darkness of his hair, and as much as Galahad loves them he knows how much they frustrate Claudius' vanity, how much in general it upsets him not to have everything just so. Galahad won't disturb him with any mention of how much Holy Week matters, and how lonely it feels to lie in bed and recite the Passion silently to himself.

It's almost None before Galahad gets out of bed and puts on the blue sweater and pleated skirt that Magnus picked for him, running his fingers over the pearl button details.

The way things are now, he's not confident at all that he'd find any of the things he needs for Holy Week in the mansion. Part of him doesn't even want to bother looking and being disappointed -- he wants to slip back under the covers and lie like a corpse under a shroud.

But there could be palm in the greenhouse.

With all the effort he can manage, he pulls on the long coat he chose back at the beginning of autumn, and leaves their room to look.

For the last few weeks, Galahad and Laertes have met regularly for baking. Most of the time Laertes only helps a little, which is no trouble to Galahad -- he works just as well on his own. Sometimes Laertes brings a book and reads in silence; sometimes he talks, about his and Sagramore's new puppy and how perfect she is, the most clever and beautiful creature in all the world, or about what he's learning, about alchemy (Galahad likes the differences in the way Claudius and Laertes talk about alchemy and what it's like to make distillations and tinctures) or about the cosmos and its order.

Galahad thinks idly how much he'd like to bring the record player into the kitchen for them, for the times they don't talk. After spending so much of his life without music, every new song is like a new taste, and he can lose hours to them, watching the spin of the records or sketching and listening.

He and Claudius have made a list together. When his mind isn't otherwise occupied he thinks of it, straying back to it like a snatch of song that keeps repeating -- of all the things he doesn't dare but wants to, the ways he could touch Claudius and be touched: all the fruit-sweet temptations that he's still too afraid to take from his beloved serpent, subtle and beguiling.

The list is both a comfort and a source of anxiety. In many ways he's glad of it; he likes knowing what Claudius likes. He likes having some frame for his imagination, he likes the orderly arrangement of things, he likes having time to roll all the possibilities around inside his mind like grains of sand turning to pearls. It's simpler to know what is and isn't permitted between them, or would be permitted if he could-- and there's the anxiety.

He's taking too long, he keeps thinking. Claudius loves sex; it's how he gets to know people. It's a language for him. And Galahad is mute, withholding still. All the things they could be learning in each other are closed to him, because he doesn't know to unlock the door of himself and let Claudius put his hand to the latch, dripping with myrrh or no.

He should trust Claudius -- he knows that. Claudius has accepted his ring, accepted his betrothal. And yet: Galahad is so inexperienced. He knows so much less of the world, so much less about people, so much less about everything but God (and he can't imagine Claudius is really enchanted by the idea of hearing Galahad speak on the heresy of adoptionism and the theologies of Peter Abélard). Sometimes in the mornings when he's caught between Matins and Prime and can't get out of bed, he thinks about how much better suited Laertes and Sagramore, with their warmth and brightness and spontaneity, are to keeping Claudius from loneliness and melancholy. Grantaire is so sweet and sad; Claudius says so all the time. Claudius has been open about his love for all three of them, and often Galahad can reason that of all the men Claudius loves it's Galahad he's chosen to live with. But sometimes it's hard; sometimes he feels too quiet, too inexpressive, too chaste. He's taking too long. He's too slow.

Usually he's attentive when he's baking with Laertes. He listens well -- he's good at listening. Today he can't stop thinking about the list and his slowness.

Galahad is folding browned butter into the madeleine batter when he realizes Laertes has asked him a question that he's missed entirely. He puts the saucepan down.

"What did you say?"