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The noise is deafening. Which, Gwen supposes, is kind of the point for a music venue. Up on stage, the opening act is trying to prove that increased volume corresponds to song quality. Gwen turns and pokes Morgana.
“I’m going to get a drink. Do you want anything?” she yells over the noise. Morgana turns, frowning. She’s resplendent in black leggings, sequined black flats and a baggy black top that somehow manages to be completely shapeless while leaving nothing to the imagination. Her one concession to color is a long purple scarf that matches her dramatic eye shadow. Next to her, Gwen feels practically dowdy in her jeans and t-shirt.
“What?” Morgana yells back.
“DO YOU WANT A DRINK?” Gwen shrieks, motioning. Morgana laughs and nods. Gwen turns and shoulders her way through the crowd.
She’d not intended to spend the evening out. But Morgana had called around four, telling her that she’d gotten tickets to the hottest event of the month and Gwen simply had to drop all her plans and come. Arguing with Morgana when she’s in this frame of mind is pointless, so Gwen had sighed and said she’d be at Kensington Palace by eight.
Gwen reaches the bar and orders two beers, for simplicity’s sake. They’re already setting up for the main act by the time she works way back through the crowd, clutching her beer. Morgana takes one and chugs half of it.
“Easy there, tiger,” Gwen says, amused. Morgana merely cocks an eyebrow before saying, “I cannot wait for this band. They are so incredible, and I’ve heard they’re even better live.”
“You’re not the only one excited,” Gwen says, indicating the rest of the audience milling around, spirits high with anticipation. Then the club goes dark and the crowd loses its collective mind.
Gwen knows some of The Round Table’s music through Morgana’s incessant listening habits. The opening chords sound as the lights come up, and Gwen gets her first look at the band. The lead singer is cute, in a scruffy, hipsterish kind of way. He’s strumming his guitar and singing soulfully into the microphone as though there aren’t several hundred girls (and quite a few fellas) frantically screaming his name. The rest of the band is equally scruffy. Red apparently is a motif for them, as each band member is wearing some article of clothing in bright crimson.
Gwen glances at Morgana. Her friend’s eyes are bright and she’s jumping madly up and down with the rest of the crowd. Gwen wishes there was someone else with her who could appreciate the spectacle of Morgana LeFay, foster daughter to the King of England and one of the most stylish and sought-after young women in all of London, freaking out over a boy playing the guitar.
“He is SO HOT!” Morgana squeals, clutching Gwen’s arm. “I have got to meet him!” Gwen laughs, gently disengaging her arm from Morgana’s death grip.
*
After the show, Morgana insists on grabbing another drink at a nearby pub. She’s flushed and smiling and as soon as they’re seated, embarks on a litany of the lead singer’s physical perfections which doesn’t stop until their drinks are served.
“Mmm,” Gwen says noncommittally. “Too much facial hair.”
Morgana rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know you prefer them clean-shaven and boring, but you have to admit that Leon is a stone fox.”
At that, Gwen laughs aloud. “He is very cute. Just not my type.”
“So. Boring,” Morgana smirks and then her eyes narrow consideringly. “I wonder if I could get them to come play for an event or something. Maybe make an appearance at a charity thing…”
Gwen frowns. “Do you have something coming up?”
Morgana shrugs carelessly. “Probably. And even if I don’t, Arthur’s schedule is always packed.”
“And I’m sure the Prince of Wales won’t mind if you hijack his schedule just to pull a rock star,” Gwen says. Morgana glares at her.
“What Arthur doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And don’t you dare tell.”
Gwen holds out her hands, palms up. “I promise.” As promises go, it’s an easy one to make. Ever since Arthur gained his majority and moved into his own apartments in Clarence House, she’d seen little of him, save at various functions to which Morgana’s dragged her.
“All right,” Morgana says, satisfied. “Now I just need to make sure the invitation’s worded in such a way that Leon can’t possibly refuse...”
*
Several weeks later, Gwen stands in a large room and watches, smile growing, as her friend dazzles a visibly bemused Leon. White-jacketed waiters move efficiently around the room as London’s movers and shakers mingle and eat canapés.
She’s startled by a voice at her ear. “Now why,” Prince Arthur says archly, “do I get the impression that Morgana organized this entire thing just so she could flirt with that singer?”
“Uh…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.
“She’s barely said two words to anyone else all night,” he observes. “We had joint music lessons as children. I know she’s not pumping him for guitar tips.”
Gwen’s distracted by the association of pumping in conjunction with Morgana and Leon and snickers a little bit into her champagne.
“What?” Arthur asks, intrigued.
She shakes her head, still snickering.
“Tell me!” he commands.
“It’s nothing…” she tries.
“Guinevere.”
“Oh, all right.” She leans forward and tells him. A moment passes and he blinks at her, before throwing his head back and laughing.
“I never would have pegged you for a dirty mind,” he says once he’s recovered.
Gwen quirks her eyebrows. “Well, you don’t know everything about me, Arthur Pendragon.”
“That much is becoming clear to me,” he says. Merlin, Arthur's private secretary, comes up to them and smiles at Gwen before saying apologetically, “I’m sorry, sire, but you’re needed.”
Arthur says sourly, “Apparently you’re only allowed to shirk responsibility if rock stars are involved.” He rolls his eyes and touches Gwen lightly on the elbow, before moving off. Gwen smiles a little to herself, and then goes to extricate Morgana.