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The woman gives the chair a triumphant push. It drifts closer, slowly revolving on its casters to reveal a slumped figure clad in a shimmering barber cape. It is Arthur, but not the brother she knows. He's bloated, skin tinged blue and mottled with pustules. Thinning, greasy strands of hair cling to his skull. His eyes are swollen shut. She thinks he's dead until he opens his mouth and a pinkish froth pours out, along with a horrible, gurgling moan. She doesn't know which sound is worse, his moans or the shrill, mocking laughter of the woman who had pushed the chair.
Morgana wakes with a gasp. It's the dream again—nightmare, actually. Third time this month. She really should tell someone. She doesn't recognise the laughing woman, and the scene feels less like a true vision than the result of too much Blue Stilton, but with the Knight's Mane launch coming up she can't be too careful.
It is Pendragon Cosmetics first foray into hair care products, one she's been championing for nearly a decade; more than ever, she feels the need to prove herself, show Uther and the board that she's not just exquisite taste in a pretty package, but a true industry visionary and solid businesswoman.
She tells Gwen over morning coffee, watches as her expression morphs from sleepy curiosity to disgust to bright-eyed concern.
"How awful," Gwen says, patting Morgana's hand. "Stress dream? Or do you think it's a warning?"
"I don't know." Morgana captures Gwen's thumb and strokes it, keeping hold of her hand as she downs her first cup. "It's so odd, yet specific—the details never change. But none of it makes any sense! Who'd want to hex Arthur? Other than me, of course. It seems like all of Britain is smitten with him."
Gwen smiles. "Bet Merlin would be up for it. I've heard him threaten to turn Arthur into a toad on multiple occasions. Also a donkey, a footstool, and—just yesterday—a charger for his laptop."
Morgana snorts. "They're ridiculous. And Merlin would still be all over him, even if Arthur were hideous pile of goo."
They both have a good chuckle at this image. Then Gwen squeezes her hand, saying, "Why not tell them? Then either way it's off your conscience."
"What should I say though—Arthur, beware strange women offering salon treatments? Avoid rolling chairs? He'd have a right laugh."
"Just describe the scene, like you did for me. Or maybe start by describing the woman, ask if she sounds familiar?"
"That could work, I suppose." Morgana releases Gwen's hand and reaches for the French press to refill their cups, muttering, "Though given the circles he runs in, I bet he knows more than one cherubic blonde with Botticelli hair and an annoying laugh. What, Gwen, don't look at me like that—you know it's true! Remember Vivian, from uni?"
"Oh god, don't remind me!" Gwen flaps a hand at her, dissolving into laughter as Morgana squeals and thrusts her chest out, wildly batting her eyelashes.
It feels good to air out the horrors in her head, to laugh about them, even. It feels better to push her first two meetings and tempt Gwen into a morning quickie in the executive lounge.
She stops by Arthur's office after lunch, but is told that he left earlier in the day, dragging Merlin off for an impromptu camping weekend in the Forest of Dean.
"Poor Merlin," Gwen says when Morgana fills her in. "He told Arthur he was tired of all the sport and clubbing on weekends, that they should try getting back to nature, but I think he meant something more along the lines of a stroll through Wakehurst or a picnic on the Heath."
"Merlin's lucky Arthur didn't drag him off on a survival course; my brother doesn't do things by halves." Morgana swaps two of the headshots in the row spread before her on the conference table. She trusts the marketing team, tries not to micro-manage, but as the original face of Pendragon Cosmetics she likes keeping a hand in overseeing the talent. Especially when it comes to live events. "Still, I suppose this means I've nothing to worry about for the next few days. I've never heard of evil aestheticians roaming wild in the Forest of Dean."
"Nor rolling chairs. Just a few boars."
"And now one more, by the name of Arthur," Morgana quips.
Gwen rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she does so. "Come on, let's get in tea and biscuits and finalise the launch details before your father and his bean counters arrive to try and thwart you."
Over a long weekend of blissfully dreamless nights, Morgana's worry subsides. She is ready to chalk the whole thing up to some combination of cheese and, as Gwen had suggested, stress over the upcoming launch, and forget about it entirely.
Then, Tuesday afternoon, she is crossing the skybridge between Pendragon Cosmetics' R&D and corporate buildings when she hears a terrible sound: laughter, shrill and disturbingly familiar, drifting up from the courtyard below. Heart racing, she clutches the railing and peers over.
"Arthur?" she mutters, confused, for there he is, in all his golden boy glory, grinning as he holds the door to Bistro Forêt, one of the ground floor tenants. There is a group making their way out, a depressingly blancmange wedge of bespoke suits and thinning hair, all of them puffed up and preening a bit at the deference Arthur is showing them. Except…
No, it's not just Arthur who's got them worked up, but a woman who's just now visible, emerging from the shadow of a potted tree beside the door. She's wearing a shimmering gold maxi dress; long, honeyed tresses curl down her back, adorned with metallic baubles. Arthur says something in reply to a comment from one of the men, and the terrible laugh rings out again—her laugh—and even as she slips around to Arthur's side, clutching at his arm, Morgana knows who she will see.
She crouches down on instinct and fumbles in her blazer pockets for her mobile.
"It's her. It's her! The woman from my dream, she's here, with Arthur. Gwen, what do—"
"Morgana? Darling, slow down. Are you well?"
"I'm fine, but Arthur is in peril! It looks like he's about to have lunch with the evil laughing Botticelli."
"Lunch?"
"At Bistro Forêt."
"Where are you? I can't see you from my window."
"I'm not in the courtyard. I'm on the skybridge."
"Ah. Well, get back here quick as you can. I'll ring Merlin and see what he knows."
"But—"
"Whoever she is, she won't try anything over lunch," Gwen cuts in gently. "Too many witnesses. Besides, there are no rolling chairs in Bistro Forêt."
Morgana concedes that Gwen has a point. Still, she waits to be sure Arthur and the woman actually make it inside the bistro—she doubts the woman could bodily drag Arthur off, but he does have a history of blithely following sketchy people to strange places—before straightening up and speed-walking back to corporate.
She finds Gwen in front of her computer, Merlin's grumpy face filling the screen. His scowl deepens as Morgana urgently describes the woman she's seen with Arthur.
"That's Sophia," he says, rolling his eyes. "Sophia Tír-Mòr. Arthur rescued her and her father from wild boars over the weekend. Or at least that's what they claim. I never saw hide nor tusk. The father is apparently old school chums with one of Uther's squash partners from Merton. Oh, and you'll never believe what line of work she is in…"
Morgana and Gwen both lean in, mirroring Merlin.
"Avalon," he says with disdain.
Gwen gasps. "Avalon beauty spells? I thought that was a Sidhe pyramid scheme."
"We tested some of their products back during the R&D for one of our skin care lines in the early oughts," Morgana murmurs, trying to remember the details. "Dubious quality, at best."
"And some of them are downright dangerous," Merlin adds. "Especially in the wrong hands. There is a good reason commercial aesthetic magic is so heavily regulated. But I'm sure Arthur's just being polite, for Uther's sake. He would never actually… What, why are you two looking at one another like that?!"
"Merlin," Gwen says sternly, "I need you to listen very carefully to what Morgana is about to say. Arthur's very life depends on it."
"Oh?" He sits back, brow furrowed, suddenly looking adorably young. Morgana is reminded of when he'd first appeared in Arthur's life, a seemingly bumbling PA who'd not only captured her brother's heart, but gone on to revolutionize the role of magic in Britain's post-re-unification trade policy.
Not to mention, Merlin had introduced her to his former flatmate from uni, one sweet, gorgeous, and bloody fucking brilliant Guinevere de Troyes.
Morgana turns to Gwen and, overcome by fondness—and telling herself that a single virtual witness doesn't count as PDA—cups her chin in one hand and plants a solid kiss on her cheek, nearer her lips than not.
"Thank you," she whispers, trusting that Gwen knows all that she means by the words. Then she faces the screen and begins to describe her recurring nightmare—or rather, her vision, for that is what it was. Not too much cheese. Not a stress-dream or hysterics or an over-abundance of imagination, as she's so often been told.
"You…it's true, then, you are a real Seer," Merlin says when she finishes.
"Yes."
"There haven't been any in the UK in ages, not that we know of. Why didn't you—"
"Not now, Merlin," Gwen cuts in. "I promise, we'll get together soon, and Morgana will explain everything. But for now—"
"Get that Sidhe bitch and her father away from Arthur," Morgana finishes, reaching for Gwen's hand. "By any means necessary. We'll handle any fallout with Uther."