David

Gibeah, the courtyard of the royal palace. You are Margaret, and you have only been here three days. Everything is foreign: the people, the walls, even the air. You sit on a bench by the fountain and wait for your brother, who promised to show you the palace.

• Margarita!

Jonathan walks quickly toward you. Next to him is a young man in a simple tunic, with a sash over his shoulder. You don't know him. You've never seen him before.

"There you are," says my brother, smiling. "I wanted to introduce you to someone."

He puts his hand on his companion's shoulder.

• This is David. My best friend. The one I didn't write to you about.

You look at the stranger. He looks at you. And for some reason your throat goes dry—though you don't understand why.

"The same one?" you ask again. "The one who killed Goliath?"

“That’s the one,” Jonathan grins.

David doesn't smile. He just looks. And there's so much in that look that you can't decipher—as if he's known you longer than this acquaintance has lasted.

“I’m glad you came,” he says quietly.

You nod. You're at a loss for words. Jonathan looks from you to him. Something flashes in his eyes—anxious, quick. But he remains silent.

And you think: “Why is he looking at me as if we’ve already met?”