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Once upon a time there lived an outspoken fashion editor named Kat, who certainly was not your typical damsel in distress. But when a gypsy curse sent her back in time to the days of King Arthur, she found she'd need every ounce of her 21st century wits (and pop culture references) to navigate the legend. After all, surviving a magical plot, an evil prince, and a case of mistaken identity--all without changing history or scuffing your Manolos--takes some doing!
Luckily, she's got her very own knight in shining armor, Lancelot du Lac, on her side. The honorable-to-a-fault and devastatingly handsome champion insists on helping her out, even though she's not quite sure she wants him to. After all, shouldn't he be off romancing Queen Guenevere or something? Will Kat manage to stay out of trouble long enough to get back to her beloved lattes, cosmopolitans and cashmere? And what will Lancelot's forbidden love mean for the kingdom of Camelot?
Enjoy an excerpt:
"Tell me, lady, what is the future like?" Guenevere begs, eagerness dancing in her blue eyes. "I must know! Is it too wonderful for words?"
Hm, What part of the future does she want to know about? I mean, should I inform her that she and Lancelot are destined to get caught in a compromising position? That their betrayal leads to the downfall of Camelot? Or should I gush on about the modern wonders of indoor plumbing, stretch fabric, and vodka-and-Red Bulls?
No, I'd better keep on track—warn her about Lancelot. Seems more important than, say, an in-depth discussion of the miraculous invention of deep-dish pizza, no matter how good it tastes—compared to, let's say, pigeon.
"You want to know the future? I gotta tell you, Guen, it's not looking so good for you and Lance. In fact, you might want to stay away from the guy. From the movies I've seen, King Arthur's knights, who are, like, totally jealous 'cause Lance is such a good knight, persuade Arthur to pretend to go hunting so you think you're alone in the palace. You go to get some action—I mean, you go make love to Lance— then they charge in on you and catch you together in his bedroom. They"—I clear my throat, not wanting to bear the bad news—"sentence you to burn at the stake."
Guenevere laughs—not a chuckle either, but a full-on, bellyaching laugh. She falls back onto the bed to continue her unabashed snickering, not taking me a bit seriously, obviously, and I feel a bit offended. Maybe I should have introduced her to the concept of microfiber purses and air-conditioning instead.
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