Lady Morgane finished patting down the soil around the freshly planted rue cuttings and straightened up. She took the piece of muslin that her attendant handed her and wiped her hands, smiling down at her handiwork. Her half-brother the king had never refused her anything she had asked, much less something as little as a patch of land off the vegetable garden to plant and tend her own herbs.<br/><br/>Queen of Wales or not, Lady Morgane had always put her talent and knowledge as a healer to good use, and she was not above the most menial task related to her skills. That was why she had planted the rue with her own hands, not minding the specks of earth around the hem of her midnight blue gown. She had other skills as well, no matter how Merlin might look down on them, and her. He probably saw her as competition. Well, Morgane was Arthur's closest family, now that their mother was dead, and that gave her more influence over him than any advisor, wise and cunning as he might be, would ever have.<br/><br/>She turned slowly and headed back towards the keep, wondering where Sir Yvain was. He might not have been her flesh-and-blood son, like Mordred, but she had raised him as one, since she had been wed to his father, and loved him no less. And there he was, all grown up, about to claim his place at the Round Table. Time had treated Morgane well; her face was still fresh, her figure trim, and there were only a few strands silvering her raven hair. She wasn't old yet, but on days like this she felt positively ancient.