Agatha swallowed, her neck rashing red. Her eyes drifted down to her clumps. “No . . . that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll see him tomorrow,” she said softly, looking back up.

But Lady Gremlaine was gone and all that was left were her pastel minions, ready to whisk her to a breakfast she would have no time to eat.

Halfway through the day, Agatha was about to turn runaway bride.

She’d endured weeks of this with a forced smile—the same deadly dull routine of inspecting a thousand place-cards and cakes and candles and centerpieces, even though they all looked the same to her and she’d be happy marrying Tedros in a bat cave (she’d prefer it actually; no room for guests). Interspersed with all this tedium were appearances for “Camelot Beautiful,” a queen-led campaign to raise funds for the broken-down castle that had been left to blight after King Arthur had died. Agatha believed in the cause wholeheartedly and had a high tolerance for nonsense—she was friends with Sophie after all—but Lady Gremlaine seemed determined to humiliate her with each day’s schedule, whether making her sing the anthem at the Woods Rugby Cup (even the Camelot team covered their ears) or ride a bull at the Spring Fair (it bucked her into a mound of poo) or kiss the highest bidder in a Smooch-the-Princess auction (a toothless hoodlum who Lady Gremlaine insisted had won fair and square).

Guinevere had warned Agatha to expect resistance from her new warden. Lady Gremlaine had been Chief Steward when Guinevere was Arthur’s wife, until she and Guinevere had a falling-out and Guinevere had her dismissed. But after Guinevere’s disappearance and Arthur’s death, his Council of Advisors took over Camelot since Tedros wasn’t yet sixteen—and these advisors brought Lady Gremlaine back. But with Guinevere returned to the castle, surely Gremlaine would be prickling to exert control over Guinevere’s son and his new queen. Even worse, the old fusspot couldn’t be fired until Tedros’ coronation was sealed.

Knowing this, Agatha had tried to befriend her steward, but Lady Gremlaine hated her at first sight. Agatha had no idea why, but clearly the woman didn’t want her marrying Camelot’s king. It was as if Lady Gremlaine thought if she just tried hard enough, Agatha would give up her groom before the wedding.

I’d sooner die, Agatha vowed.

So for the last six months, she’d woken up each morning ready for the fight.

But today was the day that broke her.

First there was the florist, who shoved Agatha’s face in so many effluvious bouquets over the course of an hour that she’d left red-eyed and nose dripping. Then there were the six tailors who showed her dozens of linens that looked exactly the same. Then came the reporter from the Camelot Courier, a miserably cheerful young girl named Bettina who arrived sucking a red lollipop.

“Lady Gremlaine already scripted all your answers, so let’s have an off-the-record chat for fun,” she diddled, before launching into an array of startlingly personal questions about Agatha’s relationship with Tedros: “What does he wear when he sleeps?” “Does he have a nickname for you?” “Do you ever catch him looking at other girls?”