Emry gave the coat a tentative sniff. Much better. Everything was very nearly perfect—except for the play itself, which stunk even worse than the backstage.

Ronda and the Elf King. It was supposed to be a comedy, but really, the whole thing was a tragedy. Perhaps one day the troupe would have license to perform in the city, where the latest playwrights supplied better fare. But until then, the earl demanded comedy, and so long as he footed the bill, comedy he would get.

She muttered Pell’s lines, which didn’t take long, and walked through the choreography for the sword fight. She was going over the lines again when a royal messenger rode up the lane.

Knights and their squires passed through Brocelande more and more these days, and a messenger was nothing too out of the ordinary. The town was half a day’s ride from London, with a bustling market and a farrier who knew his way around a horseshoe.

The king’s messenger was sunburnt and dusty, and his horse was lathered with sweat, but his crimson livery blazed in the hot sun. The golden wyvern on his chest shone so brightly that it had to be made from the precious metal itself.

Emry stared down at her own costume, threadbare with a sloppy yellow stencil of a rising sun. It would look impressive enough onstage. The theater held its own sort of magic, which was, perhaps, why she was so drawn to it.

She glanced back at the royal messenger, expecting him to urge his horse down the hill to the inn, or up the lane to Brocelande Hall. Instead, he slowed outside the bakery, leaning down to ask a question of the baker’s boy. With only a moment’s hesitation, the boy pointed a plump and sticky finger toward the theater—no, not toward the theater, toward Emry.

Well, this isn’t good.

She pulled the brim of her cap low across her face, trying to quell her nerves as the royal messenger approached.

“Afternoon, good sir,” he called, sliding down from his horse.

Emry inclined her head in response.

“I’m looking for Master Merlin,” said the messenger.

“My father?” Emry frowned. “You’re about eight years too late.”

Seven years, ten months, and three days, actually. Father had left exactly as he always did, slipping away in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. Except he’d never returned. Not to Brocelande, or to Castle Camelot, or to anywhere else.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m looking for his son.” The messenger removed a scroll from his belt and held it toward Emry. “Master Emmett Merlin, His Majesty King Uther Pendragon of Camelot requires your presence at court.”

Oh no.