Emry stared at the scroll, trying not to panic. The messenger thought she was her brother! And she didn’t dare confess the truth now. Not while she stood outside the theater in a costume, for god’s sake. She couldn’t betray the performance troupe, especially to an agent of the king.

With a trembling hand, Emry reached out and accepted the parchment, bowing deeply. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, pitching her voice low. “It’s an honor to receive a summons from the king.”

“His Majesty will expect you two days hence.” The messenger wheeled his horse around and clattered across the courtyard before Emry could say another word.

“Why would a royal messenger give this to you?” Emmett asked, frowning suspiciously at the scroll.

He was sprawled at the kitchen table, boots up, jerkin loose, and a goblet of wine at his elbow. With his fair skin, black hair, and pirate’s grin, he was devastatingly handsome, and what’s worse, he knew it.

“He got mixed up,” said Emry, taking down some bowls for their supper. “I was at the theater, and I didn’t look particularly, well, ladylike.”

“One day you’ll get in trouble for that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Emry sighed, ladling out their stew. She passed a bowl to Gran, who was knitting by the hearth, and set theirs on the table.

“King Yurien invaded Northumbria again,” Emmett said, draining his wine goblet. “Bet you didn’t know that. Overheard it at the Prancing Stag.”

“What were you doing at the Prancing Stag?” Like she even needed to ask.

“Kissing the innkeeper’s daughters and betting at merils,” Emmett said innocently. “The usual.”

Emry shook her head. Not over her brother’s rakish ways, which she’d accepted long ago, but over the news about King Yurien. “Northumbria’s pretty far away,” she said.

“It’s not that far,” Emmett insisted. “And it’s just as before. He took control of an unfortified castle along their border and burned the neighboring village. If he goes for Cameliard next, they’ll call for Camelot to intervene.”

He swallowed a mouthful of stew and started coughing.

Emry cautiously licked her spoon, making a face.

Not again.

“Gran?” she asked. “Did you add salt to the stew?”

“Yes, dear,” Gran murmured dreamily, knitting another stitch into a long grayish thing with a glove on one end and a sock on the other. “The weather is very nice.”

“Salt,” Emry insisted. “How much?”

“All of it, from the taste,” Emmett muttered, pushing away his bowl. “If you fix the stew, I’ll tell you what King Uther wants.”

“It’s a simple spell,” Emry grumbled, reaching for her wand. “I don’t know why you refuse to learn it.”

“My father was the greatest wizard who ever lived. Why should I bother with basic household spells?”

Because they’re useful, Emry thought, unlike you.

She aimed her wand at their supper.

Abdere.