“Anwen is lost to us. Not even stone henges could keep the doors from closing.”

Emry frowned. “But what if they could be reopened? The Lady of the Lake said Morgana le Fay was able to force the magic to—”

“Watch out!” Master Ambrosius scolded as Emry’s cauldron boiled over, scalding water spilling over the sides.

A few droplets splattered against Emry’s wrist, and she hissed in pain, cradling her hand against her chest.

The old wizard motioned for Emry to hold out her arm. When she did, his eyes went wide at the silver scar on her palm. “How did you get this?” he asked roughly.

He backed away from her, alarmed.

“I—it was an accident,” Emry said.

Master Ambrosius gave her a hard look, and Emry realized that he knew exactly how she’d gotten that scar.

“If what I have to teach isn’t enough for you—” he began.

“It is,” she promised, muttering a spell to clean up the mess. “I want to be a court wizard. Like my father. I-I’m sorry.”

Master Ambrosius nodded, some warmth returning to his expression.

“Healing salve?” Emry asked, holding out her wrist.

“That salve takes three months to make,” said the old wizard. “And I won’t see it used up because you couldn’t keep your mind on your cauldron.”

Emry sighed and fetched a jar of chamomile instead, which was what her Gran always used.

Master Ambrosius grunted his approval.

“Not all problems need to be solved with magic,” he said. “I don’t want to see you ignoring what’s in front of you, especially when you have everything you need.”

“Sorry,” she apologized again, realizing it had been a mistake to bring up Anwen. Her question had clearly unnerved Master Ambrosius. Whatever it was Morgana had been after—and whatever strange, beguiling magic she’d encountered by opening that doorway—she wouldn’t get her answers from the old court wizard.

But maybe she could from her father’s books.

Later that night, as Emry sat in her room with the slimmest, most worn volume in her lap, she was surprised to find herself blinking away tears.

Holding her father’s books in her hands here made her heart ache with renewed loss. She traced her fingers over his rushed, terrible handwriting, wondering if he had sat at this very desk.

She missed him so much that even the sight of his notebooks cut through her like a knife, her memories of him dripping onto every page: his fondness for spiced almonds, the absentminded way he patted his coat pockets whenever he’d misplaced his wand. The infectious rumble of his laugh.

But no matter how closely she held his notebooks, she couldn’t bring him back. She could only watch as he drifted further into the past.