So she steadied herself and pored through the pages, searching for anything that might be useful, and trying to ignore the pain in her chest.

Finally, on Thursday evening, she found what she was looking for:

I believe that the legendary sword Excalibur is a weapon forged of Anwen, for I have found no magic of this world that would allow for the creation of such a blade. The more I study Anwen’s magic, the more I become convinced that the accepted rules of magic do not apply. If this is true, then Anwen’s magic will work on other magic—on enchantments as well as naturally magical objects and persons. It is overwhelming to imagine the ability to cast spells inward as well as outward. To face no limits, or fear of blowback. Yet without proof—

Emry turned the page, but whatever came next had been torn roughly from the book. As had the next three pages.

Had someone removed them on purpose? Emry frowned down at the book and barely held back a sigh. A crude drawing of a boy wizard in a flowing cloak and ridiculous hat stared up at her. Beneath it were three smudged games of X’s and O’s.

“Emmett,” she groaned.

Still, it was the first reference to both Excalibur and Anwen that she’d been able to find, and she thought Arthur might like to see it.

The prince hadn’t been to visit the workshop since they’d returned from Avalon, and whenever she’d caught glimpses of him in the castle, he’d looked overwhelmed and exhausted.

Emry checked her reflection in the mirror before going to see the prince. Not that it mattered. To him, she was a shabbily dressed boy. A friend. Nothing more. Still, she sighed as she caught sight of her cropped hair and drab doublet.

He was probably either in his bedroom or the library, Emry decided. The library was the closest, so she tried it first.

Except when she poked her head inside, it wasn’t Arthur she found, but Gawain.

He was dressed more lavishly than usual, in a purple velvet coat embroidered with opulent goldwork, and a matching silk-lined cape knotted over one shoulder. His feet were propped on the table, displaying a pair of ridiculous heeled shoes, and his chair was balanced on just the back legs.

Across from him sat a miniature version of Lord Agravaine, with dark curls and an even darker scowl. He was about her age, but his haughty expression made him seem older. So this was the infamous Jereth. She’d been wondering when he’d turn up. He twisted a quill between his fingers, looking as though he wanted to stab someone with it.

“I don’t see why I have to memorize all of it,” he complained.