CHAPTER 4

The next morning, Emry hoped for a miracle, but the covers were tucked up to Emmett’s chin just the way she’d left them. He hadn’t so much as rolled over in his sleep. His pallor was frightening, and his breathing wasn’t the easy rise and fall of slumber, but a shallow hitch.

Oh, Emmett. Why did you have to go and do something so reckless?

They’d been fourteen the last time he’d tried a similar spell. He’d slept like the dead for a week, and had very nearly convinced Emry that he was. At the end of seven days, she’d expected to find a corpse, but had instead found her brother sitting up in bed, rosy cheeked and ravenous.

He’d promised never to work magic like that again—spells that twisted someone’s mind to your will could snap back as easily as they could bend forward. And Emry had foolishly believed he meant it. The gambling was bad, but the way he’d tried to deal with it was worse.

Especially when he was expected at court tomorrow.

Failing to answer a royal summons would land him in prison. Emmett had known that, and he’d still cast that risky spell.

Even if she could send word to the castle that her brother was indisposed, who knew if the king would receive it, or if he’d extend another invitation?

Magic was uncommon, like green eyes or red hair, but it still ran deep in the old families. Surely, between the Ninianes and the Dulacs, there was another boy eager to take her brother’s place . . .

“Chamomile, dear? Or lavender?” Gran called over the whistle of the kettle.

At least Gran was herself again, which was a relief.

“Trying to calm me down?” Emry asked suspiciously.

“Chamomile it is,” Gran sang. “You’ll need it.”

Emry shook her head, but accepted the mug, breathing in the fragrant herbs. She picked up the royal scroll, scanning the parchment as she sipped her drink.

An apprentice position at the castle under Master Ambrosius, the now-ancient court wizard who had trained their father. Room and board. Payment of three pounds per month—Emry let out a gasp at the sum. No wonder Emmett had joked that he was going to be knighted.

So that’s where Emmett expected to get the money to pay his debts.

“Don’t worry, your father tripped over his own spells more than once in his day,” said Gran, patting her on the shoulder. “He’ll sleep it off.”

“He’d better sleep fast,” said Emry. “He’s expected at Castle Camelot tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Gran frowned. “I could brew some vervain tea . . .”

“That never helps!” Emry didn’t mean to be shouting, but suddenly, she was. “You can’t cure magic with tea! All of this”—Emry thrust the scroll at Gran— “just handed to him because of Father! I don’t know which is worse, that he didn’t realize how lucky he is, or that he was stupid enough to ruin it! If King Uther had summoned me . . .”