“I’ve seen you in the yard, taking hits from men twice your size,” the wizard went on. “My abilities aren’t what they used to be, but Merlin’s grow by the day.”

“Along with his ego.”

“Perhaps it isn’t what you think,” said Master Ambrosius.

“What isn’t?” Arthur asked.

The old wizard smiled. “You should pay Merlin a visit. And bring some food with you. Healing magic works up an appetite.”

An impatient knock sounded on Emry’s door.

It was late, and she was lounging across her bed, practicing a summoning spell on a deck of playing cards.

The knock sounded again, breaking her concentration. The knave of spades dropped to the floor, and she looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Whoever was there wasn’t going away.

She flung open the door, finding herself face to face with Prince Arthur for the first time in over a week. He was elegantly disheveled in that careless way of his. And he held a plate of bite-sized cinnamon cakes. The smell of them alone was enough to make her stomach rumble.

Oh, she wanted to kill him. And hug him. And yell at him. Preferably all at the same time.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Why bother to ask, since I’m just a lowly apprentice?” Emry retorted.

Arthur winced as his words came back to him. “That wasn’t my best moment,” he allowed.

“I hope you’re here to apologize,” she said.

“I hope you’re volunteering to go first.” He offered her the barest edge of a smirk.

Insufferable.

“Just—get inside,” Emry said.

She watched Arthur lower himself gingerly onto the edge of her bed, as though every bone in his body ached. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and he looked exhausted.

He offered her a cake, and her fingers hovered over the pastries until she found the one with the most icing. Dear god, it was good. And still warm from the oven.

Arthur popped one into his mouth, then reached for another, absently licking the icing from his fingers.

“Just so you know, I’m only tolerating your presence because cake,” she said.

“You’re angry with me.” He said it as though he was only now discovering this fact.

“Of course I’m angry with you,” Emry replied in exasperation. “You treated me like—like a servant. And then you just . . . abandoned me without a word so you could flex your muscles with the guard.”

Arthur frowned. “I’m not ‘flexing my muscles,’ ” he retorted. “I’m training for the sword-fighting competition my father is making me enter in front of every sarding noble in the kingdom!”

“Wait, what?”

Arthur shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“How on earth would I know that?”

Arthur put his head in his hands.

“I didn’t tell you,” he mumbled. “In my defense, there’s been a lot going on.”