Emry had never seen the kitchens so frantic. She’d gone down to see about a cup of coffee and some toast, and instead had been enlisted to knead bread. Thankfully, a flick of her wand had taken care of that loathsome request, leaving her free to lounge against the counter, sipping her coffee and watching the dough knead itself.

Which was what she was doing when Brannor rushed into the kitchen.

“I need a spare page,” he announced.

Chef, who was gutting a fish, glanced up and muttered a foul curse in French.

Emry committed the colorful swear to memory, planning to use it to torture Gawain.

“And that means?” said Brannor.

Chef smirked. “No spare pages. A dozen serving staff are sick this morning.”

“It was the haddock that did it,” a sullen-faced kitchen boy accused. “I knew it smelled off.”

“Blame my cooking again, and you’ll forage from the horses’ trough for a week,” Chef threatened the lad. “Now get back to chopping.”

“An apprentice then,” said Brannor, his annoyance growing. “I’ve been everywhere. Surely there’s someone left.”

Emry tried very hard to become wallpaper.

“Take the wizard,” said Chef, pointing his knife in her direction, along with a dark look. “I don’t need enchanted food in my kitchen.”

“Merlin?” Brannor’s eyebrows knitted together in consideration. “You’ll do. Come along.”

Emry took a last sip of her coffee before reluctantly abandoning the mug. “Where are we going?” she asked, following after the guard.

“To assist the prince.”

“Arthur?” Emry said, surprised. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Yer to step in as his manservant,” instructed the guard.

Emry laughed, thinking it was a joke. But when she took in Brannor’s expression, her stomach knotted.

“Do you expect the crown prince of Camelot to dress himself?” Brannor said, as though the idea was absurd.

“Um, yes?” Emry replied.

Brannor’s graying whiskers twitched in disbelief. They had nearly reached the prince’s bedchamber.

“He is the one true king,” the guard said, his expression proud. “Serving him is an honor.”

Not this again. But she saw the determined set of Brannor’s jaw, and remembered how seriously the man took his duties. Especially since Arthur had retrieved Excalibur. She doubted she’d be able to talk him out of it.

So this was actually happening.

“Don’t screw it up,” Brannor warned, pushing her inside.

“Hello? Arthur?” Emry called, glancing around the empty bedchamber. The air was thick with the scent of rosewater, and something else beneath, which was far less pleasant. Perhaps that explained why the window was open.

“Merlin?” Arthur called from another room, recognizing her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Brannor sent me,” she said sourly. “To step in as your manservant.”

Arthur’s laughter floated through the half-open door, followed by the sound of sloshing water.

“Did he really?” Arthur sounded amused. “Well, hand me a towel.”

Emry stiffened. “A towel?”