“A squire doesn’t drink while attending to his duties,” Lance replied.

The tent flap lifted, and Emry stepped inside. She looked pale, and had one hand pressed to her rib cage. She smiled at him, and his stomach flipped a little.

“I won,” he said, pleased.

“Yes, I saw,” she replied. “Huzzah.”

It was impossible, now that Arthur knew the truth, to remember that he’d ever believed her to be a boy.

Sard, she’d seen him naked. She’d kissed him while he wore nothing but a towel. And he’d been the one to pull away. He studied her, hoping they could do it again. The kissing part. Not the pulling away.

“I thought you wanted a squire, not a chaperone,” Lance grumbled, looking back and forth between them.

“No one wants a chaperone,” Emry pointed out. She helped herself to Arthur’s jar of healing salve, lifting the hem of her tunic and exposing her bare stomach. And the waistband of her tights.

Arthur cleared his throat. Sard, it was warm in here.

“It hurts,” she complained. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Arthur said, even though he was.

“We’ve shared a room before,” she pointed out. “Lance and I shared a bed.”

Arthur quietly choked on a sip of wine.

“That’s right,” said Lance, amused. “And you—oh. No wonder you raised such a fuss about it.” His expression turned horrified. “But—you shared a room with four men. You—we—”

Lance looked as stricken as Arthur felt. She was a maiden.

“I promise, I’ve seen it all before,” said Emry. Both boys went red in the face, and she snorted at their discomfort. “Oh my god, like either of you are virgins.”

“Of course not,” Arthur protested. “But that’s different.”

“How so?” Emry asked with a sharp smile.

Wasn’t it different? Arthur frowned and had another sip of wine.

Ugh, the wine really was terrible. Acidic and bitter, with a bouquet of musty herbs.

He grimaced and pulled at the collar of his armor. It was boiling in the tent, and he wondered why he was the only one who’d noticed.

“You all right?” Lance asked.

“Fine.” He squinted, wondering if it had always been so bright.

“Lance is right,” said Emry, peering at him nervously. “You really don’t look so good.”

“I—” Arthur said, and then he looked down at the cup in his hand. He gave the wine a sniff. When he tilted the cup, he spotted a small cluster of black seeds at the bottom. Seeds that he’d mistaken as sediment.

He had been a fool.

He knew someone had tampered with his scabbard. He had sent Lance and Emry into the crowd during his match because of it, leaving the tent abandoned.

He hadn’t checked. He hadn’t even thought to check. And now he was—he could barely even think the word.