How had no one else seen it before now? Elaine’s heart raced with excitement. She’d been hoping for something like this. It was why she’d cozied up to Princess Guinevere, waiting for the girl to reveal a secret that would make her an unsuitable bride. And of course, if Elaine was the one to have saved Arthur from making the mistake of marrying the girl . . . well, all the better.

She hurried down the hall, her heart hammering excitedly as she considered her next move.

Emry slouched in the wizard’s workshop, chopping herbs for a healing salve. Master Ambrosius hadn’t been lying when he said the ingredients were complex. A single jar would take nearly a month to produce. And she’d have to feed it. Daily. That was almost as bad as a sourdough starter.

Still, she supposed it was better to lose herself in her work than to drown herself in everything that had happened over the past few days. So she chopped, and mashed, and diced, and prepared the alembic over boiling water.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Master Ambrosius accused. “Perhaps you’re tired from dancing at the ball.”

Emry winced. She hadn’t realized the old wizard knew about that.

“I take it Arthur wasn’t too upset when he found out,” the old wizard went on, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I did save his life,” she reminded him. “Told you I’d master that poison antidote.”

“Smug is a terrible look on an apprentice,” Master Ambrosius chided. “But well done.”

The water under Emry’s alembic began to boil, and she hastily released some steam.

“I wanted to ask,” she said, “is there a way to move spellwork? Like the spell on—”

“Arthur’s scabbard?” Master Ambrosius finished with an approving nod. “There is. The trouble is making it fit.”

“Making it fit?” Emry asked, taking a dropper of rose oil and carefully adding two drops to her water bath.

“Could you move the contents of a bathtub into a wineglass?” Master Ambrosius asked.

“What would happen if I tried?” she asked curiously.

“Nothing good, that’s for sure. Magic doesn’t like to be moved. You have to force it. And there’s no guarantee that it will work as it did before.”

Emry mulled this over. “So I’m guessing it’s not an easy spell,” she said.

“It makes your poison antidote look like lighting a candle,” Master Ambrosius said. He nodded toward her apparatus. “You better watch the temperature on that!”

“Calesco,” she mumbled, flicking her finger at the flame.

She was about to ask him how you forced magic when there was a deafening clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Four royal guards burst into the workshop, swords drawn.

“May I help you gentlemen?” Master Ambrosius asked. His voice was polite, but his eyes were bright with warning. He’d taken out his wand, Emry noticed. And had put on his pince-nez.

“Apprentice Merlin, you’re to come with us,” ordered one of the guards.