Emry stared at it curiously. “Did Arthur . . .”

“I lied to Chef.” Lance shot her a small smile.

“I did wonder at the lack of reading material,” said Emry. She took a sip of the wine, tasting none of it.

“Arthur’s been in his father’s rooms for hours,” said Lance. “For that matter, so has Gawain.” Lance leaned against the bars, as though they were nothing but a decoration.

“The king can’t honestly believe—” Emry began.

“Oh, I’d never start a sentence like that,” said Lance. “It doesn’t matter if the crime is false, or unfair. It only matters that Uther maintains the precarious balance of his court. You were accused by a noble, and so you must be punished. We’re not all equals here, and he doesn’t pretend we are. If you had the impression that your word, your honor, or your life was worth as much as anyone else’s, you got that from Arthur.”

Emry sighed. Lance was right. “Is it all just hopeless then?” she asked.

“I have hope,” said Lance carefully. “Just not in King Uther.”

Solemnly, Emry raised her goblet and drank to that.

It seemed a very long time since she had come here, and seen the rumpled boy bent over his books, mistaking him for a librarian. A long time since they journeyed to Avalon and jokingly referred to Excalibur as Aunt Matilda.

She wished they were still there. In the clearing behind the inn. With Lance vowing to slay Arthur’s nipple. She wished they were in the prince’s bedchamber, sharing plates of food sent up from the kitchens. Or back at the ball, twirling across the dance floor in their finery, pretending just for a night that they truly belonged to that world.

This couldn’t be it. Not just the end of her time at court, but the end of everything. She didn’t want to die. But if she had to do it over again, she wasn’t sure if she’d choose any different.

“It shouldn’t matter that you’re a girl,” said Lance. “Things like that—your gender, or who you love, or where you come from—they shouldn’t matter.”

“Yet somehow, they matter the most to the wrong people,” Emry said. “And I’m out of time. I can’t keep waiting on the world to change.”

“Which is why we’re going to change it ourselves,” said Lance, holding up a ring of keys.

It was late, and the castle was silent. Emry followed behind Lance, her heart hammering at the thought of being discovered. He’d promised he had taken care of the guard, and that his friends had swapped for gate duty and patrol with anyone who might sound the alarm. But still. She was a traitor. A prisoner. And the risk Lance was taking to help her—she didn’t know how she’d ever repay him.