“Your father was a good man. We didn’t see eye to eye on most things, but he risked his life in service to the crown on many occasions,” said Lord Agravaine. “King Uther forgets he owes your family a debt. And he forgets he owes you one as well, for protecting his son and heir.” The man offered her a thin smile. “Go. Before anyone else discovers your absence.”

Emry stared at him. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Lord Agravaine only nodded, then turned to the guards. “You men better get back to your posts,” he warned, an edge to his voice. He stalked off through the castle gardens, and Emry drew a long, steadying breath.

“That was close,” said Lance.

“I know.” Emry bit her lip. “Can you tell Arthur . . .” There were so many things she wanted to tell him. But it hardly mattered now. “That I’m sorry. And that I wish things were different?”

Lance nodded. “For what it’s worth, you’d make a great court wizard.”

“For what it’s worth, you’d make a great knight,” she replied.

With a heavy heart, Emry squared her shoulders and walked away.

CHAPTER 38

Brocelande was just as Emry remembered. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry as she took in the chickens pecking in the yard, the pigs in their wattle-and-daub enclosure, the neat rows of vegetables and herbs in the garden.

It looked like so much less now that she’d seen so much more of the world.

At least the money she’d sent home had been put to good use. She could see the fresh thatch on the roof, and thick panes of new glass on the windows.

Emry hesitated at the front door. Should she knock? No, this was home. And with that, she went inside.

Everything was still here: the blackened hearth, the sturdy wooden furniture, the curtained bed that had once seemed like her own private room. Had it really been a lumpy mattress stuffed with straw, pushed into a corner of their cottage?

It was as if time had been holding its breath. As if her entire adventure at court had taken place in the space of a moment.

Gran was asleep by the hearth, knitting bundled on her lap.

“Gran,” Emry said, going to the old woman.

“Emmett?” she said, frowning. “Back so soon?” Then she raised a hand to Emry’s face, and understanding dawned.

Emry threw her arms around her grandmother, breathing in the familiar scent of her, the herbs and wool and the faintest traces of the mists of Avalon.

Emry frowned. Had Gran always been so frail?

“We weren’t expecting you, child. Was there a letter?”

Emry shook her head. And bit her lip.

“Oh, my poppet,” said the old woman. “My dear. What on earth has happened?”

The tears—and the story—spilled out of her. Gran listened quietly, and when Emry was done, she simply nodded.