The story was one he’d heard before, and the players were of middling skill, but the costumes were fine, and the effects—the first time the fairy king appeared, it was in a cloud of purple smoke. The enchanted goblet seemed to actually levitate, and the part with the lightning storm—the audience gasped as the wind blew back their cloaks, the spray of rain-water misted their faces, and what looked to be real lightning flashed across the stage.

That was Emry all right. Arthur was sure of it.

When the performance was over, he motioned to Lance to follow him, and headed for the doorway he’d seen the players using.

“Excuse me! You can’t go back there,” a pretty, plump blonde girl scolded, coming toward them with her hands on her hips.

“My apologies,” Arthur said, favoring her with a brief bow. “We were looking for a friend who’s with the theater troupe.”

“Then you can wait out back, at the stage door.”

Arthur was about to protest, but Lance mumbled their thanks, and dragged him away by the collar.

Emry was one of the last to leave. She wore a rough-spun green kirtle, and her dark hair fell just past her chin, despite having been as short as her brother’s a week ago. She twisted around, yelling something about bloodstains. The reply made her laugh. She was still laughing when she caught him standing there.

“Surprise,” he said.

She startled and went white, as though he was the last person in the world she wanted to see.

Arthur frowned. He’d expected a warm welcome. Not this.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes wide with panic. “Emmett?”

“He’s fine,” said Lance. “Everything’s fine.”

Emry’s shoulders relaxed. And then she crossed her arms and demanded, “Then what are you doing here?”

Arthur swallowed nervously. “I came to bring you this,” he said, holding out the letter.

“I already received word of my pardon,” she said.

“This is something else,” Arthur promised.

Emry frowned and opened the letter. Arthur waited, barely daring to breathe, barely daring to move.

She stared up at him after she read it, her dark eyes questioning, as if she didn’t quite understand.

“It’s an invitation,” he said. “Not a summons. For you to come and train at the castle to be my court wizard. If that’s what you want. Which I hope it is.”

“But Emmett . . . ?”

“There’s no reason Camelot can’t have more than one court wizard,” said Arthur. “I suppose I could make it a competition, to see which of you is the most qualified, but that hardly seems fair to your brother.”

Emry snorted.

“Emry, I need you,” Arthur said. “And I don’t want to do this without you. Any of it. Please. You have to come back.”