Well, too late for that. Emry dressed quickly, grabbing her wand and cloak, and hurried through the silent castle.

Father was back.

Her heart felt impossibly full at the thought. She’d waited and wished for this for so long, even though she’d told herself it was foolish. Even though she’d sometimes felt she was the only one holding out hope that he wasn’t truly dead.

Morgana took his life, the Lady of the Lake had said. Clearly, she was mistaken. Master Ambrosius had said the Lady was no oracle, and here was the proof. Emry stepped onto the castle lawn, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Strands of hair whipped across her face in the wind, and she tucked it back behind her ears, wishing she’d magicked it long enough for a braid.

For a horrible moment, she couldn’t find her father, and she worried that he’d already left. Then she spotted him on the far side of the training yard, heading back toward the inner gate.

“Father!” she called. “Wait!”

She had so many questions. Where had he been, and what was he doing here, and why hadn’t he sent word that he was alive for so many years? She hurried across the training yard, picturing how wonderful it would be to rush into his arms and breathe in the familiar scent of his coat. To tell him that she was training to be a court wizard, and that Emmett was as well. To catch him up on everything he had missed.

“Papa!” she called again. “It’s me!”

But when he spotted her, he didn’t wrap her in a hug, or utter a single word. He only glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was following as he led her through the castle gates and out into the square.

The gates had been unguarded. The thought prickled in the back of her mind, and she tried to ignore it.

But no matter how quickly she walked, she could never close the distance between them. And no matter how many times she called out to him, he gave no response.

This wasn’t right. She knew it, yet she shoved her misgivings aside as she followed him down the abandoned streets of the dark city. When she saw the piercing spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral up ahead, she realized where he had been leading her.

The churchyard was silent, save for the slab of stone that held no sword, but still bore its ancient promise: Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of all England.

Her father stopped before the stone.

He didn’t turn around. She could sense a lace of magic around her father’s cloak, a strange, insistent crackle.

“Papa?” she said uncertainly, her heart hammering so loud that she could barely hear herself speak.