But Emry knew them well. She’d painted them on the roof of their cottage every week for the past three winters, in a frustrating attempt to stave off costly repairs. Even the smallest chip to the design had her scrambling back up the garden trellis with a paintbrush between her teeth, like a pirate climbing a ship’s rigging.

“Aren’t you clever?” Morgana said, leaning back against the altar. “Your father taught you well.”

Suddenly, Emry had an idea. The barest flicker of a plan. “How did you remove the enchantment from Arthur’s scabbard?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, but Master Ambrosius refused to tell me. He said it was impossible.”

“For him, perhaps,” said Morgana.

“Can you show me?” Emry asked, trying to sound innocent. “Do you have it here?”

“No.” Anger flashed across Morgana’s face. “My husband wears it.”

So Morgana could be killed. That was good to know. Especially if anything went wrong. Perhaps the sorceress hadn’t killed her father, but Emry didn’t trust her.

“It is the same with Arthur.” Emry made herself sound bitter and jealous. “He wears Excalibur, even though I was the one who got us to Avalon. And instead of thanks, I was called a witch and thrown in the dungeons, while my brother was welcomed at court with open arms.”

The sorceress tossed her a knowing smile. “A rage burns in you. One that I know well,” Morgana said softly. “Let me guess: You were told magic has limits. That you should try only small spells. That magic cannot work on other magic. And you’re starting to suspect that isn’t true.”

“It seems I have a lot to learn,” Emry said with an arrogant tilt of her jaw. “From a weak old man who has little to teach.”

“Open the door,” said Morgana. “And I can show you everything.”

Emry bit back a smile. “I’ll need a dagger,” she said. “For the ritual. It requires blood.”

“Very well.” Morgana reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a small, jeweled dagger. She held it toward Emry with the handle extended.

Emry reached for it, her heart pounding. But at the last moment, Morgana flipped the dagger and grabbed Emry’s wrist.

“Allow me.” Morgana sliced the blade across Emry’s unmarked palm.

The cut was deep. Deeper than it needed to be. Blood welled in its wake, and Emry hissed in pain. Morgana smiled wolfishly.

“I assume that was what you intended to do, judging from your scar,” Morgana said.

Emry offered her a watery smile. It was worth a shot.

Carefully, Emry pressed her blood to either side of the stone doorway, trying to think. The sorceress watched her with hungry eyes, determined to miss nothing, and Emry had a very bad feeling about what might happen if she showed Morgana how to open a door to Anwen.

“Well?” Morgana said eagerly. “What’s next?”