He sauntered off to retrieve it, and the guard slouched against a shelf, making it clear he meant to wait.

“Do you have a name?” Emry asked.

“Oh, sorry.” He offered a large, calloused hand. “Lancelot Debenoic.”

“Emmett Merlin,” she said.

She tried to make their handshake as brief as possible, since his hand was nearly twice the size of hers.

“Ah, Merlin,” he said, brightening in recognition. “You’ll serve the prince. What do you think of him?”

“I haven’t met him yet,” Emry confessed.

Lancelot grinned, as though hoping she’d say that. “Watch out. He’s spoiled rotten.”

Emry’s stomach sank. “Is he really?” she asked, disheartened.

“Oh, beyond repair,” Lancelot went on. “Insufferable company. I pity his guards.”

“As do I,” said the librarian, handing over a slim volume bound in green leather. “Lance is right. The prince is a pompous, sniveling fool.”

“His head is so far up his own arse that his royal decrees are farts,” said Lance.

“He has no friends, only acquaintances who wish they were better strangers.”

“The only throne he’s fit to sit on is a privy,” Lance returned.

Emry laughed, delighted over the boys’ clever insults. And then she realized it was her turn. “It’s a shame acting like a cock won’t make his any bigger,” she suggested.

She grimaced, worrying the joke had crossed a line. To her relief, Lance laughed so hard that he nearly fell over.

“Well,” he gasped, clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “Better get changed before supper. See you around, boy who claims he didn’t draw those very attractive sheep.”

“I didn’t!” Emry called, as the boys strolled off without her.

The banquet hall was not nearly as resplendent as the Great Hall or the library, and for that Emry was thankful. Instead, it was merely functional, designed to seat everyone at court.

Emry froze in the doorway, staring at the long tables that lined each wall, realizing she had no idea where she was meant to sit. She tried to spot the boys from the library, but no luck. Finally, a page put her out of her misery, directing her toward a table in the back.

“Thank you,” she muttered, hurrying toward the table.

“Excuse me!” another page called, when she unwittingly walked past what turned out to be a hand-washing station, where young nobles training to be knights held linen cloths and bowls of perfumed water.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, hastily copying the man who stepped next to her, and hoping her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt.

She had no idea what she was doing when it came to court etiquette. Thankfully, the real Emmett wouldn’t have fared any better. Still. She had better stop drawing unnecessary attention.

“You’re late, boy,” scolded Master Ambrosius as Emry hastily joined him.