Actually, she was just in time. She had no sooner sat down than the musicians began to play. “I got held up in the library—” Emry started to explain.

“The library will still be there in the morning,” the old wizard assured her. “But unlike books, supper has a tendency to disappear.”

Emry grinned at his joke. And then supper arrived, and she stared openmouthed.

There were heaping platters of pheasant with toasted almonds, roast and stuffed chickens, fine white rolls, mushroom pie, and bottles of French wine. This wasn’t supper—it was a feast.

Emry happily dug in, remembering the joke she’d made to Marion about the food. It really did look delicious. She took a bite—dear god, had the pheasant been drizzled in honey?

“This is only the first course,” Master Ambrosius warned, as though he’d guessed she was considering another slice of pie.

“The first course? But it’s already more than enough.”

“The platters go next to the servants’ tables, and after that, to the deserving poor,” said the old wizard. He paused before adding, “Queen Igraine insisted on the last part. She said she never wanted to feast in ignorance while her people starved.”

Queen Igraine had been beloved for her kindness, even though much of Camelot had disapproved when the king chose her as his bride. The widowed Duchess of Tintagel was a rare beauty, but she’d been well into her twenties at the time, and barely out of mourning for her late husband. It had been both a relief and a scandal when Prince Arthur came along five months later.

“My father spoke well of her,” Emry said.

“And of the king too, I hope,” the old wizard said.

“Of course,” Emry assured him, biting off a big mouthful of bread. More often than not, her father had complained loudly about the king, whose fearsome temper was as well-known as his wife’s kind heart.

A few seats down, a group of bearded men in fine tunics laughed uproariously at a coarse joke, and Emry startled, having forgotten about them entirely.

“. . . better lock up your codpiece, then!” the loudest advised as he merrily poured another round of wine.

“Oh, she’s already done it for me,” said his friend, raising his goblet in mock salute to a scowling, olive-skinned brunette in a crimson gown.

Even though they sat at the same banquet table, Emry couldn’t have felt further apart from this drunk and bawdy crowd. She was relieved they hadn’t tried to include her in their merriment.

Everyone here, it seemed, gave the old wizard a wide berth. True, his robes were shabby and stained, and he smelled of herbs from his workshop and, faintly, of magic. Emry wasn’t sure anyone else picked up the scent, but they definitely sensed something. She knew from experience that magic made many people uneasy.