Thankfully, Lord Howell stepped into their path with a practiced bow, sparing her. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” he cut in with an oily smile. “I was hoping to have a word.”

The prince sighed, his amusement gone. “My father has already had several,” he said, “and my opinion hasn’t changed.”

“Of course not,” the man persisted. “I only hoped that—”

“—I’ll be in attendance at tomorrow’s high council meeting?” Arthur interrupted. “So that I may further elaborate the reasons for my refusal?”

“Um,” said Lord Howell, who clearly had not been hoping anything of the sort. And then, realizing he was outmaneuvered, “Indeed?”

“You may look forward to it,” Arthur confirmed. “Please forgive me, I won’t keep you any longer.”

The man tried to resist the dismissal, and Emry bit her lip to keep from smiling at the indignity. So it wasn’t just her. It seemed the prince had a habit of treating conversations as though they were fencing bouts. She had to admit, it was a neat trick, and a useful one.

Arthur flagged down an attendant, asking for two glasses and a carafe of water to be brought up to his rooms immediately. The man bowed deeply before hurrying away. When Arthur turned back to Lord Howell, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“As you can see, I’m unfortunately quite busy this evening.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your . . . company. I’m sure the matter will come up tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it will,” Arthur said with a sigh.

Lord Howell delivered an insincere bow before hastening away.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Emry. “Still here?” he asked.

“You haven’t yet dismissed me,” Emry pointed out. “Although I assume you’re about to, seeing as how you’re expecting company in your chambers.”

The prince cocked his head, as though surprised to find his own maneuver used against him.

“Not bad,” he acknowledged, rooting his hands back into his pockets and striding down the corridor with that infuriating grin.

Emry sat in the window of her bedchamber, staring up at the night sky. She wore her brother’s nightshirt, the unfamiliar fabric a reminder that she couldn’t even be herself here, alone in her room.

But it was worth it. The deception, the risk, the gamble she was taking that she’d get away with it. Because beyond the castle walls, she could just make out the dim peaks of London’s rooftops, the serpentine stretch of the Thames, the far-off shadow of the cathedral’s spire.

It was all here, just like she’d dreamed. And she was here at the center of it—somewhere the history books wrote about—finally. Not helping Marion mend threadbare costumes so they wouldn’t have to beg their patron for more coin. Not cooped up in her run-down cottage, terrified of living a life she hadn’t chosen in a town she was afraid she’d never leave.