She wished someone had warned her that the castle rose before dawn—like a godforsaken farm. The royal guard had been running drills directly under her bedroom window, and while the view was certainly worth admiring, the noise was unbelievable. Like four dozen roosters. With swords. No wonder such a lavish room had been empty.

Focus, Emry urged herself. How many days will you have to study magic?

The answer, of course, was not nearly enough.

Even though this wasn’t magic at all. Just an ordinary book on herbs. Which was probably why she found it so tedious.

“Pay close attention to the section on tinctures,” the old wizard called. “You’ll be mixing one after you finish.”

Emry nodded. And very nearly nodded off.

“Morning, Master Ambrosius.”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of a boy’s voice.

It was the prince. Emry slid down in her chair, wondering what on earth he wanted, and why he was awake so early.

“Ah, Arthur, have a seat,” Master Ambrosius said, sounding unsurprised by the prince’s appearance.

He must be here for the infirmary, Emry thought.

But then Arthur flashed a honeyed grin and joined her at the table. He set down a mug of, well, Emry wasn’t sure, but it smelled fantastic, and leaned forward to get a look at her book.

“Tinctures?” He made a face. “Dull.”

“Don’t you have somewhere you’re supposed to go and . . . prince?” Emry mumbled.

“Not really.” Arthur shrugged. “My father rarely rises before eleven.”

“I envy him,” Emry said through a yawn. “Did you know the guard trains at dawn? Loudly.”

“Ah, so you’re on the south side of the castle. Beautiful rooms. Shame about the noise.”

Why is he even here? Emry wondered. And why is he being so . . . not horrible?

She shook her head and slogged through the rest of the section on tinctures. Arthur sat there fiddling with a sprig of dried lavender and nursing his drink.

Emry sniffed, trying to place the scent.

“What is that?” she finally asked.

“Coffee,” he said smugly.

“Never heard of it.”

The prince grinned. “Well, I don’t suppose Ottoman traders make it to—where are you from again?”

“Brocelande,” Emry supplied.

Arthur slid his mug across the table. “Have some,” he urged, as though it was the most normal thing in the world, to share his drink with a wizard’s apprentice. “You look like you need it.”

“Thank you,” Emry said, surprised at the offer. She raised the mug and inhaled the fragrant steam, taking a gulp of the warm liquid, and then another. The drink was bitter, but quite pleasant. Miraculously, it seemed to wake her up. “What is this sorcery?”

Arthur laughed. “Combats the effect of early mornings. There’s plenty in the kitchens, just ask.”

Emry took another gulp, and then glanced up guiltily.

“Keep it,” Arthur said. “It’s my second mug this morning.”