“How long have you been awake?” she grumbled, but the prince merely shrugged.

He was dressed for sport, she realized, in a tight, plain tunic with the sleeves rolled up, and even tighter cream-colored breeches. Her own clothes were worn and unfashionable, but at least she was wearing a suede jacket with silver buttons. She couldn’t imagine walking around the royal castle dressed so informally. He wasn’t even wearing his circlet, which seemed to be a habit. Slouching there in the wizard’s workshop, picking apart a sprig of herbs, it was easy to imagine that he wasn’t the crown prince at all, but a handsome, clever, obnoxious boy who was barely a year her senior.

Marion had been so right about him.

Sard it all, she couldn’t concentrate on the book. But at least she wasn’t in any danger of falling back asleep.

“Finished,” Emry called.

“Talking or reading?” the old wizard asked mildly.

“My fault,” Arthur said before she could apologize. “I’m very distracting. Occupational hazard.”

Emry took another sip of coffee, wondering what was going on. The prince was acting nice. Too nice. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Book closed,” Master Ambrosius said, fumbling with his pince-nez as he joined them. His wand was tucked into his belt, and there was a fresh dusting of ash down the front of his olive-green robes.

Emry closed the book and stared at the old wizard, wondering if anyone was going to explain why the prince had turned up acting like this was routine.

“All tinctures are extracts,” Master Ambrosius prompted.

“But not all extracts are tinctures,” Arthur finished, not missing a beat as he quoted back the First Rule of Concoctions from memory.

“Good, Arthur,” the old wizard said, and then frowned at Emry. “Merlin, keep up.”

Emry sank even lower in her chair. Surely they weren’t supposed to be . . . lab partners?

Oh, but they were. After Master Ambrosius was thoroughly convinced they knew what they were doing, he set them to bottling tinctures that alleviated stomachache.

Soon, the table was spread with a mess of fennel seeds, ginger root, and dried peppermint. On the other side of the workshop, the old wizard busied himself stirring powders into a large glass alembic, which emitted the occasional burble.

Emry stared down at the ingredients, overwhelmed. She’d never done anything like this before, working with herbs instead of magic. But it was clear Arthur had.

The prince chewed his lip as he measured out the seeds on a little brass scale, and Emry shook her head. This was what he was doing a year after pulling the sword from the stone? Waking up early to bottle tinctures in his sportswear?

Emry glanced down at the mortar and pestle, wishing she could just use magic. She’d pounded the ginger down to a pulp, and it was making her eyes water.

Arthur cleared his throat.

“What?” Emry whispered.