“You were supposed to grind that, not pound.” Arthur nodded toward the ginger root. “Here, I’ll show you.”

“I can do it,” Emry snapped, but Arthur had already wrapped his hand around hers, correcting her grip on the pestle.

“Twist,” Arthur instructed. “Hard. Like this.”

Emry swallowed. His hands were very warm. Or maybe hers were just very cold.

Master Ambrosius glanced up from his cauldron.

“You lads better be grinding,” he warned.

Emry exchanged an amused glance with Arthur, and tried not to snicker.

“Yes, sir,” Emry said, grinning broadly.

“My favorite is when he says to ‘pound one out,’ ” Arthur confessed.

Emry choked.

“Don’t correct him, it’s too good,” Arthur said, and Emry realized that the prince was fond of the old man.

“So, you come here a lot,” she observed, reaching for the dried peppermint.

“When I can.” Arthur passed her the scale. “It’s not university, but it’s something.”

“What about your tutors?” Emry asked, measuring out the peppermint.

“They instruct me in every suitable subject of my father’s choosing,” he said with a thin smile.

“But not in the unsuitable subjects,” Emry finished.

“Definitely not,” Arthur agreed, combining their dry ingredients into a bowl.

Emry watched him, knowing all too well how frustrating it was to have your days shaped by someone who didn’t have to live through them. How powerless she’d felt, watching her father take her brother out to the woods to learn magic while she was left behind with the washing and the cooking.

But then she remembered she was supposed to be Emmett, and her spoiled arse of a brother wouldn’t have understood the prince’s frustrations at all. Or his decision to do something about them.

She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She should keep her distance from the prince, she knew. He was too sharp by half, and not at all what she’d expected. She snuck another glance in his direction, admiring the sharp angle of his jaw, and the way a lock of hair fell over his right eye as he worked.

“Looks about right,” Arthur said, taking up a pinch of their dry ingredients.

“You’ve done this before,” Emry observed. It wasn’t a question.

“My mother was often ill.” He hesitated before elaborating, “I used to come up here and ask Master Ambrosius if there was anything I could do to help. A tonic I could brew. That sort of thing.” He shrugged, offering Emry a sad smile. “I guess I never stopped coming.”

He reached for a glass vial, his arm knocking against the bottle of vinegar. The bottle wobbled and tipped, a wet stain spreading across the table.

“Sard,” he cursed, reaching for a rag to mop it up.

“Reponere,” Emry muttered without thinking. The stain disappeared, and the bottle refilled and tipped back upright.