She glanced down at her clothes to see if she was decent.

Nope.

She hastily retrieved the tight band of fabric she wore around her chest, and slid it on under her tunic.

“What?” she whispered, tiptoeing to the door and opening it a sliver.

The prince grinned back at her. Lance hovered behind him, and they were both carrying broadswords.

“We’re here to see the wizard,” Lance said with a winning smile.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

So inappropriate.

But of course it wasn’t, Emry realized, at least, not to them. They thought she was a boy. And by that logic, the crown prince turning up at an apprentice’s door should have been an honor, not an inconvenience.

“We have a request,” said Arthur. “May we come in?”

He looked even more exhausted than she felt, and Emry remembered something about a council meeting. No wonder he’d spent the whole of supper looking ill, and refusing to make eye contact with his father. Uther had consumed an enormous amount of wine, Emry remembered, but Arthur hadn’t touched his.

“Fine,” she said, opening the door the rest of the way.

“Nice space,” Lance said, glancing around. He was the sort of boy, Emry discovered, who touched everything. And sure enough, he was already running a hand over the tapestry on her wall.

Arthur peeked at the page Emry had been on. “Potions for hair growth,” he read aloud, sounding amused.

Claudo, she thought, and the book slammed shut. Arthur frowned, as though trying to decide whether the book had done that on its own.

“Okay, what?” Emry asked, quickly losing patience.

This was the opposite of keeping to herself. She needed to make the prince leave before this went horribly wrong, but she couldn’t exactly kick him out.

Arthur hefted his sword, which looked absurdly heavy. “Any chance you can blunt these?” he asked. “Or something where, if they strike an opponent, they won’t cause as much harm?”

“Don’t you already have a magic sword?” Emry asked, not very nicely.

“Common misconception.” Arthur sighed, looking askance to his friend.

“The spell was put on the sword. The sword itself isn’t magical,” Lance explained, taking a seat on her bed.

“That must have been disappointing,” Emry said with a smirk.

“You have no idea,” muttered Arthur.

Emry frowned at the prince’s broadsword. “Where do you strike? Not just with the tip, like fencing?”

“Sides of the blade, too,” called Lance, who was actually lying down on her bed at this point.

“Do you mind?” she complained.

“He really doesn’t,” Arthur put in.

“Leg day,” Lance groaned. “We did drills all afternoon. In this heat.”

Lance went on, describing the drills, which admittedly did sound terrible, but Emry had stopped listening. She picked up Arthur’s broadsword, grimacing at the weight. And then she had an idea.