“If I make the sword blunt, you’d just have a metal club,” she said. “But what if I alter the metal so it bends harmlessly on contact?”

Arthur considered it. “That might work.”

Lance nodded his agreement. “They’d be rubbish for combat, but perfect for training.”

“I’ll have them back to you in a month,” Emry said, and the boys’ jaws dropped. “Joking. Give me a moment.”

Emry reached for her wand. Illusions and cleanup spells were one thing, but she didn’t dare attempt a permanent magical transformation without it. Hers was a polished holly branch, which her father had made for her tenth birthday. He’d gifted her and Emmett matching ones, a rare moment when they’d been given the same thing. Emry rolled the wand between her fingers until it felt like an extension of herself. Until she was confident she could draw enough of her magic up and through. Because the last thing she needed was to faint in the prince’s company.

She pointed the wand at Lance’s sword, which he’d propped against the wall, and envisioned its edges bending on contact.

“στροφή,” she commanded.

The sword trembled, and then promptly fell over. Lance heaved himself off the bed and retrieved it.

He thrust the blade forward, attacking Emry’s tapestry. She winced, anticipating damage, but the blade bent as easily as a tree branch, and the tip left no mark.

Emry sighed in relief, and Lance laughed.

“Impressive,” he said.

The spell had been easy. Emry let out a slow, long breath, her confidence returning. She did Arthur’s sword next. The prince hefted the blade with considerably more effort, trying a pass that nearly knocked a book off her desk.

“Sorry,” he said, having the good sense to look embarrassed while he hastily straightened the stack of books.

Emry shook her head. No wonder she’d mistaken him for a librarian.

“There you are, two magic swords,” she said, sitting down on the bed and yawning loudly. “Now, with all due respect, Your Highness, go away.”

The boys slunk from her room with a chorus of sheepish thank-yous.

Emry changed into her brother’s nightshirt and crawled into bed, remembering just before she closed her eyes to mumble a muffling spell at the window.

And a locking spell on the door.

CHAPTER 11

How’s your magic sword?” Emry asked.

It was the next morning, and she and Arthur were gathering the ingredients for pain tonics from the wizard’s stores.

“A vast improvement. And since the swords are matched, it’s still the same effect when—”

“I don’t actually care,” Emry interrupted, reaching for a bottle of powdered tansy. “I was just being polite.”

“How’s your noise issue?” Arthur asked innocently.

“Fixed it with a muffling spell.” Emry smirked, tossing him the jar.

“You’re supposed to say ‘catch,’ ” he complained, fumbling it.