“I was a page,” Lance said with a sigh. “It didn’t work out.”

Both Lance and Arthur had gone stiff and awkward, and when Lance didn’t bother to elaborate, Emry sensed that she shouldn’t push. She watched as he polished off the last of the bread, and climbed to his feet, dusting crumbs off the coverlet.

“Weren’t you going to fix me up?” he asked.

“He was going to try,” challenged Arthur. He was draped across the worn, comfortable-looking leather chair by the fireplace, pulling off his boots. His jacket was flung aside, and the ties of his tunic were loosened.

Emry swallowed, looking away. She was in the prince’s bedroom, and he was getting undressed. And it turned out that Lance wasn’t any kind of chaperone at all, but a delinquent noble. If she were smart, she’d head back to her room immediately. But since she was already here, there was no harm in trying the spell. Just to know if she really could do it.

Emry dug out her wand, and Lance blanched as though she’d pulled out a jar of leeches. “Last chance to take a pain tonic like everyone else,” she warned.

“I’m not giving the royal physician the satisfaction,” said Lance. “You’d better not turn me into a frog.”

“How about a fire-breathing horse, but green?” Emry asked, which made Arthur laugh.

“That would be an improvement,” said the prince. Lance threw a heel of bread at him.

“Stay still,” Emry snapped.

“Sorry,” Lance mumbled.

Emry took a deep breath, picturing the ingredients that went into a pain-relief tonic and focusing on Lance’s swollen wrist.

She pointed her wand, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Angsumnes.”

The spell released like a shot, and she staggered backward from the force, steadying herself on the corner of Arthur’s desk.

Master Ambrosius had warned her that the spell would take as well as give, but the blowback of working controlled, precise magic on another living person left her surprised.

Sard. Was she supposed to feel so light-headed?

“Amazing,” Lance marveled, rotating his wrist with a grin. “It really worked.”

He sounded strangely far away. But maybe that was because the room had begun to spin . . .

Emry wobbled, and a pair of warm, steady arms caught her before she fell.

It was the prince. Barefoot. In his half-laced tunic.

“All right there?” he asked, peering down at her in concern.

He thinks you’re Emmett, she reminded herself woozily.

The prince’s arms were still around her. She could feel the steady thump of his heart. Did he always smell so good? Like herbs and old books and leather?

“I’m fine,” she retorted, despite her dizziness. “Obviously.”