Gawain couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to refuse anything. Even these few years of so-called freedom in Paris had been in exchange for his “diplomacy” at court. It wasn’t spying, exactly, but his weekly letters, written in code, certainly weren’t voluntary.

And now even that arrangement had been yanked out from under him. He doubted he’d be granted half as much freedom in Uther’s dull, conservative castle.

Gawain sighed and considered his sketch. Not bad, although he’d gotten the hands wrong. He flipped the page over, starting again. A bell jingled over the door, and he noted with surprise that the lad who entered was identical to the subject of his drawing. Now this was interesting.

The lad sat down across from his brother, and Gawain leaned forward, curious.

“You look like Father, dressed as a boy,” said the drunk one.

Dressed as a boy? Did that mean the lad who’d just turned up was a girl ? That was illegal, of course, as was dressing above one’s station. The king’s sumptuary laws were strongly enforced, from colored dyes only nobles could use to the types of fur allowed to trim a commoner’s coat. If this girl was pretending to be a boy, there had to be a good reason.

A round of cards at the next table erupted into a loud argument, and Gawain frowned in annoyance. He couldn’t hear. He needed somewhere closer . . . like the bar.

He picked up his goblet of wine, slamming the distasteful swill back in one gulp. And then he sauntered over to the barmaid for a refill.

He slowed as he passed their table, angling for a better look. She was a girl. Around his age, with hair as dark as his own, and the most magnificent warm brown eyes.

“I’m not going to the castle to study magic,” said the boy, and Gawain had to force himself to keep walking and not openly stare.

The castle? Magic?

He signaled for a mug of ale, sliding onto a stool. Ordinarily, he would have avoided such a conspicuous seat—between his dark skin and his expensive, French-cut clothes, he was practically asking for trouble—but he had to hear the rest of this.

So he sipped his drink, his eyes growing wide as he pieced together the situation.

The girl had temporarily gone to Castle Camelot in the boy’s place, and now the boy was refusing to switch back. He’d gotten some girl pregnant and—merde—Gawain choked as he realized why the boy had caught his attention.

He was the spitting image of his father. As a child, Gawain had been thoroughly intimidated by the elegant court wizard, who seemed to crackle with magic. And it seemed Merlin’s wand hadn’t fallen far from the family tree.

The girl pleaded with her brother, and Gawain’s eyes grew wide as the boy confessed that his powers were nothing compared to hers. As they made arrangements for the boy to return home, and the girl to remain disguised at court—indefinitely.