“Em,” her brother pressed. “You’re wasting yourself at the theater. Someday soon, Camelot’s going to need a wizard. A good one. And when they do, they’re not going to care that you’re a girl.”

She hadn’t even thought of that. But Emmett was right. Master Ambrosius was old and frail. If something happened, if King Yurien threatened their borders, if Arthur—kind, brilliant Arthur—had to ride into battle to defend their kingdom, then she wanted to help. And the best way to help was to learn all she could. Not sit at home magicking stains out of costumes.

Yes, it was risky, but she’d already gotten away with it for this long. Which meant it could work. And if it did, she’d earn money that she could send home to Gran and Emmett. Money that was sorely needed, especially if Emmett was going to have a wife and child. Their house, technically, was his. Everything that had been their father’s belonged to him.

Except, perhaps, a life at the castle. Studying magic. The lie didn’t have to be forever. Like Emmett said, eventually she’d reveal the truth. She’d figure it out. Somehow.

Her brother nudged a bundle across the floor with his boot.

“What’s that?” Emry asked suspiciously.

“Hair ribbons,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What do you think? My second-best tunic and hose. Father’s books. And Gran altered one of Father’s old coats.”

“She did?”

“She said old castles get drafty, and she didn’t want you to freeze.” Emmett made it sound as if it were already decided. But then, she supposed it was. Her father’s words came back to her then: Smart as spades, but foolish as hearts.

“This is a terrible idea,” Emry muttered.

“Of course it is.” Emmett’s lips twitched as he held back a smile. “But when has that ever stopped you?”

Gawain wasn’t impressed. So this was the tavern where his boring, bookish cousin had pulled the sword from the stone? He’d expected more. Or, better wine, at the very least.

He glanced around, curious what sort of patrons wasted their coin here. Dockworkers mostly. And rough-clothed laborers. There was just the one other lad by himself, slouched in the next booth. He had an interesting face, handsome and fine-featured, but it was the tragic slant to the lad’s shoulders that snagged Gawain’s attention.

Gawain reached for his sketchpad and charcoals, in no hurry to reach the castle. He’d sent his servants on ahead, conjuring a lie about an errand for his father. But really, he wanted a moment to himself before stepping back into the life he’d gladly left behind two years earlier.