He wished, for the thousandth time, that his father hadn’t insisted he return home so soon. But when the great Lord Agravaine said jump, the only acceptable answer was to ask how sarding high.

It was cover, he knew, so his parents could quietly send for Jereth and drill some sense into the lad. What was it his younger brother had set on fire this time? The school chapel? No, the scriptorium. Merde.

Yet this offense was being quietly swept away, along with the rest of them. It felt as though, while Gawain was expected to do no wrong, his brother could do nothing right.

Their mother coddled the lad. True, he’d nearly died of influenza as a boy, yet Jereth had found a way to turn even that to his advantage, complaining of cough or chill to get out of whatever he wished.

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?