“Well, you have a wizard in your corner, if you ever need one,” she’d said.

“Better there than in my bed,” Lance had teased. “You hog the blankets.”

“You talk in your sleep!”

“At least it’s just words, not spells.”

“Enough,” Arthur had scolded, but he was smiling.

Now, as they squinted across the misty lake, none of them were smiling. Because suddenly their destination felt all too real. There it was, faint but unmistakable in the distance: The Isle of the Blessed. Avalon.

Just as Gran had described in her stories, a thick swirl of mist hovered just above the surface of the water. It was a miracle they could even see the island.

Not a miracle, Emry realized. Magic. The mists of Avalon were magic.

Emry had heard many legends about the Isle, and she doubted even half of them were true. But apparently the one about the magic mist wasn’t an exaggeration. Good to know.

“The boat is ready for you,” the girl said, gesturing toward the rickety rowboat, which was equipped with a set of falling-apart oars.

They weren’t all going to fit, Emry realized.

“You sure this boat’s safe?” Brannor asked doubtfully.

“No one ever said passage to the Isle of the Blessed is safe,” the girl retorted. “Only that it’s possible.”

“Well, that’s not ominous,” Lance muttered.

“For those staying behind,” said the girl, “there’s an inn just over the hill. You’ll find your horses stabled there.”

The girl clicked her tongue softly at the horses, which followed eagerly after her.

“So,” Arthur said doubtfully. “I suppose we climb aboard.”

No one made the first move.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Emry scoffed, climbing into the boat. She hadn’t come all this way to not see Avalon.

Arthur squared his shoulders and stepped in after her.

“I’m coming, too,” Lance said, but before he could, the boat shot out from the dock of its own accord.

Emry’s heart pounded in alarm. She stared down at the oars, still at the bottom of their boat.

“Merlin,” Arthur warned.

“It’s not me,” Emry protested.

“I ’ent signed up for enchanted boats,” Brannor exclaimed from the shore, which was growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

“We’ll wait at the inn!” Lance called desperately, and then the shore was swallowed by the fog, and it was just the two of them. Alone. In an enchanted rowboat in the middle of a lake. A very small enchanted rowboat.

Emry glanced at the prince. He looked pale. He was clutching the side of the boat with one hand, and his sword with the other. She hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.

“It’s just a little magic,” she said.

As disorienting as it was, at least they didn’t have to row.

“That’s—not—the problem,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “My sword’s—well—look!”