The Mission Terence Terence poked his head into the Camelot kitchens and surveyed the bustling scene until he identified the round, glowing face of Sophy, the king's chief confectioner. "Sophy, lass!" he called. "Did I just see Sir Griflet walking by with a slice of custard flan? I thought we had an agreement!" "Nay," Sophy retorted with a sniff. "You had an agreement with yourself, more like! You agreed with your stomach that you had a right to taste every flan I make—" "Only the custard ones!" Terence protested. "And strawberry. But mostly custard." "But I see no call for me to care about your fantasies." "Never mind that, lass. Is there any custard flan left?" Sophy rolled her eyes expressively and opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak, a serving girl stepped gingerly around Terence, muttering shyly, "Excuse me, Sir Terence." Sophy froze and her cheeks lost some of their rosy hue. "I'm sorry, Sir Terence. Forgive me. I forgot myself." Terence sighed. "It's all right, Sophy.
