Page 103 of The Discount Damsel

She knew speaking flawless High Aetherial would get under his skin, not that she had any magic to use them as a conduit, and when his mouth pursed and shoulders tightened, she knew she had.

“Or better yet, leave,” she suggested. “You’ve been an absolute beast since Miss Penelope’s visit. You can take your sour attitude back to the workroom and leave me in my training room in peace.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and sat unbudging. “It’s my tower. I can study where I please. Which would go a lot smoother if your fumbling wasn’t so distracting. How hard is it to remember that you reef a sail by decreasing its surface area and you trim a sail by adjusting its angle and shape to optimize performance? And whichever you choose is entirely dependent on the angle of heel you’re aiming for and whether the air is light or heavy?”

“I don’t think I covered that technique yet,” Sir Beauregard said, checking his notes.

Millie’s fingernails bit into her palms. She winced, not realizing her hands had clenched into fists. That pressure point in his neck was looking mighty tempting. Hit that, and he’d pass out for ten minutes of sweet, sweet silence.

Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the training room. Sir Roger quickly followed her out onto the landing. “Miss?”

“I’ll be right back!”

When she returned, she wiped the sweaty locks from her face and thrust the carving of a sailboat into Sir Beauregard’s hands. “Teach me with this.”

Bradley erupted from his chair. “Where did you get that?”

It was a pointless question—they both knew she’d swiped it off his nightstand. She ignored him and said to Sir Beauregard, “Demonstrate tacking, jibbing, heeling, and all the rest. I’m ready.”

The knight moved around behind her and put the sailboat in her hands. His hands layered over hers, and he lowered his head to speak into her ear. “Pretend the wind is coming from the right.”

“That’s starboard.”

“Very good.” He angled their hands, and thus the sailboat, towards starboard. “This is⁠—”

Bradley plucked the carving out of Millie’s hands. Sir Beauregard straightened, but he didn’t move away from Millie. In fact, his hand landed on her shoulder.

A different fire ignited in the apprentice’s gaze. The knight should not be touching her like that. Where was his sense of propriety? Gone with wherever he tossed his shirt most days, Bradley suspected.

The sailboat creaked under the pressure of Bradley’s tightening grip.

“That’s enough for this lesson,” Sir Roger announced, striding forward.

“Our hour isn’t up.” Sir Beauregard thrust his free hand at the red sand spilling through the hourglass.

The hedge knight seized the hourglass and gave it a good shake. The red sand rushed to the bottom. “Would you look at that? How time flies! Let’s go.”

Grumbling, Sir Beauregard yanked his elbow back when the older knight reached for him. “I know how to walk.”

“And yet you’re so inefficient at it. My grandmother can walk faster than you.”

When they were gone, Bradley snarled down at her, “You had no right to take this.”

“I’ll stay out of your business if you stay out of mine,” Millie fired back.

“You’ll stay out of my business? You haven’t stayed out of my business since the day you got here, Tula.”

The venom in his voice forced her back at step. Then another and another as the apprentice advanced.

“Every dawn I wake up with you tangled around me like flotsam. Every morning I recite these embarrassing, insulting, demoralizing tongue-twisters so I don’t slip back into a stutter. Every day I have to endure seeing you and Dirk excelling at everything you touch while I have wasted four months with nothing to show for it!”

Millie flinched as her back hit the wall. Although he wasn’t touching her, the apprentice had her pinned there, and he wasn’t being “nice” like he had in the alcove. The air stirred at his feet, whisking up the sand and fluttering the hem of his robe. His blue eyes were aflame, sparking like fireflies caught in bottles of colored glass. Power radiated off him, something wild and unbridled. Her hand flattened against her stomach, the decorative beading and embroidery of her corset imprinting into her palm—halfway to the cinquedea letter opener.

“And every night I have to endure the stink of your laundry!” The apprentice tore his hands through his long black curls. “I have less than sixty days left. Two months to accomplish what I could not in four. What hope do I have? What help? Dirk used to lend me his luck, but I hardly see scale or feather of him anymore. And you⁠—”

“What about me?” Millie shouted. “Your troubles did not begin when I landed on that balcony. In fact, maybe some of them could’ve been alleviated if we’d become friends, but you never gave me the chance!”

Instead of reaching for her letter opener, she lunged forward into his space. “I greeted you cordially, but you took one look at me and decided I was worth nothing more than the disgust and revulsion you’d give a festering sore.