Page 125 of The Discount Damsel

Nothing but air stretched out on either side of her for a dozen feet in either direction, except above her, where the top of the rope was so far away her vision blurred before she could make out the massive hook Dirk had screwed into the underside of the workroom floor.

Another shove of her feet, another yank of her arms, and she drew level to where the apprentice sat on the steps with a book spread across his lap. His back against the wall, he leaned towards the light of the lantern by his knee to read. Fink snoozed in the hood of his robe, whiskers twitching.

His gaze flicked from the pages to her struggling on the rope. The lanternlight flashed across his spectacles. “If you don’t tuck that butt in, Tula, I’m going to spank it with Sir Roger’s cane.” He turned the page. “That’s why your arms are shaking.”

She fixed her posture, finding immediate relief. Readjusting her grip, Millie stole a glance at the studious apprentice. This was the most he’d voluntarily said to her in a week. It was snarky, sure, but did that mean the old grumpy Bradley was back? The one she could tease without risk of inconvenient butterflies taking wing in her stomach?

“Like you could reach me from way over there,” she tested.

He flipped another page. “I’d find a way.”

“There’s no way you’re reading that fast.”

“Concentrate on your own work, Tula.” There was no bite to the nickname.

“That would be easier to do,” she grunted, “if I wasn’t sweating like a hog at a sausage festival. It’s hotter than a devil’s bunghole in here.”

Bradley shook his head, his mane of black curls swishing over Fink and rousing the ferret. “Cultured and eloquent, as always.”

She smothered her smile at his judgmental assessment. Perhaps everything had returned to normal between them after all. That moment when he’d knelt in front of her, looking up at her with such wonder in his eyes, her fingers tangled in his hair and a breath away from dragging him upright to crush his mouth against hers—just a fluke. Good. That was good. She could concentrate now. She wasn’t in danger of becoming sidetracked and muddleheaded and smitten.

Yet her gaze drifted back to him, captured by the sight of his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth across his bottom lip—an unconscious movement when he was hyper-focused on his studies. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to remove his spectacles, tip his chin back, and draw that bottom lip into her mouth.

Crone’s Crooked Tits, it was suddenly extra sweltering in this tower.

“Are you sure another sandstorm isn’t coming?” She inched her way up the rope, glaring at the infernal red ribbon and blaming it for not being the most attractive thing in the vicinity.

“Yep,” he answered, without looking up. “That heat you’re feeling is called exertion. It’s a result of work. As a princess, I wouldn’t expect you to know the term.”

“Retired princess.” Her feet were now level with his head. “And what do you think I’ve been doing for the last month and a half if not ‘work?’”

“Your pathetic approximation of it.”

“Pathetic it might be, but at least I’m not confusing it with lounging.”

Bradley, who had his long legs stretched out along the step he was seated upon, merely crossed them at the ankle. “I’m conserving my energy. As you should be. Stop talking and get climbing. You’re missing the rest of Jax’s story. It’s utter hogwash, but it’s entertaining.”

“As if you’d know?” she goaded, but there was a curve of a smile to her lips. Millie was enjoying this friendly banter. The keyhole of fledgling amicability had opened up between them once more.

“’Course I would,” Bradley snorted. “I grew up on the Cut. Only our sea monsters actively attack ships.”

The princess and the apprentice stilled at the same time. A crimson flush rose up Bradley’s neck like the rush of mercury in a temperature gauge on a boiling summer’s day. The red ribbon fluttered against Millie’s chin, but if she retrieved it now, she would have no excuse to linger.

“You grew up on the Cut?” Millie kept her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear, but there was no way to tame the unbridled excitement. “I’ve read so many stories about it—the storms, fish as big as castles, the⁠—”

“Whales. And they’re not fish.” He snapped his book shut and stood. Fink chittered and fought to keep from sliding out of the apprentice’s hood.

“Whales?” she tried out the word. “Are they truly that large? What about kraken?”

Bradley tucked the book under his arm and snatched up his lantern. “Forget I said anything.”

“But—”

“Enough, Tula.” The apprentice pounded up the stairs.

And just like that, he’d shut her out again. Plugged that keyhole with cotton and sealed it with wax.

“Piss and plagues, Mr. Donmarin,” she snapped. “You’re just like Viscount Saltreave. He likes to run away from things, too.”