Page 154 of The Discount Damsel

Bradley opened his mouth, shut it with an irritated exhale, and resumed his search with a newly formed frown. The princess had been like that for the last thirteen days, eighteen hours, and seventeen minutes: huffy. She had no words to spare for him other than what was entirely necessary for them to complete whatever task needed their attention. Though she had about the same amount of words for everyone else, their exchanges were accompanied by easy camaraderie and smiles that actually reached her brown eyes.

“In case you’re wondering,” Pocket drawled, “that’s what you get for not kissing a princess after you rescue her.”

Prince Henri immediately shut his mouth mid-chorus, and Bradley dropped the pewter snuff box he’d been examining, caught it, and hastily set it back down on the end table. This room was the equivalent to three blocks of open-air flea markets all crammed into seven hundred square feet, and they’d been rooting through it for the past two days.

The pickpocket snatched up a handful of lavender sachets and lobbed them one after the other at him. Fink, who had adopted Pocket immediately as his preferred person, clung to her shoulders for dear life.

“Or after she gets you jealous and you dismiss one of her tutors,” Pocket yelled. “Or after you string her up like ham in the kitchen, which is funny, because I didn’t peg you for the kinky type.”

Bradley dodged one floral-scented missile and smacked the other out of the air. “Pocket!”

“Or after you rub little circles with your thumb on the back of her hand!” She hurled the rest at him, save one, which she slipped into one of her raffia purses.

The apprentice rose from where he’d taken cover behind a fainting couch. “Excuse me?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with your ears, Lord of the Curls.”

Bradley’s gaze slitted. “You’re just jealous my hair’s prettier than yours.”

Pocket held up a lock of black hair, which was indeed less shiny than his, and flicked it over her shoulder. When it didn’t fully clear her shoulder, Fink quickly adjusted it for her and received a pat on the head that made his little eyes sparkle.

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and my bestie.” She lifted the reddish hag stone to her eye and gave this quarter of the room a sweep. “Over there, to your left.”

“All it took was a sleepover and a wardrobe makeover and you’re besties now?”

The princess had given the pickpocket her entire collection of headscarves, and Pocket had chucked her stocking hat into the wastebasket and never looked back. Today she sported a headscarf with a paisley motif in jewel-toned colors, as well as one of the many blouses Millie insisted she adopt from her own collection.

The princess and the dragon had also insisted Bradley welcome their newest friend with an egg breakfast. They’d bullied him into that infested attic to face the pigeons, who, as per usual, went feral the moment he neared the southwest wedge. His hands and neck were still healing from all the scratches and pecks.

Bradley stopped itching a scab and moved to where Pocket pointed—a set of stacked chairs—and sensed something in one of the fat damask cushions. Bradley unsheathed the knife he’d acquired for this exact purpose. “You’ve know each other, what, fourteen days?”

“Never met a princess who’d willing let me raid her closet before, nor share her room and sleep in her bed, nor pester me about my past.” She shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all you need to know about a person. And you’re oddly precise for someone who doesn’t seem to care.”

“I’m a sorcerer apprentice. Of course I’m precise.”

“Yeah? How long have the shark women of the Orca Archipelago been without a queen?”

“Thirty-nine years, two months, and six days.”

“And how many tumblers are in a Ryu Dynasty Tianzi Death Lock?”

“Fourteen.”

“And how long have you know you’ve been in love with Millie?”

“Si—” Bradley shut his mouth.

Pocket snapped her fingers. “Gotcha.”

Fink sniggered.

She swaggered over to where he worked on the cushion, her smile wider than a Cheshire cat’s. “I’m a pickpocket, Spell Boy, but sometimes I steal secrets instead of trinkets. So, now that we both know you want to kiss her, why haven’t you? You’ve had every opportunity. That rescue in the stairwell, that day you taught her how to windsurf with the dune skiff, every morning after those ridiculous speech therapy lessons.” She laughed. “Why not try a real feat of oral dexterity and wrap your tongue around hers?”

Bradley abandoned his delicate seam-ripping and turned his full attention on the pickpocket. “Because what good will come of me kissing her?”

It would only be confusing, for the both of them.

“What good?” Pocket echoed. “Hopefully something way better than ‘good.’ An orgasm, if you’re lucky.”