Page 205 of The Discount Damsel

“Hn. And were you drunk off Pocket’s mead when you wrote this? Penmanship’s atrocious. Sloppy words mean sloppy results, or have you forgotten the pancakes? Feh, this’ll never work.”

“Give it a try anyway, Dirk.” Millie forced her tone to stay light and encouraging when what she really wanted to do was wrench open his jaws and shove it down his throat. She lifted her reticule and gave it an enticing wiggle. “Eat the spell and I’ll give you a lychee.”

“If it’ll get you off my back.” Dirk snatched the rice paper from her and made a show of placing it whole on his tongue. He struggled to swallow it down.

Bradley leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, heart rising like a bird about to take wing. This was it. He could forget all the hateful words and surly looks and attempted dismemberment if this worked.

Dirk smacked his lips and looked down at his belly, the cerulean scales now as infrequent as stars on a cloudy night. “Guess I was right about you being a Has-Been. Now where’s my lychee?”

The Kraken take him straight to the Locker.

Millie fished the fruit out of her reticule, as promised.

As Dirk tore into the lychee, muttering how sour it was, the princess murmured, “Please excuse us,” and guided Bradley out of the dragon’s line of sight.

“He’s lost his ability to fly, plus all sense of politeness, and now he can’t even manifest a spell into being.” Bradley tore a hand through his hair, fingers snagging in the curls. The physical pain compounded the one in his heart. “It’s hopeless. I need Master Excelsior, but he—” The apprentice released his frustrations out on the sand with a vicious kick.

“Keep it together,” she hissed. “I’m already managing one male’s emotional state in addition to my own; do not add yourself to that list. Now let me see the spell.”

Bradley handed over the slip of papyrus and stood close to read over her shoulder, though he had the spell memorized by now. The tip of her finger slid beneath each word as she murmured them aloud in a soft voice. Then her finger hovered over one word in particular.

“This word isn’t just want,” she whispered to him. “It denotes a bone-deep desire, a plea, even a repentance of sorts. Not only does Dirk need to want to be restored to his old self with his entire being, he needs to want to never make the same mistake again.” She tapped the papyrus against her palm. “I don’t believe he’s in the mental state to do that.”

The apprentice cursed.

Millie returned the papyrus. “Go write another spell. Dirk always returns to himself, at least partially, after he’s had a long soak in the tub. Maybe we need to be more aggressive, put him in the actual spring.”

“The groupers will come and eat him.”

“But not right away. We’ll have a few minutes before they sense him. A few minutes will be enough for him to eat the rice paper and want the spell to work.”

Bradley scoffed. “Will it?”

Mutineer Millie slapped him across the cheek much like one would a fly that had landed on her picnic blanket. With gusto.

His hand pressed to his stinging skin, and indignation burned in his blue eyes.

She thrust her finger into his face. “What did I say about forcing me to manage another male’s emotional state? You do not get to lose hope, Bradley Donmarin. Not until every scale and feather has left that dragon’s body. I do not have time for your doubts, and neither does he. That’s Leighton’s army out there, and they’ll be here within the hour. Good luck writing nice and neat when they start assaulting the tower. Now go before this finger becomes a hairpin. Or worse, my cutlass.”

From the way her face resembled a thundercloud, Bradley knew she meant business. He mumbled an apology and practically fled up the stairs for the rice paper.

CHAPTER 83

TOWER DEFENSE, A DARK GEMSTONE, SIR EUSTACE HAS A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS

Sir Eustace discovered himself wringing his hands for the twelfth time since noticing the army and yanked his hands apart. An official from the Ministry of Folklore was never anything but the epitome of composure in the face of the unexpected.

Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets would be too casual for an event as monumental as this, as would linking them in the small of his back, so he pressed them flat against his thighs. He rarely sweated, but now anxious moisture practically gushed from his palms, armpits, and crotch. Cinders and dragon turds, not even a mine’s worth of talcum powder would be able to absorb this.

Not only did the Leighton army drag forth a Skybreaker crossbow, its bolts as thick around as his arm, the infantry were all outfitted with miniature versions of the deadly weapon. Damascus steel arrowheads glittered in the desert sun.

I’ll only ask for the officers’ names and ranks and how many are under their command, he rationalized. And of course the name of the man who actually brings the princess out of the tower.

It was important here to balance the need to record history with self-preservation. Those Damascus steel bolts could be turned on him at any moment, and his golden skin couldn’t repel that metal like it could regular steel. While he wasn’t tall, lean, and devastatingly handsome like his cousin Renaldo, Eustace could hold his own in a fight. The shorter, pudgier subspecies of Komodo like him could be as feral as honey badgers if the occasion called for it, but not against an army outfitted with Damascus steel. And besides, he preferred the life of tailored suits, decorum, and margaritas to bare-knuckle brawls. Good sense would prevail here if they didn’t see him sweat.

Growling, Sir Eustace abandoned his post beside his desk and walked briskly, but still in full control, to his tent. Duchess was on her cushioned chair in the shade of the awning, loafed but alert. “Just getting a bezoar, cherished one.”

Only when the tent flaps swept close behind him did the little man break out into a run. He lifted the chalice lid, forewent the tongs, and tossed one bezoar into his mouth after another until he was at the risk of choking.