Page 83 of The Discount Damsel

“I say, Sir Eustace,” Millie hailed.

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me, Princess. I am a third-party observer, remember?” The little man in his three-piece suit had to first ram his elbow down on the center drawer of his desk and then use his hip to shut it, as sand had already caked the runners.

“But, Sir, this storm. Can your tent withstand it? Would you prefer to come inside?”

“Your Highness,” the ministry official said snippily, “the Ministry of Folklore equips its employees with only state-of-the-art equipment. This tent is enchanted to withstand dragon fire—I think it can handle a little sand tossed around by a Category Two sandstorm. And the tent stakes are immovable once driven into the ground unless loosened by an enchanted hammer.”

“Is Duchess with you?”

“Oh.” Sir Eustace’s demeanor instantly softened. “Yes. She’s quite comfortable on one of my throw pillows. We’re having caviar for lunch.”

“Thank you! Please keep her safe.” Millie would’ve included Sir Eustace in her well-wishes if she knew he wouldn’t brush them off.

The ministry official set his hand over his heart and gave a little bow. “But of course.” Then he stacked his stool upon the desk and carried the stack of furniture into his tent.

Millie flapped her hand, and Bradley reeled her back inside.

“The sand is already up to our ankles in here.” Sir Roger retrieved the hourglass from its sill so it wouldn’t break in the storm and led the way out onto the landing. Bradley shut the door firmly behind them.

Millie collapsed on the stairs and fanned herself with her hand. With the other, she wiggled her reticule open and fished out some salted almonds. “It’s so much hotter than usual.”

“You’re not going to faint again, are you?” Dirk pressed his paw against her forehead. He snatched up the waterskin, uncorked it, and practically shoved it into her mouth. “Drink.”

“I’ll be fine, Master Dirk.” She took a small sip and yawned.

“I don’t know what the two of you have planned for this afternoon,” the hedge knight began, “what with my pupil barely being able to keep her eyes open.” He let that hang there, gaze boring into the apprentice.

Bradley performed a nonchalant inspection of his fingernails.

“But,” Sir Roger continued, “after this sandstorm passes, more Heroes will come. Not all might meet your criteria and become instructors, miss, but it would be best to be prepared when they do. That means equipping them with clothes, toiletries, blankets and pillows for the cots, and such things. While you continue your search for a suitable suite and more clothes and accessories for your brand, might I suggest you seek to outfit your future instructors as well?”

He turned to Bradley. “And I assume you’ve got a handle on the food? Folk tend to mutiny when they’re reduced to half-rations because someone bungled the numbers.”

Sir Roger didn’t wait for their replies; he turned on his heel and descended the stairs for cooler climes and a well-deserved nap. Part of raising the younger generation meant you gave them a problem to solve and walked away. How were they ever supposed to accomplish anything if they weren’t given the chance to employ all they had learned, to succeed or fail without a safety net?

As the hedge knight disappeared, Millie and Bradley shared a look. Sir Roger was right, of course—this was their responsibility.

One that could wait an hour or two. Bradley pulled the sweaty collar away from his neck and readjusted the fit of his robes. He was itching for a swim, but he lingered on the stairs to hear the princess declare she would be copying Sir Roger’s example and retiring to his bedroom to nap away the storm. As much as he loathed sharing his bed with her, at least he’d know she wasn’t snooping elsewhere and discovering misplaced magical artifacts without a chaperone.

Millie labored upright and cocked her head as the storm began to howl outside. She licked her lips nervously, then shook her shoulders to relieve the tension. They were safe in the tower, she knew that. And yet . . .

There are storms all the time in Amberly, you ninny, she chastised herself. Sometimes hail that sounded like the castle was breaking, but never these winds and the scream of sand that make her think the world was tearing itself apart.

“Millie, are you alright?” Dirk asked, golden eyes narrowing as he swirled closer. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Me, afraid? When I have a wonderful luck dragon beside me?” she scoffed.

If she was, she wouldn’t admit it. What she was very willing to admit, however, was the heat of the storm had turned the tower into a soup pot. She was positively boiling. Millie grasped the guide rope to steady her descent.

She only took a few steps before her progress was blocked by an immovable wall of brown homespun. The thick fabric clung damply, snugly, across a broad chest. For a second, she felt a powerful pull to hide against that broad chest, to have those arms layer around her and block out the roar of the sand slamming against the tower.

It was pure fantasy, and she dismissed it for the folly it was. Her chocolate-colored eyes flicked upwards into a stony face, and she smeared the sweat from her brow. “Excuse you.”

“Wh-where. Are. You going?” Bradley asked.

Millie’s tongue-twisters and his own dogged determination (and spite) had transformed his stutter into choppy sentences, if he took his time. High Aetherial was still beyond him, so his magic was useless.

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s sweltering in here. I’m not capable of thought much less looting the rooms again until I cool off.” Her gaze narrowed. “Unless you want me to swoon. Eager to get me in your arms again, are you? What a rake you are, sir.”