Page 92 of The Discount Damsel

“I am, good sir. Down here.”

Sir Eustace, who stood only four feet tall himself, was surprised at the request and immediately jerked his gaze down to the diminutive creature positioned in front of his black shoes, which were in desperate need of their daily shine.

“And you are?” he demanded.

“I’ve come to rescue the princess, of course,” the owner of the voice said. “If there’s still time. I should like to get this over with today, if possible. I used the last of my sunblock in the crossing.”

The sun was just a sliver above the horizon, the desert heat fast receding with the coming night, but there was nothing in the DDP that prevented either a twilight or evening attack. It just wasn’t normally done, and certainly not done by anyone of this Hero’s stature.

The ministry official pushed his lower lip out as he contemplated the Venn diagram that was ministry protocol and his moral compass, specifically where they overlapped in that tiny sliver in the middle. The tiny sliver won out.

“You do know you’ll be attempting to rescue the princess from a dragon, not from a sleeping curse brought on by a pricked finger or from near-death purgatory initiated by the consumption of contaminated fruit, correct?”

“Yes.”

Sir Eustace’s shoulders slumped, and he retrieved his chronicle, quill, and inkwell. Duchess mewed from the tent. “One moment, precious.” Flicking out his coattails so he wouldn’t wrinkle his suit, Sir Eustace resumed his seat upon his stool and opened the chronicle to a fresh page. He dabbed his quill into the ink. “Name?”

“Prince Henri des Marais.”

Sir Eustace recorded the name without so much as a hitch in his writing. After collecting the other necessary details required for the chronicle, he asked, “Would you like me to announce you, Your Highness? It is not necessary, especially if you’ve prepared a sneak attack.”

“Not be announced? What, like a commoner? I expect a grand fanfare, sir.”

Sir Eustace lifted his bugle to lips, paused to blow the infernal sand away from the mouthpiece, and heralded the Hero.

His sensitive hearing brought to him the sounds of muffled voices and pounding footsteps within the tower. A few minutes later, the princess, the dragon’s valet, and the dragon’s head peered over the western balcony railing. The valet yanked a napkin out from the collar of his robe.

Sir Eustace stiffened as jealousy rippled through him. He would much rather be having supper, too. After the strangeness of this particular Discount Damsel Protocol that manifested more and more with each passing week, the ministry official found himself clinging to the mundane joys of life, such as supper at a reasonable hour. Alas, denied him this evening.

“Oh,” the princess cooed, propping her elbows upon the railing and cupping her chin in her hands, “this is new.”

“Is that a frog?” Dirk the Dangerous demanded. “Where’s the Hero?”

Prince Henri des Marais hopped forward. “It is I, and yes, I am a frog. But I wasn’t always so.”

“A frog prince? How fascinating,” Millie said.

“Go on,” the valet said, eyes narrowing.

“A witch cursed me,” the prince said, “and I might only become myself again if I receive a princess’s kiss.”

“Don’t do it,” Dirk warned his princess. “That’s how you get warts.”

“I beg your pardon! I have been tested and am certified wart-free.”

“So you’ve come. Here to ask for. A kiss to break. The spell, then you’ll fight. The dragon?” Bradley asked.

“Precisely.”

“I still think it’s a trap,” Dirk whispered to Millie. “Why take the chance?”

“Mmm,” she mused.

“Don’t listen to that reptilian vermin! He just doesn’t want to die.”

“Reptilian vermin?” Dirk’s mane bristled beneath his illusion. “That’s rich coming from you, Swamp Boy!”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Millie told the frog.