Page 98 of The Discount Damsel

“And these are her masts.” Sir Beauregard dragged the cane across the drawing. “Legs, strong and lean and pointed towards the sky. Her dress is the sails, bunched up tight when she can no longer resist the will of the maelstrom.”

Bradley noted the emphasis Sir Beauregard placed on mael in maelstrom and rolled his eyes. If he had to endure much more of this, he’s ask the princess for her hairpin so he could puncture his own ear drums.

“Her rigging, like lacy garters holding everything in place, lest they be plucked away, and her wide hips—her hold—be plundered again and again by the tempestuous seas of⁠—”

“The raging maelstrom?” the princess asked, rising to her feet. “Sounds positively punishing.”

“But only in the best way,” the knight promised in that sultry voice as she approached.

Hells of the deep, were they going to strip each other down and start fornicating like rabbits while he was still in the room? Sir Beauregard had already proved himself allergic to clothes whenever the princess was near, so it wasn’t a stretch to assume he was an exhibitionist.

Something hot smoldered inside him at the thought of that unabashedly brazen knight slipping his fingers through the princess’s auburn hair or sliding a hand across her bare shoulder or leaning in to nuzzle her neck and taste the jasmine on her skin. Sir Beauregard Beauchamp’s blood might be highborn, but his manners were base as gutter trash. The princess was bold and free-spirited and naïve, but that wasn’t an invitation for a man to take liberties with her, to treat her as a plaything to be enjoyed for an afternoon and discarded. She was⁠—

The apprentice choked, realizing he’d just been about to think protectively, perhaps even champion, the Major Inconvenience for the second time that morning. Sweet mother of pearl, was he coming down with brain fever or something?

Across the training room, the princess took the rattan cane from the knight and slapped at the various parts of the chalk drawing with a military efficiency she had no doubt learned from Sir Roger. “Keel, hull, bow, figurehead, bowsprit, forecastle, main deck, quarter deck, poop deck, stern, rudder. Foremast, main mast, mizzen mast.”

She glanced over her shoulder as Bradley’s choking continued to interrupt her recital. Sir Roger hurried forward and whammed the flat of his hand against Bradley’s back, dislodging the phlegm trying to suffocate him. The apprentice wheezed.

Satisfied that he would live, she returned her attention to the blackboard. “Jib, foresail, mainsail, mizzen sail, and the spanker. Port is left and starboard is right; aft is the rear of the ship and bow the front.”

“You’re a brilliant pupil,” Sir Beauregard crooned down at her.

There was nothing brilliant about memorizing a handful of terms. Bradley did it daily.

“Yes, I think I’ve got it.” She picked up a piece of chalk and touched up the drawing where the cane had smudged.

Sir Beauregard stepped closer. “I wonder if you’ll take to my swimming lessons as easily as you have my other instructions.”

“Hmm,” she mused with a little smile, wiping her hands free of the chalk. “I suppose we’ll find out.” She turned to the hedge knight. “Sir Roger, Sir Beau is ready for you now. I’ll take Duncan next.”

“Aye. And I’m ready for him, too,” Sir Roger said with a glare.

“But we haven’t even gone over the galleon’s interior,” the knight protested.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder and whatnot.” Sir Roger shoved Sir Beauregard into the stairwell and yanked the door closed behind them.

The rest of the afternoon was delightfully free of cringeworthy euphemism and innuendo and strange twisting sensations in Bradley’s gut.

Duncan Boekhouwer, who was clearly brilliant but had no experience teaching, struggled to convey the knowledge he possessed. The princess and the accountant muddled through their lessons, but since she was so eager to learn and he was so eager not to return to his father, they got along just fine. It was during these lessons that Bradley could ignore the princess entirely and focus on his own studies, which were so monotonous and lacking any breakthrough that he found himself procrastinating with Small Magicks more and more.

The thick tome had yet to provide the insight he searched for, but its entries were fascinating. He learned about dryads who guarded ancient glens and ossuary pixies and jackalopes who caused wildflowers to grow wherever they hopped. Such delights were a welcome diversion, perhaps too welcome. As long as he disappeared into these captivating tales, each promising the possibility of shedding some light on his predicament (theoretically, hopefully), the world where he was a cursed apprentice disappeared, and that was very appreciated indeed.

After the gnome’s lesson was Jax and Fink’s, not that the ferret taught anything other than how to sharpen one’s focus when a cute fuzzy noodle was scampering around. While he always greeted Millie and snuck up onto her shoulder for a quick ferret kiss on her cheek, it was clear the little varmint was obsessed with winning Bradley over. Any creature with a beating heart in its breast would’ve found the little beast undeniably cute in his purple vest and opal collar, but Bradley apparently still needed convincing. So, while Jax taught Millie the routines and tricks of a deckhand, Fink did his best to persuade Bradley that he was adorable.

This involved being an absolute pest.

Nibbling on fingers. Gnawing on boots. Grabbing a mouthful of Bradley’s robe and just dangling from it like a thick-cut slab of bacon. Climbing up the chair and worming his way into Bradley’s sleeve and crawling up to poke his head out of the cowl right below Bradley’s chin. Biting that chin. Evading the hand chasing after him and making a nest in the apprentice’s hair. Latching on to an earlobe with his teeth when the hand finally caught him and tried to pull him away. Rolling onto his back with his paws tucked under his chin and his black eyes twinkling innocently. Avoiding a spanking.

Bradley couldn’t say that Fink’s antics were as welcome a diversion as Small Magicks, but they were filling a void left by the luck dragon. To preserve his safety and his secret, Dirk was absent in the afternoons unless he was fighting a Hero. In such cases, all lessons ceased and everyone in the training room rushed to the windows to watch. Sir Roger rarely had cause to give him instruction anymore, so he cheered alongside Millie. Bradley never cheered, always watched with tension thrumming along his body like lightning caught in a bottle.

Inevitably, Dirk the Dangerous would prevail—always by rendering the Hero unconscious—loot the Hero of anything worthwhile, then stash the body until the dead of night when it was safe to fly to Calumbria when Sir Eustace wouldn’t see and question him. It was far enough away that the Heroes would have to think twice about trekking to Ashburnum for another go at the dragon, and, with any luck, perhaps they would wake in that beautiful countryside and mistake it for heaven. After all, their last remembered moment was succumbing to the wrath of a dragon. It was all very neat and tidy and kept Dirk’s conscience clear.

But there was no Hero come today, so Bradley’s attention was split from his studies only by the mischievous ferret. He pinned a wriggling Fink against his lap with a hand while he read spell after spell in The Ultimate Spell Directory – Volume 3 and listened to Jax with half an ear. Like he did with Sir Beauregard, the apprentice eavesdropped on the princess’s lessons to confirm their validity. It was one thing to have four extra men in the tower, and another thing entirely if they were there under false pretenses. So far, none had led the princess astray.

Jax was by far the princess’s favorite tutor. Their sessions always included laughter and a compelling account of one of his adventures aboard the Flying Pony. When they actually got down to business, his instructions were more generalized than Sir Beauregard’s, but the apprentice assumed that was because he didn’t want to overload the princess. Maybe Jax’s method of instruction was like peeling back the layers of an onion—they got more detailed and concentrated with each consecutive lesson. Except he’d been tutoring Millie for two weeks now and the subject matter hadn’t evolved past rudimentary knowledge. He had the time to go slow, though, and Bradley had promised himself he wouldn’t interfere. He had his own studies to attend to⁠—

“Ouch! Why you little pest.” Bradley hoisted the ferret into the air, and Fink opened his pink mouth in a soundless laugh. The opal on his collar flashed yellow.