Page 42 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“I know that. You know that. But the people of South Bank do not, and a local duke is using the rumors to explain caravans being attacked, their guards massacred, all their goods whisked off to the dragon’s hoard.”

“The duke’s hoard.”

I nod. “That is mostly what I do. Sometimes there is an actual monster, doing actual damage, but that’s rare. If there is a monster, it is usually blameless, and most times, there is only a greedy human using a very old story.”

“That makes sense. We are excellent scapegoats.” He rises and hefts his pack. “So you hunt an evil duke rather than a dragon. It would be easier, though, if there were a dragon.”

I shudder. “It would not.”

He grins. “No?” He lifts a hand, and it trans forms into a claw. “I think it would be much easier if you gave this duke a dragon.”

I smile. “That could be… interesting.”

“A dragon who incinerates the duke for blaming the beast and then reveals the actual hoard in his coffers, to be returned to the people.” His eyes sparkle. “After we take our fee.”

When I don’t answer, he steps closer.

“Let me help you, Marielle. Allow me to repay my debt and then…” He shrugs. “Fighting monsters is a dangerous business. You can obviously take care of yourself, but it never hurts to have help.”

I look at him. Yes, I could always use help, but deep down, I fear I would be looking for companionship. This is a dangerous life, as he said, but even more than that, it’s a lonely one.

I want to say no. Shield myself against disappointment. But I look at him, and I still feel that tug from the first time we met. I remember how it was with his cousin, how my gut had known that wasn’t him, as ridiculous as it seemed.

“One duke, one dragon,” he says. “And then… Who knows? But we can start there.”

I take a deep breath, and then I say the most terrifying words of all. “All right. We can start there.”

UNEARNED LUCK

By

ALEXIS HALL

Ifirst encountered Miss Erica Penworthy during that business with the Duke of Annadale, the goddess Sulis and the curse on Miss Maelys Mitchelmore back in 1814.

Ah, but it may be that you are unfamiliar with that tale, or with the equally diverting one involving Miss Mitchelmore’s cousins, the dashing soldier, and the Queen of the Fairies that took place a year later. Well, I’m on a bit of a tight wordcount here so I’ll give you what I believe the mortals of your age call the ‘tldr version.’

My name is Robin. I’m a fairy. I collect stories for my Lord who will definitely let me back into his kingdom any day now. The lady who this tale concerns is a petty player in my other works (please buy them, reader, I don’t do this for my health), but you need know nothing of them to enjoy this narrative.

This narrative which, I shall add, is one hundred percent true, and in no way embellished.

We join Miss Penworthy now in the bedroom of her friend – and much to Miss Penworthy’s disappoint ment that word is not being used in the Sappho-and-her-friend sense – Miss Lysistrata Bickle at the Bickle family home of New Tintagel. It is close to and named for the original castle, which you can see on a good day from the front porch. The land and the building cost a fortune, but the Bickles – being new money and old romantics – are prone to such indulgences.

“Do you know, Lizzie,” said Miss Penworthy, peering out of the window into the sunset, “I swear there’s a bear in the garden.”

Any other lady, confronted with such an observation, would probably have replied “don’t be silly Erica, there are no bears in Cornwall.” But Miss Bickle was not any other lady, so instead she replied, “What colour?”

“White.”

Setting down her copy of Mansfield Park, and the sheaf of papers on which she had been composing her own original story in which Fanny Price ran away to sea and became a pirate, Miss Bickle rose and drifted to the window. I drifted beside her and, since the window was large enough for two and not three, I adopted the form of a dust-mote and settled on the sill for a better view.

Sure enough, there on the lawn stood a large, white bear.

“What do you think it wants?” asked Miss Bickle, a note of wonder in her voice that suggested she could only imagine it wanting marvellous things.

“Fish?” suggested Miss Penworthy. “Or then I suppose it’s a polar bear so… penguins?”

“Nothing so dull, surely.” Miss Bickle’s face fell for a moment then rose again like a backwards Rome. “Perhaps he’s here to take one of us as his bride.”