Page 107 of The Discount Damsel

The rattling continued.

Dirk dragged his head off the ground to enunciate, “I’m busy!”

Something thumped against the door. Hard.

A navy ripple of annoyance radiated down his scales. He shoved himself upright and plodded over to the door. Stomp, stomp, stomp went his paws. He’d tell whoever it was at the door to piss off, then he’d curl up with his treasure. It always made him feel better, until his stomach soured again.

Dirk’s claws caught in the weave of the rug that insulted the bedroom floor, and he stumbled, crashing head-first into the solid oak door. The collision jostled the latch loose, and the door swung open to bash into his snout a second time.

A boot with a very shiny brass buckle eased open the door.

“Master Dirk? I’m done training for the day and thought we could catch up. Are you free?”

Millie poked her head inside, her hands full with the tea tray and all the little delights one expected at afternoon tea in the middle of a desert waste. When she saw Dirk curled up on his side on the rug and not hovering in the air, she released a little cry.

“Master Dirk, whatever are you doing on the floor?”

“I don’t feel so good,” he moaned.

She hurried to set the tea tray down upon the nearest flat surface, which just so happened to be the bed. Green light flashed as the enchanted warhammer, which was still hidden in the mattress after Miss Penelope’s visit, sensed her approach.

“Absolutely not.” The princess whirled away from the wretched thing and set the tray down on a dresser. Tucking her skirts between her legs, she crouched down and set a light hand upon the luck dragon’s back. “Master Dirk, you’re burning up!”

She scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom sink, coiling him up in the basin like a hose. A slap of the faucet lever brought water gushing forth, which she sluiced over the little dragon. Millie lifted his legs and directed the water into his armpits, ruffled his mane to get the water down to his hide along his neck.

The luck dragon groaned, eyelids fluttering, “That . . . feels . . . so good.”

“I’m glad it’s working because I didn’t have another idea besides this one.” Millie kept her tone light so as not to distress the dragon further, but her insides felt like she’d just overindulged on chocolates and colored eggs on Ostara morning.

As she continued to soothe him with water, she noticed something dark between his white feathers. Skin, where a cerulean scale should have been. Millie’s face contorted with growing aversion as she found more and more of these bare spots under his mane. Tentatively, she touched such a gap and discovered it alarmingly hot to the touch. She shifted the dragon in the sink so the water gushed directly over his mane.

When she took her hand away, a scale no bigger than her thumbnail came along with it. It was hard like a jewel, dead, not supple like the living ones still attached. Millie turned it over in her hands for only a rotation or two before it was plucked from her fingers.

Dirk held his closed fist tight against his chest, his golden eyes wetter than his feathers. “Don’t tell Bradley.”

“Dirk,” she admonished.

The luck dragon swiveled around and turned off the faucet. They started at each other for a long moment as the water gurgled, then dripped, down the drain. Millie didn’t say anything, though a dozen things sat poised on her tongue. Dirk uncoiled from the porcelain basin and flew to his treasure in the tub. After rooting around by the drain, he produced a canvas pouch and dropped the scale inside.

“Why can’t we tell Mr. Donmarin?” she asked.

“Because there’s nothing to tell⁠—”

“Dirk, you were on the floor. Luck dragons don’t touch the ground, remember? Well, not when they’re training in Knight Fighting class or battling Heroes, of course. And they certainly don’t shed their scales! That I know of.”

“And what can Bradley do? He’s no dragon expert, and it’s not like he can cast a spell to make my scales not fall off. Transformation is an ugly business, you said so yourself.”

Millie straightened, eyes flashing. “That is not what I meant.”

Dirk hung his head. “I know.” Fear like a hand closed around his throat, choking his words, but he forced them out anyway. “What if . . . what if Bradley’s curse is bleeding into me?”

“What?”

“We’re bonded, after all, so isn’t it possible? I-I thought if I got stronger, I could negate its effects, maybe even uncurse Bradley, but I keep losing scales. Bradley doesn’t stutter anymore, so I thought he was beating it, but what if it’s just redirecting into me?”

When the princess finally spoke, her words were measured. “From what Olabeus taught me, I don’t believe magic, or curses, work that way. Magic is specific, right? Gladstone cursed Mr. Donmarin, not you.” She swallowed. “But I’m no expert, either. Master Dirk, please tell Mr. Donmarin.”

“He’ll just freak out, like he always does, then tell Master Excelsior and he’ll send for Miss Penelope to collect me and I can’t go back there!”