Page 131 of The Discount Damsel

The end.

Only a handful of weeks remained of their sojourn in the tower.

Now that he wasn’t supervising the Heroes’ cleaning efforts, nor chaperoning the princess, Bradley had recommitted himself to his studies. It was all he could think about—chose to think about. Despite his resolve, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, even if he had the whole bed to himself now, and he was jittery as if he’d swallowed a jar of June bugs. He’d had to resort to naps like a toddler. They were the only thing that provided him a modicum of focus and sanity beside the princess’s tisane.

And he was all out.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Bradley stood and collected the teapot. “Fink, don’t eat that frog.”

The ferret’s chitter could only be translated one way: No promises. Hidden beneath the sorcerous clutter, the frog prince whimpered.

The apprentice traipsed down the tower steps towards the kitchen, nose lifting as the scent of spiced pastry wafted from the archway. Sweet mother of pearl! Had he left the oven on after baking the scones that morning?

He caught the edge of the archway and swung himself into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of the princess with more flour on her arms and face than on her apron. Even her auburn hair, bundled up and secured on the top of her head with her jeweled hairpin, looked dusted with snow. The kitchen was a wreck: eggshells leaked on the counter, milk splattered the floor, lumps of batter oozed down the wall, tins left open were at risk of being knocked over and their precious spices scattered everywhere.

Bradley’s OCD threatened to have a heart attack right then and there.

The princess seemed oblivious to it all—the mess and the way Bradley hovered in the archway—as she bent over the crack between the oven and its door, peering inside. Her wounded hands, protected by thick red mitts, were propped against her knees.

“What did this poor kitchen ever do to you?”

Millie jumped with a startled yelp, then swatted at the air between them with a mitted hand. “Shhh! You’re going to make me burn them. And I’ll clean up. You know I’m good for it now.”

He did, but he still couldn’t help himself. Bradley set his empty teapot on the landing outside the kitchen, grabbed the broom, and swept a path free of flour to the oven. How had she managed to get it all the way over here?

“Ah, here we are.” Millie yanked down the oven door and extracted a sheet pan of golden-brown rounds.

The tantalizing smell of her confectionary creation had Bradley momentarily forgetting the mess, and he swept closer to her. Despite his vow to keep his distance from the princess, he found himself peering over Millie’s shoulder. “What are those?”

“Scones, obviously.”

“Do those look anything like the scones I make for breakfast?”

“Maybe I was bored of triangles.”

“And height. How are you supposed to cut it in half and stuff it with jam when it’s that flat?”

“Maybe they’re not supposed to be eaten with jam, ever think of that? Maybe they’re supposed to be eaten plain, or dunked into tea.”

Wielding the flat spatula like it was her cutlass, the princess removed the confections to the wire rack with tiny, aggressive jabs, almost as if she was practicing stabbing a straw dummy full of holes.

The princess hadn’t been able to train since injuring her hands, aside from the basics, and she was taking it as well as a spoiled toddler who’d just been told she wasn’t getting that palomino pony for her birthday. With the Discount Damsel Protocol deadline nearing every day, every moment mattered. And since Millie was a woman who wasn’t happy unless she was actively doing something, she’d turned to anything that promised diversion. Today, apparently, it was baking.

“I-I was just trying to do something nice for y—” Her eyes darted to the countertop.

“For me?” Is that what she’d been going to say?

“For thinking you were anything like Viscount Saltreave,” she said in a rush, directed at the golden-brown not-scones in front of her. “But apparently I’m only good at eating pastry instead of making it.” Turning away, she flung the oven mitts from her hands and wiped at her eyes with the edges of her fingers, careful of her bandages.

Seeing the frustrated tears that she tried to hide from him, Bradley’s heart did something very unexpected in his chest. It thumped with compassion.

No, no, no. We’re avoiding her, remember? he reprimanded the traitorous organ. She’s a Major Inconvenience, a tula, the very threat to our future as a master sorcerer⁠—

His hand reached out and closed gently around her arm.

Damn you.

With a soft tug, he pivoted Millie away from the counter to expose the wire rack she was obscuring with her body. Reaching across her, Bradley picked up a warm confection. “I’m sure they’ll taste great.”