Page 208 of The Discount Damsel

She yelped when the tower rocked on its foundations. Crone’s Crooked Tits, what had hit them? Ivar the Bane hadn’t returned with a new and more cursed warhammer, had he?

Then she heard Pocket scream. Not from pain, but from terror, and that girl was fearless.

“Dirk, I need to— Gah!”

Millie jumped down into the sand, snatched up her cutlass, then threw herself over the wall to stab at the giant fish about to take a bite out of the raft. Her blade gazed against its upper lip, and the grouper broke away with a flash of fin to reconsider its attack.

“’Tis a bit bumpy,” Dirk muttered, half-delirious, as the raft bobbed violently. “Hmm, don’t like that.”

She didn’t have time to curse let alone think. It was all she could do to race along the wall and stab at fish after giant fish who surfaced for a chance at the luck dragon buffet. Or almost-wyrm buffet. Perhaps they didn’t discriminate so long as they got a piece of that dragon’s heart.

The grouper kept coming, one after another. Their dark bodies slid through the water as easily as shadows, greedy mouths gulping wide to swallow the raft and its occupant whole.

Millie should’ve been armed with a harpoon instead of her cutlass, but she couldn’t spare the minute to dash across the sands and yank it out of the wall. She couldn’t even spare a moment to tie a bowline—not that there was any rope to be had—and lasso the almost-wyrm and haul him out of the water. Besides, the magical water of the spring was the only thing staving off the final phase of his transformation.

With the tower under attack, there was no one to hear her cries for help. There was no rescue coming. It was just her, her sword, and the skills she had fought for.

Millie hadn’t expected a final exam on her Become a Pirate in 90 Days coursework, but destiny had scheduled her one just the same.

CHAPTER 85

A NEMESIS RETURNS AND DIRK MUST MAKE A CHOICE

When the princess had tasked Bradley to write another renovatio spell, she hadn’t known that he’d used up the last of the edible ink writing the first one. Bradley took the steps two at a time to the kitchen to prepare the Kyoho grapes.

With his elbows propped up on the kitchen table, Bradley lifted the first of the walnut-size grapes and began peeling with a paring knife. A long purple ribbon coiled onto the plate below. He tossed the peeled grape back into the bowl and grabbed another. Unlike before, when he allowed his mind to wander when performing this menial task, he devoted his entire attention to the grape peeling. Efficiency and precision were needed here.

He’d seen what Dirk had become. Bloated, ugly, hateful. Only a few patches of scales and his threadbare mane hinted at his former self. If peeling grapes was what was needed to restore him to his carefree, joyful cerulean self, then Bradley would process an entire vineyard.

That baby luck dragon wasn’t just his Designated Sorcerer Companion, he was his friend. His family. He was the only reason why Bradley hadn’t slipped into despair months ago. It was a burden that little creature should have never borne—sacrificing his luck beyond what he could tolerate and dispelling the negative aura that clung to Bradley like body odor.

It should be him who bathed the little dragon, not the princess. He should’ve been the one to think up the idea of removing Dirk from his treasure to stave off the wyrm transformation. He should be the one ensuring Dirk ate and drank and wasn’t lonely.

But the almost-wyrm wouldn’t tolerate him. Too many repressed emotions had surfaced—the malcontent fed by all the slights, the disparaging comments, the knowledge that whatever Dirk did to help wasn’t considered good enough.

“I’m sorry I was so cruel to you,” Bradley had told the princess in Pierpont. “I let my preconceptions fool me, and pain and despair warped me. I’m not like that, not at my core.”

He should’ve said the same to the dragon. Should’ve apologize first to Dirk. Not taken him for granted.

Bradley shoved the plate of peels into the oven to dry out. They had to be as desiccated and brittle as autumn leaves to make the ink. While the oven performed its task, Bradley climbed to the workroom for the acacia resin on the apothecary shelves. He portioned out a palmful and poured the amber pebbles into the big mortar and pestle, started grinding.

“I could sing one of Madame Palferoi’s folk songs, if you wish,” Prince Henri offered. “It has a robust rhythm that should complement your work.”

“I would appreciate that, Prince Henri. Thank you.”

The frog prince, unused to words from the apprentice not laced in gruff wool or derisive nettle, brightened. “Alright!” He hopped down from his swing and held on to the bars for balance so he could really stomp the beat out with one big floppy foot. “‘Grab your lassie by the hand, twirl her left and right. Spin her close and don’t let go, hold her nice and tight!’”

Bradley pounded the resin into powder, filtered it through a sieve, and returned the larger granules back into the mortar for another round.

“‘Fiddle sings and laughter rings, hearts are feeling light. Stomp your boots upon the floor, keep the rhythm bright!’”

He swirled a thread of yellow olive oil into the resin and smoothed it all into a paste. He’d thin it out more after he added the grape peels. “I’ll be right back,” Bradley announced.

The frog prince continued to sing and stomp as the apprentice returned to the kitchen for the grape skins. They were curled tight like cinnamon sticks and had darkened to the color of nightshade berries. He swept them off the hot plate and into a small bowl and returned to the workroom.

Prince Henri was really belting it out now, hind leg stomping like he was trying to work out a cramped muscle. “‘When the music starts to fade beneath the pale moonlight, steal a kiss and whisper low, ‘Stay with me tonight.’”

Almost immediately, the amphibian singer let out a strangled cry of frustration and rattled the bars of his birdcage. “This rudeness will not be tolerated. I am in the middle of a concert!”