Page 63 of The Discount Damsel

“Good . . . morning?” Sir Roger ventured.

“Is it?” Millie snapped, still on all-fours in the sand.

The hedge knight chuckled. “We’ve all been there, miss. And I’ll tell you now, training has no set finish line. It moves with every achievement, every goal surpassed. That is its true purpose—to get you to keep improving.” He looked over her head at the apprentice. “I’ll meet her in the training room.” With the aid of his cane, he began a slow but methodical ascent up the stairs.

Bradley snapped his fingers at her to gain her attention, then pointed to the pull-up bar. He jumped, caught the bar, and performed a set of twenty-five before he threw in a handful of muscle-ups to show off.

When he landed in the sand and indicated it was her turn, she labored to her feet with a cavalier, “Why not.”

The princess couldn’t reach the bar, couldn’t jump for it either, so Bradley hoisted her up by the hips. She had no upper body strength to speak of, so he supported her in a dead hang until her grip failed, that is to say, after three seconds.

Millie tried again and again, sweat squeezing from every pore despite the coolness radiating from the spring and sand. Her hands burned, her knuckles swelled. On her fourth try, she couldn’t get her fingers to curl, and she slipped from the bar with a cry.

Bradley supported her only until her toes reached the sand and let her fall gracelessly to the ground. It was the only way she would come face-to-face with her failure and realize this life was not meant for her.

Instead, the princess gathered herself up, flicked her braid over her shoulder, and planted her hands on her hips. The whole affair had taken quadruple its normal effort. She stood in a wide-legged stance so she wouldn’t topple over. “What next?”

Squats, apparently, and no sissy half-squats either. Her knees had to bend at least ninety degrees or Bradley threatened to manhandle her again. His touch had this way of patronizing her even as it assisted, and Millie had had quite enough of that, thank you very much.

When her legs shook harder than the leaves of quaking aspen caught in a hurricane, Bradley jerked his head towards the stairs. “Up.”

“Lovely.” She staggered through the sand, gripped the guide rope with knuckles as white as oracle bones, and heaved herself forward.

As before, the apprentice adopted an unwavering march and drove her forward.

About a third of the way up the tower, Millie was climbing the stairs on her hands and feet like a dog. Panting like one, too.

“Breathe,” he snarked.

Millie glowered down at the stones under her hands, striped purple from the crystals and cream from the approaching dawn. If it wasn’t before, her fingernail polish was definitely chipped now. Her hands and fingers were swollen and ruddy, and she doubted she could grip the guide rope even if she could stand.

If there was ever a time to call that sorcerer apprentice a fuckwit or an egomaniacal masochist, this was it. She’d already caught herself twice opening her mouth to tell him off, yet she knew if she did, that would be the equivalent of admitting defeat. He wanted a rise out of her. Wanted her to scream and bitch at him . . . for doing exactly what she wanted. How else would she get fighting fit?

So, even as a plethora of curses and discrediting insults bubbled up within her like magma with an irrepressible desire to blow the top off a volcano and view the sky, she swallowed back each and every one.

She would employ patience and exact her revenge when her enemy was at his weakest.

In his sleep. With a very thick pillow.

When she crawled past the open training room, Sir Roger jerked out of his warrior pose, snatched his cane, and hustled to the door. His jaw dropped as the princess continued her march upwards on all-fours, and his gaze hardened when he met Bradley’s.

“I said train her, not break her,” the old man growled.

The apprentice only lifted an eyebrow, his expression clear. Don’t like it? Train her yourself.

Sir Roger winced as his back tinged. He glowered warningly at the apprentice and returned to the training room in hopes downward dog would relieve the ache.

“I think it’s time for a bit of a rinse,” the princess said with forced lightness when she reached the bedroom landing. Using the guide rope and the last of her strength, she hauled herself upright. “I’ll join you in the kitchen for breakfast—” In a few minutes were the words she’d been going to say, but that didn’t seem a believable timetable. Eventually was too vague also, so she just left the sentence dangling there.

Millie didn’t wait for permission, she just staggered into the bathroom and locked the door. Only then, when she was alone, did she clap a swollen hand over her mouth and sob.

The apprentice had done his best to humiliate her, and he’d succeeded. Though shame burned, her heart burned hotter. He would not defeat her, and neither would those stairs, squats, pull-ups, or whatever infernal exercise he’d come up with next. Her future depended on it. Besides, anything worth fighting for wouldn’t come easy. She’d learned that from the relentless teachings of her etiquette tutors and governesses. The sweetness came in the earning, and her victory would be like a three-tiered pavlova topped with whipped cream and sun-ripened mango. Divine.

With a reserve of strength she didn’t know she had, Mutineer Millie hauled herself into the tub and got the hot water running.

CHAPTER 28

IT’S “TISANE,” YOU IGNORANT TWIT, AND WHY ARE ALL THE DUNGEONS DANK?