Page 68 of The Discount Damsel

“Dirk, keep moving,” Sir Roger called around a mouthful of pottage.

The baby luck dragon jumped, realizing he’d come to a standstill. He scurried after the princess.

“You really think so?” he asked when he drew even to her ankles. “About what you said, the transformation?” It was a far more palatable idea than Bradley’s curse leaking into him.

“Of course,” his princess assured him. “It takes effort. Struggle. And those are never as pretty as the bards make them sound to be in their songs. They glorify the outcome rather than the work that went into it—all those busted knuckles, smelly clothes, empty bellies, and these infernal laps.”

She flashed Sir Roger a pointed look; he waved his spoon at them to keep going. “But it sucks less when you have a friend going through it with you, doesn’t it?”

Dirk felt the anxiety vining in his stomach halt its nefarious climb. “Sure does.”

CHAPTER 30

ONE IN TEN AND PROFESSIONAL BIKINIS

If only her words on transformation had the ability to sustain her like freshly baked baguette slathered with butter and jam. Millie hated training. And it was only Day One.

After finishing his breakfast, Sir Roger had instructed Millie how to lunge and told her to maintain the position as he chased after the little magenta dragon with his rattan cane.

“If you can’t dodge this while in your natural slinky state,” the hedge knight said, swinging madly, “then you’ll never be able to maneuver your bulk as a behemoth.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” Dirk shrieked, serving hard to the right to avoid the cane. He nearly collided into the blackboard, adjusted course with a flare of his tail feathers, and bounced off the ceiling instead.

Still lunging, Millie threw up her hands over her head to protect against errant claws or the flailing of a whip-like tail as the luck dragon careened towards the floor before he caught himself.

In the corner closest to the door, the very same one where Sir Roger’s sword nestled, the sorcerer apprentice watched with a hawkish gaze from his seat at a small folding table. He had a book spread across the table and guarded by an environmental force field formed by four pink crystals. He’d appeared shortly after their warm-up and had spent more time watching them from lower lashes than reading the text in front of him.

Sir Roger refused to be intimidated by the dragon’s bodyguard and continued to chase after Dirk like a mosquito after a particularly succulent host.

“It is not skill that often wins the day, but endurance,” the hedge knight said. The insufferable man wasn’t even breathing hard. “Nine times out of ten, it is the fighter who can move that survives the fight.”

“And the one out of ten?” The baby dragon yelped and tucked his body in tight to dodge the swipe of the cane.

“Skill. A highly skilled fighter can end a match in a single dagger throw. You don’t want to get put up against one of those.”

Mutineer Millie decided she would be that one in ten if it meant never running laps, climbing stairs, or doing push-ups ever again. She would learn how to throw daggers with such deadly speed and accuracy that merchant captains would immediately throw up the white flag and her enemies would rather turn sail than duel her over a prize. But first she’d have to master a fencer’s lunge.

“Arm up, girl. And lunge deeper,” Sir Roger corrected with an accompanying thwack of his cane. “Knee over ankle. Your lead thigh must be flat enough to balance a tea tray! I’ve told you⁠—”

“And I’ve told you, I can’t do that in this dress!”

“Then choose your sacrifice, girl. Your fashion sense or your stance. Only one of those will keep you alive when you’re faced with a sword.”

“Ugh!” Millie straightened out of her lunge and attacked the laces of her dress.

“M-my lady,” Sir Roger began, turning his head away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh stop it,” she chided. “Like you’ve never seen a woman in a state of partial undress, married man that you are with two daughters. And I’m not ruining the only dress to⁠—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, for she didn’t know exactly how to form her thoughts into words. Yes, she had shunned the life of a princess to become a pirate, but did that mean she had to give up nice clothes? Or colors? She loved that part of being a princess. There had to be a compromise. Why couldn’t she be known as the best-dressed pirate, anyway? Surely that was a niche of the piracy spectrum that had yet to be fulfilled. Besides, who decided that pirates all had to wear black or red with big chunky boots and headscarves and heavy gold hoops in their ears that gave them headaches, anyway? The fairy tales?

Well that settles it, she thought as she shimmied. My pirate sails will be pink with a white sigil and my captain garb lemon yellow with a dazzling blue sash. With beads! And no more headscarves. This wretched things are only cooking my head. And I want to wear pearls instead of hoops, dammit!

The pink taffeta dress soon joined the pink pointy shoes by the door (where Sir Roger had stowed them after she’d kicked them off), and Millie was left in her chemise, corset, and a pair of dark cotton shorts.

The sorcerer apprentice erupted from his seat, the crystals toppling over and exposing his precious book to the heat of the room.

“Are those Bradley’s boxer briefs?” Dirk swung a look between his two friends and burst out laughing. “If he doesn’t think you were tula enough, he will now after you raided his underwear drawer!”