Page 93 of The Discount Damsel

“I’ll have you know, my lady, that where I’m from, I’m a very formidable fighter.” Prince Henri des Marais, who was a sizeable bullfrog, inflated his throat pouch. “Why, I had to fight my way through some ruffians in the Strip just to get into the desert, and look at me—not a scratch. That dragon would be dead now if I was my true self. As would your lover be. I do not share what I have won.”

“L-lover?” Bradley sputtered.

Millie pressed a hand against her mouth, suppressing a gag.

Dirk the Dangerous leapt off the balcony and landed in front of the proud little frog in less than a second. He drew himself up to his full Great Red height, golden eyes glinting and fangs flashing in the moonlight. “I’d be dead, huh? Wanna bet?”

The frog fell back with a high-pitched note, webbed feet kicking. The sand just clumped to the mucus between his toes and hardened into cement.

“I say,” the princess cried. “What a perfectly executed high C. Wait just a moment, Dirk.”

The dragon shut his mouth, but his barbed tail still flicked across the sand.

“Prince Henri, are you familiar with Madame Palferoi?”

“The opera singer?” the frog asked, confused. “Of course. She’s an angel of music.”

“I quite agree, and it sounds like you might be more than an admirer, but perhaps an operatic aspirant?”

The frog blushed. “I dabble. Madame Palferoi’s ‘Bouncing Breasts of the Busty Barmaid’ is my favorite.”

The princess turned to the apprentice. “We’re keeping him.”

“We’re what?” Bradley and Dirk asked.

“Oh come on. His raging egomania and misogynistic ideals aside, the frog can sing. He can liven this place up.”

“The Heroes do. That already,” Bradley growled.

“No, they bring stress. This little frog’s arias can destress.”

“I shall be addressed as Prince Henri des Marais. Or Prince Henri,” the frog corrected.

“Besides,” Millie continued, “it would be cruel to leave him out here to cook in the desert sun come tomorrow, even if his ego deserves it.”

“He hopped. Out here. Without dying,” the valet said. “He can. Hop back.”

“The fair maiden is correct,” the frog said quickly. “I used up all my sunblock about an hour ago. I don’t suppose you have any water? Or any moisturizers with a high content of beeswax?”

“What do you say, Dirk?” the princess asked, ignoring Bradley.

Luck dragons were very fond of music, and he had to agree with Millie: a professional singer would certainly brighten up the tower’s ambience without adding stress to their lives. Perhaps it would even decrease his friends’ bickering. Or give them another outlet to bicker to.

Dirk pounced, eliciting another high C from the frog. He scooped up the amphibian prince and soared up to the tower where Millie had the gold birdcage from the workroom waiting for them.

As the tower residents welcomed their newest addition (except Bradley, of course, since he thought the tower was far too crowded as it was), Sir Eustace dabbed his quill into his inkwell once more. “Prince Henri des Marais defeated by . . . general overpowerment.”

He wrinkled his nose at the ambiguity of the phrase and more specifically at the offending word, which was not found in the lexicon penned by the legendary logophiles Merriam and Webster. A career-ending oversight, in his opinion. Perhaps there was a suitable word to be had, but the ministry official was tired, irritable at his suffering penmanship, and it was easier to blame the logophiles than his slipping grasp on cognitive function.

Then, with much haste, the ministry official packed it in for the day. He hummed a very loud tune as he did so to drown out any more soft-spoken “Pardon mes” should there be any to be had. Never in all his years had a Discount Damsel Protocol been so busy. Before, there had been plenty of time for a midmorning nap, a three-hour lunch, and cocktail hour, but not with this princess. Not with this dragon. What was this world coming to?

From the tent, Duchess released a yowl that announced she would be breaking into the caviar by herself if he did not join her this instant.

“Coming, my sweetness.” Laden with his desk and stool, Sir Eustace hurried forward with a series of quick, short steps that sent his coattails flapping around like quarrelsome crows. “Coming!”

CHAPTER 41

ROWDY RANDY RABBITS RUT REALLY RAPIDLY, IMPROPER THOUGHTS, AND MORE JEALOUSY