Chapter 28
IT’S “TISANE,” YOU IGNORANT TWIT, AND WHY ARE ALL THE DUNGEONS DANK?
The desert breeze fiddled with the doily under the teapot like a nervous debutant at her first afternoon tea out in society. It whisked away the steam from the mugs and rippled across the amber-colored tisane.
Across the table from him, the princess picked up his mug for a sip as she looked over the sun-washed dunes with a nonchalance that could only be described as forced. She had to hold the mug with both hands since her arms still trembled from their morning workout.
Bradley had expected a tantrum at breakfast, but the princess, once again dressed in her pink taffeta, had surprised him with her silence.
Her behavior, too. She didn’t bang the cupboards shut after fetching her tea leaves nor slam the spoons and bowls for their pottage down on the table.
She was cool, collected, and that made him very, very suspicious.
His gaze flicked down to the tisane in the Lip Cutter, wondering if it was poisoned.
Bradley hadn’t been familiar with that term, but of course the princess had educated him all about that (it was an herbal concoction that had no business whatsoever calling itself “tea” since none of the components hailed from the Camellia sinensis plant), along with all the components of this particular brew.
Chamomile (for relaxation), rosemary (for concentration), lemon balm (for reducing anxiety), and well, she would have added some apple slices and some honey to round out the flavor profile, but the larder had been spectacularly lacking in those ingredients, so would he mind terribly if she added those to the magic blackboard for Miss Penelope Shrewsbury to deliver at her earliest convenience?
None of those ingredients were beyond the College kitchen’s ability to procure, but someone would definitely notice the difference in handwriting if the princess made the request, so he scribbled the items down with the chalk, making sure to add rice paper to the list once again, in case he had forgotten.
He couldn’t promise the kitchen staff had the time to make adjustments to his shipment, as Miss Penelope and her griffin were scheduled to arrive any day now, but there was no reason why the extra items couldn’t be in the next shipment.
“I think it’s cool enough to drink now,” Millie said presently, taking another sip from his mug.
Bradley would’ve preferred something cold to drink, after wrangling that wrought-iron patio table and two matching chairs halfway up the tower after breakfast. The princess had discovered the patio set last night (but not a suitable suite) and insisted they have a separate space for his speech lessons.
But since all the other rooms in the tower were either biohazardous or in colossal disarray, and she wanted to preserve the peace and function of the kitchen, the bedroom (where there was only function and absolutely no peace, what with her being his bedmate), the workroom, her training room, and the dungeons, she settled on the least-used balcony—the eastern one.
Leagues upon leagues of scalloped dunes and the occasional scraggily agave plant, all beneath a spotless azure sky, stretched endlessly.
The tower was situated far to the southwest in the Ashburnum waste, so the bulk of the Heroes would come from those cardinal directions.
The griffin rider would come from the north, and while that was an infrequent arrival, it could prove distraction enough.
So they faced east where there was nothing to surprise them but the presence of a daring lizard or a vulture riding high on the thermals.
The princess cleared her throat, and Bradley picked up the traitorous (and possibly poisoned) Lip Cutter for a cautious sip.
The tisane was woodsy and floral, and he wondered if this was the same brew she’d made the first time she’d confronted him in the workroom about starting speech therapy.
He shoved that time from his mind and cleared his head.
He’d promised to be a willing student, after all.
“Drink at least half, and we’ll begin,” the princess said.
He obeyed, set his mug down.
“Now, repeat after me: Dirk the Dangerous dozes dreamily deep in dungeons dank. And remember, you know this sentence. Focus on each word separately, and the rest will follow.”
Bradley discovered his mouth to be quite dry and hastily took a sip of the tea to lubricate his throat. “D-D-Dirk th-the D-D-Dang-g-g—”
She held up a hand. “Stop. Your mind is already running away with your mouth. Take a sip of tisane between each word.”
While the vindictive part of her enjoyed seeing him struggle, considering how he’d humiliated her this morning, she knew him mastering this was essential to helping Dirk, and she was very fond of the wee noodle-like dragon.
The apprentice’s mouth flattened into a thin line, and the princess popped an eyebrow.
Yes, yes, he’d promised to be a willing student. He took a sip of tea. “Dirk.” Sip. “The.” Sip. “Dang-g-ger-ous,” he spat out and took a frustrated sip.
“Breathe.”
Bradley scrutinized her, wondering if he’d heard a hint of smugness in her voice. Was she getting back at him from this morning? He huffed and sipped. “Do-zes.” Sip. “D-d-d-d—” The cursed word skipped across his tongue.
“Dream-ah-lee,” the princess replied.
Jealousy ripped through him. How could she sit there all cucumber calm and coordinated in her stained pink taffeta with her auburn hair swaying in the breeze like he wasn’t fighting for his life and dignity just three feet away? She was definitely getting back at him for this morning, wasn’t she?
“You broke apart dozes into its component syllables without difficulty. You can do the same with dreamily.”
“I’m not a child who needs to sound out words!” he signed.
Something sharp came to her eyes, surfacing silently and lethally like sharks from the deep. “Today you are, Mr. Donmarin.”
The apprentice blew out another breath and gulped the rest of his tea.
“Close your eyes if it helps,” she suggested.
He wouldn’t, simply because she suggested it. There was “willing student” and there was “mindless drone.”
“D-d-dream. Ah. Lee,” he managed.
She smiled, and its genuineness caught him off-guard. The tisane in his stomach suddenly turned sour. Great, now he was feeling guilty for thinking poorly of her instructions. And maybe about how he’d treated her this morning. Maybe.
He lifted his mug to dislodge the lump that had formed in his throat, only to find it empty.
Her arm lifted with all the grace of a swan’s neck, lifted the teapot, and poured him some more.
He noticed she took great care to allow none of the tremors that raced up and down her arm to pour the tea into anywhere other than his mug.
Bradley mumbled something wordless in thanks and took a deep swallow.
“You’re halfway done,” she prompted softly.
Something about that tea—tisane—was clearing his head and making it easier to concentrate. He adjusted his seat so he could lean forward and brace his elbows on his knees. “Deep. In.” Ha, those had been easy ones, and he didn’t bother with another sip of tea. “D-d-dunge—”
With an exasperated scoff, he downed another deep swallow of tisane and braced himself again. Work, throat. Work, he cajoled. “Dunge. Eee. Ons.”
The princess rolled her lips inward to suppress her mirth, and when the apprentice’s brow furrowed defensively, she shot out a hand to cover one of his balled fists. “I apologize. You’re doing it. Keep going.”
But he couldn’t, not with that hand and the pink-chipped nails perched on his, light and soft like a robin. That lump lodged in his throat again. There was nothing patronizing about that touch, but there was still something strange about it.
Millie followed his stare to her hand and quickly snatched it back. Began picking at the chipped paint on her thumbnail. Piss and plagues, she hadn’t meant to do that. Offer him encouragement when she had received none from him. It had just slipped out. For Dirk, she told herself.
Across the table, Bradley collected himself with some more tisane.
“Dank,” he said, brightening when he realized he had just completed the exercise.
“Do it again.”
Thirty minutes passed with many Dirks and dreams and dungeons.
The teapot was dry and the sun hot, so they packed it in for the day.
Or rather, Millie did. The wrought-iron patio set was strong enough to survive the weather, so she only cleared the table of mugs, pot, and doily, and, walking very, very carefully, brought them down to the kitchen for the sink to wash.
Bradley trailed after her, running a hand through his hair, at a loss for words and signs.
He'd done it. Poorly, with much stumbling, but he’d managed to say Dirk the Dangerous dozes dreamily deep in dungeons dank all strung together in halting speech.
And that feat had upended his world. Perhaps he didn’t need all these books or forbidden magic he shouldn’t know anything about.
Perhaps all he’d needed was the princess and her patience all along.
But that was so against all he knew that his brain, and certainly his heart, couldn’t accept it.
Nothing was ever that simple. Still, he loitered in the kitchen archway unsure of what to say.
Should he thank her? That might be the equivalent of admitting he was wrong, or worse, apologizing for the brutality of this morning’s workout, and he wasn’t ready to go that far yet.
This was just the first lesson, after all.
“Excuse me,” she prompted, and he discovered he was still blocking the archway.
She held two bowls of beans and rice in her hands, one topped with a raw egg she’d taken from the icebox.
The pockets of her taffeta dress bulged with what he knew to be Anti-Fainting Noshables—cubes of salty cheese, roasted nuts, a small orange or two, all wrapped up in a cloth napkin.
She had the strap of a waterskin slung over her elbow just like the strings of her reticule.
“Mustn’t keep Sir Roger and Master Dirk waiting.”
Right. The hedge knight needed fed and the little luck dragon had been conspicuously absent at breakfast. Maybe he was polishing his enchanted warhammer?
Bradley pivoted to the side to let her though, then stopped halfway through the maneuver when he noticed her hands. The apprentice seized the earthenware bowls and thrust them onto the counter.
The princess’s protest was cut off when he seized her wrist and angled her hand into the morning light. Bubbles filled with clear fluid dappled her fingers and palms.
“Let go.” Millie wiggled to get free and hide her hands. Though she had no idea what a blister was, she was a smart enough girl to know they were a result of her morning activities. An injury, perhaps. A weakness. Something the apprentice would use to humiliate her further.
But from the dark look on Bradley’s face, she suddenly feared maybe she’d touched something sorcerous and was now infected with something most dreadful.
Bradley’s insides coiled. He’d meant to break her, but not like this. He was freak of nature, not a monster. This was too much, and yet she’d said nothing, hadn’t even cursed him out as she was so fond of doing. She had endured—was enduring, because even now she fought to shed his grip.
“Do you mind? That hurts!” She swung her other hand back to slap him, or snatch her hairpin to jab into his throat again, but he caught it before she could strike his cheek.
“I-I m-m-mind.” Bradley backed her away from the archway and further into the kitchen until she bumped against the counter. “D-don’t . . . move.” He fought for patience against his stutter and tried again, focusing on each word as he had been taught. “I n-need . . . to. Clean th-these.”
“I’ll do what I like, thank you very much.” She gingerly rubbed her wrist where his fingers had pinched. “Outside of our training, my schedule is not yours to command.”
Yet Millie stayed put, curious, as Bradley retrieved an amber bottle, what looked like a square of dark green leather, and a roll of gauze from the cupboard nearest the stove.
She flinched when he squirted a dropperful from the amber bottle onto each blistered palm.
After Bradley wet the leather under the faucet, it relaxed into something flexible that smelled faintly of brine.
He tore it in half and layered each half over the blisters.
An involuntary moan of relief resounded in her throat.
“Kelp,” he said gruffly.
With a tenderness she didn’t know the grumpy apprentice possessed, he secured the kelp snugly against her blisters with the gauze.
His fingers whispered over her skin, sure about their task.
Like he had treated similar injuries a hundred times before and knew exactly what was needed.
It reassured her more than the cooling numbness of the kelp that she would be alright.
Finished binding, he tied a knot to secure it and tucked the ends under the bandage, neat and precise.
Millie was quick to pluck her bandaged hands from his grasp. She wouldn’t thank him. He didn’t deserve that after what he’d done to her. Her voice was stiff. “Well, I’m expected. Good-day.”
She collected the breakfast bowls and swept around the apprentice with his hung head into the stairwell. A few steps on shaky legs whisked her attention to her footing instead of her hands. They tingled, and it had nothing to do with the soothing balm created by the kelp.