Chapter 54
THOSE ARE NOT SCONES, A TRAITOROUS ORGAN, THE NAUTILUS NECKLACE RETURNS
“This is most undignified!” The frog prince hopped awkwardly to the side, narrowly evading Fink’s pounce. “I am a prince, you little mongrel. I am not to be chased.”
“A prince who’s getting fat off too much sashimi.” Bradley glanced from the five books splayed out across the desk to the big grandfather clock leaning fifteen degrees off-center in one of the workroom’s heaps of clutter. “You have two minutes left.”
The ferret released a savage little trill and bounded after the frog.
Henri yelped and dove under Duchess’s fur.
The regal creature had deigned to treat the rest of them with her presence this morning, but she would not be partaking in any of this tomfoolery.
The cat leapt to the top of the stone frog statue, whereupon she loafed and flicked her tail lazily back and forth.
Henri evaded the ferret’s pounce and wormed his way into the crevice between a huge potted fern and an old ship lantern, his webbed foot disappearing right before Fink’s jaws snapped shut.
The ferret dug with his tiny paws and rooted with his wee snout, but the frog prince had found a good hiding spot.
Dirk pretended to sneeze, launching the fern and the lantern into the air with his air magic, and the ferret squealed with delight. Henri released a string of curses that no dignified prince would ever utter and sprang away. Snickering, the Mini Red turned back to his own stack of books.
“You know you don’t have to be camouflaged up here, Dirk.” Bradley glanced at the dragon overtop the stack of books. He was glad their spat had blown over, and he knew what he was going to say next could incite another one, but he couldn’t help himself. “You should give your body a rest.”
The Mini Red didn’t take offense.
“The camouflage spell doesn’t wear on me like the amplio one.” Dirk caught himself scratching his forearm and rubbed his paws together instead. “Besides, you never know when another Hero is gonna show up. Sir Eustace says there’s always a big push towards the end.”
The end.
Only a handful of weeks remained of their sojourn in the tower.
Now that he wasn’t supervising the Heroes’ cleaning efforts, nor chaperoning the princess, Bradley had recommitted himself to his studies.
It was all he could think about—chose to think about.
Despite his resolve, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, even if he had the whole bed to himself now, and he was jittery as if he’d swallowed a jar of June bugs.
He’d had to resort to naps like a toddler.
They were the only thing that provided him a modicum of focus and sanity beside the princess’s tisane.
And he was all out.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Bradley stood and collected the teapot. “Fink, don’t eat that frog.”
The ferret’s chitter could only be translated one way: No promises. Hidden beneath the sorcerous clutter, the frog prince whimpered.
The apprentice traipsed down the tower steps towards the kitchen, nose lifting as the scent of spiced pastry wafted from the archway. Sweet mother of pearl! Had he left the oven on after baking the scones that morning?
He caught the edge of the archway and swung himself into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of the princess with more flour on her arms and face than on her apron.
Even her auburn hair, bundled up and secured on the top of her head with her jeweled hairpin, looked dusted with snow.
The kitchen was a wreck: eggshells leaked on the counter, milk splattered the floor, lumps of batter oozed down the wall, tins left open were at risk of being knocked over and their precious spices scattered everywhere.
Bradley’s OCD threatened to have a heart attack right then and there.
The princess seemed oblivious to it all—the mess and the way Bradley hovered in the archway—as she bent over the crack between the oven and its door, peering inside. Her wounded hands, protected by thick red mitts, were propped against her knees.
“What did this poor kitchen ever do to you?”
Millie jumped with a startled yelp, then swatted at the air between them with a mitted hand. “Shhh! You’re going to make me burn them. And I’ll clean up. You know I’m good for it now.”
He did, but he still couldn’t help himself. Bradley set his empty teapot on the landing outside the kitchen, grabbed the broom, and swept a path free of flour to the oven. How had she managed to get it all the way over here?
“Ah, here we are.” Millie yanked down the oven door and extracted a sheet pan of golden-brown rounds.
The tantalizing smell of her confectionary creation had Bradley momentarily forgetting the mess, and he swept closer to her. Despite his vow to keep his distance from the princess, he found himself peering over Millie’s shoulder. “What are those?”
“Scones, obviously.”
“Do those look anything like the scones I make for breakfast?”
“Maybe I was bored of triangles.”
“And height. How are you supposed to cut it in half and stuff it with jam when it’s that flat?”
“Maybe they’re not supposed to be eaten with jam, ever think of that? Maybe they’re supposed to be eaten plain, or dunked into tea.”
Wielding the flat spatula like it was her cutlass, the princess removed the confections to the wire rack with tiny, aggressive jabs, almost as if she was practicing stabbing a straw dummy full of holes.
The princess hadn’t been able to train since injuring her hands, aside from the basics, and she was taking it as well as a spoiled toddler who’d just been told she wasn’t getting that palomino pony for her birthday.
With the Discount Damsel Protocol deadline nearing every day, every moment mattered.
And since Millie was a woman who wasn’t happy unless she was actively doing something, she’d turned to anything that promised diversion. Today, apparently, it was baking.
“I-I was just trying to do something nice for y—” Her eyes darted to the countertop.
“For me?” Is that what she’d been going to say?
“For thinking you were anything like Viscount Saltreave,” she said in a rush, directed at the golden-brown not-scones in front of her.
“But apparently I’m only good at eating pastry instead of making it.
” Turning away, she flung the oven mitts from her hands and wiped at her eyes with the edges of her fingers, careful of her bandages.
Seeing the frustrated tears that she tried to hide from him, Bradley’s heart did something very unexpected in his chest. It thumped with compassion.
No, no, no. We’re avoiding her, remember? he reprimanded the traitorous organ. She’s a Major Inconvenience, a tula, the very threat to our future as a master sorcerer—
His hand reached out and closed gently around her arm.
Damn you.
With a soft tug, he pivoted Millie away from the counter to expose the wire rack she was obscuring with her body. Reaching across her, Bradley picked up a warm confection. “I’m sure they’ll taste great.”
Millie cut him a look under lowered lashes. “You don’t have to do that.”
An involuntary groan escaped him as the taste of warm buttery, sugary goodness dissolved on his tongue. He took another crispy bite, then another. He practically shooed her out of the way to get another confection into each hand. Not even the College kitchens made such delights.
“What is that?” he asked past a mouthful of deliciousness. “Cinnamon?”
“Nutmeg, too. And cardamon, clove, and ginger.”
Millie gave him a suspicious look then took a bite of her own treat. She immediately snatched up the Lip Cutter full of smooth black tea and dunked it into the mug’s dark depths. She didn’t protest when Bradley crowded her to try a dunk of tea for himself.
“You need to think up a name that’s better than ‘failed scone,’” he told her.
“Teacakes, I think. My second etiquette tutor, Miss Lottie, had something like this amongst her personal effects. Hers were just plain vanilla, though. I tried to mimic Miss Dama’s favorite chai blend.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Amongst your etiquette tutor’s personal effects?”
“How was I supposed to know she wasn’t an assassin unless I snooped?”
Bradley rolled his eyes and sucked the crumbs off his thumb. He caught the princess staring at his mouth, her bottom lip pinched between her teeth. Her brown eyes met his, and the two became very aware how close they huddled over her mug of tea.
“You, uh, have some on your chin. Just there.” She reached up and, with a feather-light sweep of her fingertips, brushed the crumbs from his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to get those on Master Excelsior’s books.”
Flushing, Millie turned back to the mess of a kitchen counter and started spooning out more dough. Her movements were sharp, chastising.
The apprentice confused her, and she didn’t like confusing things.
He ran cold, aloof, until he tended her wounds or revealed a perfectly curated room for her particular use.
Then he was warm, alluringly so, and Millie didn’t know what to do with that.
Before being kidnapped, she couldn’t be bothered with men, and she’d met hundreds.
Now that she finally had a chance to become a pirate, her thoughts were being muddled by a grumpy sorcerer apprentice? Whyever the hells for?
Was she lonely in the tower? Was the apprentice simply convenient? If that’s all it truly was, then why didn’t Sir Beauregard or Jax or even Duncan make every thought fly from her head like bats from a belfry at twilight?
Crone’s Crooked Tits, she’d almost kissed him in the closet.
She’d thought he’d been reaching to cup her cheek, not extinguish the candle behind her.
So she’d reached for his hand, rocking forward onto tiptoe to receive his kiss.
Then he’d blown out the flame and left her in darkness with a heart crashing against her ribs like a bird against a window—confused, desperate, and hurting.