Page 71 of Redeeming the Dragon

“To you,” Kidron said. His arms were folded across his chest in a defiant posture. “You are not the one being forced to marry a stranger. If I’m to do that, I have a right to know how hardworking and dedicated my bride is.”

“You’ve no rights,” the Scraggen snarled, whipping her head about and pinning him with a vicious stare. “Your father traded those away when he offered you in exchange for my help.”

“And, yet, here we are,” Kidron insisted calmly. “Let us be on with it. We have this worthless peddler. We have the daughter of Aerisia’s most powerful Scraggen. Let us see who is better equipped to care for me. Your daughter—or this mere peddler outside your gates.”

“This has nothing to do with care and concern,” the Scraggen muttered, but she protested no further. Kidron had told me he would swear to her that he’d cut out his tongue before he’d speak any wedding vows if she did not go through with his little contest. I suppose he must have been convincing, for here we were.

Excitement coursed through my veins. Our futures hinged on this—suppose it went wrong? Suppose Atora was actually able to complete the task? Suppose…

“Fetch a wash tub, washboard, and soap,” the Scraggen ordered, snapping her fingers. “You—fetch water.”

The guards sprang into action to fulfill her demands. Kidron and I exchanged glances, our eyes meeting and hastily skidding away. We could not betray that we knew one another. Couldn’t betray that our plan appeared to be going well.

As for Atora, she shifted restlessly, clasping her hands behind her back, then in front of her waist, shooting her mother uncomfortable looks. Her lips parted a couple of times as though she wished to speak. Then she would glance at her mother’s forbidding expression and close them. The Scraggen tapped her toe impatiently, clearly irritated by the entire affair.

I did my best to retain a puzzled expression, at one point saying, “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but why have you called me here?”

To which I was told, “Be silent.”

Shrugging, I bowed my head, hoping the Scraggen would continue to suspect nothing.

Chapter 41

If she did suspect anything, I couldn’t discern it. The guards returned with the trappings she’d ordered. In the meantime, word had spread that something was going on. Servants began trickling into the hall, lining the edges. They whispered amongst themselves while observing the scene but hung back, not wishing to incur their mistress’s wrath.

Once the wash tub had been set down and filled with water, the washboard placed in it, and soap provided, Kidron stepped forward.

“Here,” he said and produced his shirt. The shirt he’d worn the night I kissed him, waking him from slumber, looked upon him in his human form, and crushed his chance of escape. “If I am to wed your daughter,” he announced loudly, for the benefit of those gathered, “I must see what my bride can do. Atora…” He tossed her the shirt. “I would that you clean this shirt and remove the wax stain.”

The Scraggen’s daughter caught the clothing, but cast her mother a complaining look. “Mother…” she whined.

“Oh, do it, child,” her mother snapped. “I’d rather not hear him moan and complain about you for the next few decades. Give in, do the job, and let us be done with it.”

As Atora walked to the washtub, Kidron and I exchanged another glance. I could read triumph in his gaze. He was fully convinced this would work. I retained less confidence, but I breathed deep, attempting to silence my pounding heart while the Scraggen’s daughter dipped the shirt in the washtub and set to work.

She scrubbed. At first, her arms jerked back and forth in an irregular motion that told me she was unused to washing clothes.

Clearly, she has no older sisters,I thought with grim amusement. Once I’d become old enough to handle the laundry, Neena and Marisa had forced me to take on the task. Mama usually stayed out of our squabbles, allowing us to divide up the household chores. So, more often than not, the bulk of scrubbing the family laundry fell on my shoulders.

Poor Atora. This was a new task, and the stain was not cooperating. Even as her arms fell into rhythm, her head bobbing with the furiousness of her scrubbing, the wax stain did not diminish. Her frown deepened, her frustration mounting as she worked and worked with no success.

“Make haste, Atora,” her mother jibed. “It is a simple task. This is taking far too long.”

“It isn’t working!” Atora complained, casting her mother a look of helplessness and vexation. “See? The stain worsens.”

Indeed, the little drops of candle wax had darkened and spread. An ugly gray stain now covered half the garment.

“Impossible.” The Scraggen stalked closer. “You must be using the wrong soap.”

“This is what the servants provided,” Atora whined.

A woman in a plain grey frock covered with a white apron stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” she said, bobbing a curtsey, “but that is the strongest laundry soap Moonswept possesses. If you like, we can try another, but…”

The word hung in the air. It would do no good. She didn’t have to say it.

“Ridiculous!” the witch-woman snapped. “Scrub harder, Atora.”

“Mother, I am already…”

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