Page 72 of Redeeming the Dragon

“Silence! Scrub harder.”

Atora scrubbed harder. Even I felt a bit of pity for her, watching her arms jerk back and forth, back and forth. Still, the stain continued to darken. To spread. After a few frantic minutes, Atora accepted the inevitable.

“Mother,” she said, pausing her labors to wipe the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand, “this is doing nothing. It is not working.”

“Ridiculous,” her mother repeated. “Move aside, girl.”

The Scraggen stalked over to her daughter, butting her to the side with her hip.

“Hold. This is not part of the bargain,” Kidron spoke up, his voice firm and commanding. “I am not contracted to wed you. I wish to see what my bride can do.”

“Your bride is worthless, apparently,” her mother snarled. “Be silent, Warkin.”

Kidron threw me a look. I grimaced, offering him a tiny shrug. I supposed, even if she could clean the shirt, it would not fulfill the terms of the bargain. Kidron had put forth a very specific set of rules for his potential mother-in-law. He wished to test his bride’s value. He wished to see his favorite sleeping shirt, ruined by the drips of candle wax, cleaned. He wished for Atora to clean them.

Due to his long ordeal, Kidron had some acquaintance with the rules of magic. He theorized that because the shirt and the candle wax were so closely tied to his curse, my love, and my attempts to save him, Atora would never be able to clean the shirt. The drips of wax would remain until I cleaned them. The second part of his plan was simple—when the Scraggen’s daughter couldn’t clean them, he’d insist on a stranger being summoned to clean the shirt. Me. When I could and Atora couldn’t, he would tell the Scraggen that the marriage was off. If a simple stranger, a peddler, could clean his valuable shirt and her own daughter could not, there would be no union with Atora. He would only wed the one with the ability to take care of him, even by something as simple as cleaning his shirt.

Everything had gone well, up till this point. As I watched the Scraggen kneel before the washboard, I confess my heart began to stammer. What if she could clean the shirt? She began to work, and I noticed her lips moving, uttering silent words as she scrubbed. Alarm increased my heartrate. She was using magic, wasn’t she? Would the magic of my love hold? Would the stain refuse to disappear beneath her touch?

Kidron appeared unafraid, but there was such a thing as claiming victory by proxy. Would the Scraggen be able to do that? Would she wreck our plans? Our contest could be shattered by this unforeseen twist.

I took a half-step forward, opening my mouth to offer my services, but caught the dragon prince’s subtle shake of the head. Whatever he might have been feeling inside, he maintained a firm, stoic demeanor. I could never have told if he was anxious or worried.

This,I thought,is what a king should be. Strong, firm, confident.

Kidron would be a tremendous Highest one day if we could break the Scraggen’s spell. And if he even wished to rule, considering his father’s betrayal.

None of that matters now,I told myself.We have to finish this trial before we can consider other matters.

“This isn’t working, Mother. It’s getting worse!”

Atora’s complaint pierced the fog of my thoughts. I tore my focus from the Warkin prince and back to the Scraggen, who attempted to clean the shirt in her daughter’s place.

“I think you should stop, Mother,” Atora pressed on. “Soon, the entire shirt will be black as pitch.”

“Silence!” her mother snapped. “Do you think I have no eyes?” she asked through gritted teeth, even as her arms continued to wrench the poor piece of fabric back and forth, back and forth over the rough washboard.

“Then, why don’t you…”

“Atora!” her mother shrieked. “Silence!”

Atora cringed back against a guard as if seeking refuge from her mother. For her part, the Scraggen finally stopped scrubbing and pushed herself to her feet. Her once regal gown was soaked with water and soap suds. Her hair had slipped from its intricate knot.

“What witchery is this?” she ground out, slashing a dripping arm through the air to punctuate her question. “What witchery, Warkin? How does the shirt resist my daughter? How does it resist me and my power?”

So, she had been using magic. My assumption was correct. I pressed my lips together to keep from shouting out the accusation, but what mattered it if she had? Her magic was what had put us here, to begin with. I couldn’t be surprised if she tried more underhanded tactics.

“You cleaning the shirt was not part of the bargain,” Kidron answered. “Even if you had managed to clean it—which you didn’t—I would not have accepted it.”

“You will do as you are told!” the Scraggen ordered. Pushing a guard out of the way, she stalked toward Kidron, jabbing a finger in his face. “You belong to me, and you will marry my daughter.”

“No,” he replied quietly, knocking her finger aside. “I marry the woman who can defend me. I marry the woman who can take care of me. I marry the woman who can clean this shirt.

“Your daughter has failed. You, as her proxy, failed. Now we try someone else utterly unconnected to Moonswept. Let the peddler try.”

“If the peddler cannot do it,” the Scraggen retorted, “you marry Atora.”

Kidron gave her a fierce glare, which the Scraggen matched. I’d a feeling that the two of them could stand there all day glowering at one another, but decided it was time to finish what we’d started.

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