Page 14 of Queen's Griffon

The queen slid out from under the contraption, her face streaked in grease just like her hideous clothes. She looked nothing like a royal, nor even a lady. She blinked at him as she rubbed the welt on her forehead.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Garth asked, blinking at him above his spectacles.

“What is she doing?” Griff jabbed a finger in Avera’s direction.

“Assisting. Rather obvious I’d say.”

“She’s not trained to be a mechanic.”

Garth snorted. “Maybe not, but she’s smarter than the other idiots you’ve sent down here to try to help. At least she has a basic understanding of how machinery works.”

“Her?” Griff stared at the little queen incredulously.

“Yes, me.” She rolled her eyes. “And here I thought sexism was restricted to Daerva’s army.”

“It has nothing to do with what’s between your legs,” he growled, avoiding a glance at said section of her body. “I can’t have a neophyte messing with delicate mechanisms. We need this engine.”

“And you’ll have it, Captain,” Garth declared, clapping his hands together with a loud smack. “That rattle that’s been bugging me should be gone with the repairs she just did. I couldn’t quite manage to wedge myself under there.” Garth patted his rotund belly.

“She fixed it?” Again, Griff couldn’t stem his skepticism.

“It’s not that hard,” came her tart reply. “Machine parts can only go in one way. It’s like a puzzle where everything fits in a certain order. It’s especially easy with the right tools,” she stated, handing a wrench to Garth before she stood.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” Griff grumbled.

“Why not? Where should I be instead? Puking in my cabin? Did that, not enjoyable. On deck getting in the way? Or would you prefer I follow you all day, pestering?”

He glared.

She smirked.

Garth cleared his throat. “Sorry if I didn’t ask, Cap. But if you don’t mind, I could use her aid. My eyesight ain’t so good anymore and with a storm coming?—”

“Storm?” Griff focused on his mechanic. “What storm?” He’d heard no mention of one on the horizon.

Garth tapped his leg. “Knee’s acting up, which means there’s one coming.”

Griff knew better than to argue. Garth had yet to be proven wrong with his weather predictions.

“Dinner’s being served,” Griff announced. “Eat or don’t. I’ve got to ready the ship.” He turned and walked out to the murmur of voices, but he didn’t escape. Quick footsteps at his rear indicated the little queen followed.

“Are storms dangerous?”

“Everything can be dangerous at sea,” was his terse reply.

“Is there any point in eating if I’m just going to toss it later?” she muttered.

“The fresh air helps.”

“I highly doubt being on deck while it’s heaving from the waves and wind is going to help me keep the contents of my belly.”

He whirled in the narrow passage. “Then don’t eat. Don’t listen. Don’t care. I informed you the evening meal was being served. Skip it or don’t. Your body, your choice.”

“Not my choice to be abducted.”

“Believe me, I am regretting it.”

“Will you seriously sell me off?”

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