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Even as she voiced her self-pity, she gazed up through the canopy of blossoms at patches of vivid blue sky until the lonely tightness in her chest released and peace seeped through her.

Reaching for the little horse in her pocket, she caressed its familiar outline, then pulled it out and kissed its carved face.

It bobbed its head and looked as if it were smiling, and she couldn’t help smiling back.

Someone in her forgotten past loved her. “I love you too,” she whispered.

When she finally rose, brushed off her backside, and picked up the game bag, the tree’s whisper tickled her ears: See friend .

Something like happiness trickled down her spine. A premonition?

And when she started down the hill, another strange sensation made her stop and turn back. Did someone just duck out of sight amid the hawthorne’s branches? “Hello?” she called.

Shaking her head, she hiked back up to check around the trees even though she knew the person was gone. A tall, slender woman, her face veiled.

“Did you see her, tree?” Lenka inquired.

Happy. Find. The tree seemed almost excited.

“Who was she?”

Change soon.

Lenka longed to pester the tree for a clearer answer but knew it would be a waste of time.

As soon as she and Papa reached home that evening, he took up the yoke and buckets and headed toward the well in the castle courtyard.

Hauling water was Lenka’s chore, but when she protested, he waved her off. “You have much on your mind, sunshine.”

Her heart melted when he called her that.

She did her best to thank him by adding onions, carrots, and fresh greens to the promised stew, and then, while it bubbled over the fire, she straightened their storage shelves.

No matter how she tried to focus on her duties, unanswered questions about her past pestered her more with each passing year.

Mama Hrabikova had believed Lenka was fourteen or fifteen years old when Papa found her under the tree, which meant she was now at least nineteen. A woman. Tall, lean, and lonely.

Her former friends among the palace servants were all married, but she had no future expectations.

Papa Hrabik and Mama Hrabikova had loved her—Papa still did—as if she were their flesh and blood .

. . but she wasn’t. After the apoplexy took Mama from them, Papa confided that none of their babies had lived even a full year.

“You were a gift from heaven in our old age,” he said.

Lenka was certain the blessing was the other way around.

Even if the “right man” were to come along, how could she ever leave Papa alone?

After supper, they shared the remaining chores.

By the time Lenka had tossed the rubbish out onto the scrap heap where the chickens and a few stray cats lingered, then swept the floors while Papa mixed overnight porridge, her eyelids were heavy and her back ached.

But when she said goodnight with her foot on the first ladder rung, Papa stopped her with a word.

“Lenka.”

She turned, suddenly apprehensive. “Yes, Papa?” His faded blue eyes beneath tufty gray brows concealed his thoughts, but something in his voice was new.

He studied her face while impatience tugged at her.

Then he made a resolute nod. “You’ve had a rough time of it, child, but Mama and I did what we could to keep you safe.

Every day I’ve feared someone might show up and claim you.

Now I realize I’ve had it backwards. It’s you that’ll be doing the showing up and the claiming. ”

Her heart gave a bound. “I will?”

“You will.” He nodded. “The time is soon. Now, you get some sleep. Morning and chores come early around here.”

Papa had already banked the fire when she climbed to her loft, brushed out her hair, which was long enough to sit on, and re-braided it.

That task complete, she drew her little toy from its pocket.

“I love you,” she whispered. The horse shoved its nose against her fingers, urging her to stroke its smooth lines and curves while she lay awake in darkness and wondered where Papa thought she would show up and what she might claim . . .

T he instant Lenka stepped through the gate in the morning, she sensed unrest. Not from any human or animal source, but from her golden-apple tree.

She charged straight up the dewy hillside with Papa lumbering behind and shouting questions she didn’t have time to answer.

The rowan and hawthorn trees folded their branches aside to let her through, and she instantly saw the empty space.

“There.” She pointed as Papa caught up. “The ripest apple hung right there, and now it is missing.”

“You’re sure it was in that exact spot?” His voice trembled.

“Quite sure.”

“I must tell the king!” And he rushed down the hillside toward the king’s private access door.

Had His Majesty plucked the golden apple overnight? Who else would dare?

Trembling, she hugged the tree, resting her forehead against its rough bark. “Are you all right?” she murmured. “What happened? Is this the change you spoke of? A missing apple?”

Silence.

Yet the tree seemed happy. Content.

While Lenka gazed up through its leaves and blossoms to the morning sky streaked with pink and gold, she heard a gate open and the rumble of men’s voices.

The tree spoke in its own unhurried time and way. Apple with friend.

Startled, Lenka spoke aloud: “How can an apple have a friend?” Was the “friend” the woman she’d glimpsed?

As the deep voices grew louder, she jumped to grip the tree’s lowest branch and pulled herself up, tucking in her skirts and carefully arranging her bow and quiver.

She could see out, but no one would notice her unless she moved.

Dense leaves and blossoms offered privacy while her mind puzzled over the tree’s enigmatic reply.

Unsurprisingly, the men approaching with Papa were the king and his two sons, whom she had seen from a distance several times before. Crown Prince Marek arrived first at the hilltop and squinted up at the tree’s branches. “Are you sure there was a ripe apple? It’s entirely the wrong time of year.”

“It’s a magical tree,” the king reminded his heir. “It produces fruit and blossoms every day of the year.” Up close, glimpsed through the foliage, King Gustik seemed ordinary, shaped like a brick and swaddled in fur this chilly morning.

Prince Dominik, the younger son, stood back to study the tree, his sharp-featured face expressionless. He turned to Papa Hrabik. “Who else has access to this garden? When was the apple last seen? Isn’t there some maidservant that knows about this tree?”

Lenka’s eyes went wide. The prince knew about her?

While the men talked, her tree spoke again. Bird is friend.

Confused, Lenka whispered, “Bird? What bird?”

Just then, Papa Hrabik called, “Lenka, come down here, please.” He sounded wary, and she heard him add in an undertone, “The girl is shy, sire.”

She inwardly braced herself before swinging down and dropping to the ground. With her gaze lowered, she bobbed a curtsy. “Your Royal Majesty.”

“She carries a bow and quiver,” Prince Dominik observed.

“To keep garden pests under control,” Papa Hrabik explained. “Rabbits, moles?—”

“Girl,” the king barked, “come here.”

Uncertain how close “here” might be, she stopped beside Papa Hrabik and curtsied again, deeply this time. Without pause, the king asked, “When did you last see the apple that was stolen?” As she opened her mouth, he added, “Look at me while you speak.”

She obediently raised her gaze to focus on his beard.

“Your Royal Majesty, I saw the ripest apple last evening just before Papa Hrabik and I left the garden. But this morning I immediately saw that it . . . I mean the apple on that branch”—she indicated the exact twig—“was missing. It ripened before it was stolen.”

“By ‘ripened,’ do you mean it became solid gold?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again for good measure.

Prince Marek scoffed. “Ridiculous! You, maiden, expect us to believe that you have memorized the location and ripeness of every apple on this tree?”

She bobbed once more. “Your Royal Highness, I know only which apple will be next to ripen. It is my duty to know.”

Before the crown prince could respond, his brother asked, “Which apple is ripest now?” sounding genuinely curious.

Gaze lowered, she inquired, “Do you wish me to point it out, Your Highness?”

Crown Prince Marek blurted a scornful laugh, but the king said, “Yes, do point it out, and enough with the titles.”

“Yes, sire.” After bobbing another curtsy, Lenka walked around the tree to indicate the next ripest apple, which was at her eye level on the side nearest to the hawthorn tree. “This apple will turn gold next.”

The men followed her to stare at the green apple, which looked exactly like several others near it. “Can you prove it?” the king inquired with a hint of doubt.

Gaze lowered, she said, “The apple will prove or disprove my prediction, sire. Any attempt to deceive you would be . . . well, fruitless.”

Prince Dominik snorted. “Good one.”

“You’re willing to stake your life on a random guess?” Prince Marek asked.

“It is not a random guess, sir.”

A shimmer passed through the tree as she spoke, and an instant later Prince Dominik shouted, “Look!” pointing at the apple.

Utter silence followed. Nearly doubled in size, the fruit gleamed gold in the sunlight.

Prince Marek turned a suspicious glare on Lenka. “Are you an enchantress?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered honestly. “The tree is magical, not me. It understands everything we say and was trying to help me.”

“If a tree chooses to ripen its fruit at your suggestion, you must be a mage,” the king stated. “Perhaps a low-level mage, but still magical.” He stepped forward and plucked the ripe apple, which emitted a lovely scent.

Was it possible to be an enchantress without knowing? She looked at Papa Hrabik, who shrugged.

“Which apple will be next?” Prince Dominik seemed more curious than suspicious.

Papa caught her gaze, then widened his eyes. Having no idea what he was trying to communicate, she answered the prince’s question by indicating a green apple a few branches to her right.

“They usually ripen overnight,” the king pointed out. “Will that one ripen tonight?”

She looked at the tree, which didn’t respond. “I don’t know for sure,” she admitted. “This is the first time I’ve known it to produce more than one golden apple per day.”

The king rounded on his two sons. “We dare not take the chance. One of you must stand watch tonight. If the thief makes another attempt to steal an apple, you must capture or kill him.”

The princes both offered at once, which evidently pleased the king. “Marek, as my heir, you are hereby granted the honor of safeguarding our greatest source of treasure and apprehending the perpetrator.”

Although nothing unusual immediately followed the business about the apples, that day’s labor in the king’s garden passed like a strange dream while Lenka’s mind focused on the mystery.

Someone or something had stolen a golden apple during the night without leaving so much as a footprint.

The tree claimed the fruit was taken by a friend.

That mysterious woman? Or a bird? Many songbirds visited the garden every day.

But why would a bird steal an apple it couldn’t eat?

And what songbird could carry off a solid-gold apple?

It was all so confusing!

That evening, just after she said goodbye to the tree and turned to leave for home, Prince Marek returned to the hilltop wearing a breastplate and helmet.

He carried a bow, a full quiver, and a small sword, plus several daggers at his belt.

“Before you go, point out the next apple to ripen again,” he ordered sharply.

Lenka recognized the fragile pride of the man. He was handsome to the point of beauty—with pale skin, glossy dark hair, silvery eyes, a strong build, and chiseled features—yet he lacked respect for himself or anyone else.

“Yes, sir. You can triangulate the apple’s location using the rowan and hawthorn trees.”

The prince was too busy scorning her to glance at the other trees.

Since she couldn’t make him pay attention, she simply did her duty.

“This is the apple to watch, the one with a dent right here and the two tiny leaves on either side of this large leaf.” She pointed out each distinctive feature.

“You see how it hangs on its own twig just below these two smaller apples?—”

“Like a dozen others,” he muttered. “Run along now.” He waved her off, and she was happy to go.

Papa Hrabik and Lenka were halfway to the cottage before he asked: “What are you thinking?”

She glanced at his craggy profile. “I think the crown prince disdains even the idea of magic.”

He grunted—his version of a laugh—but said nothing.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m thinking Mama Hrabikova would’ve had my hide for letting you talk to that prince. Did you bag any rabbits today?”

“No, only three pigeons who were decimating the cherries in the king’s favorite tree.”

“They’ll roast nicely,” Papa said.

Neither of them had much to say that evening. “I wonder if the prince will catch the thief in action,” she thought aloud while washing their few dishes and utensils.

“Not that one.” Papa tossed what remained of their supper to the cats waiting in the yard, inciting a feline riot. “He’s likely asleep already.”

Lenka evil-grinned. “He’s probably never slept on the ground in his life.”

“You may well be right,” he admitted, smiling in return.

S he woke with a jolt, feeling as if she had just closed her eyes. Could it be morning already? Then she heard another violent thumping at the cottage door and a shout. “Hrabik!”

Lenka sat upright in near darkness, reaching for her hidden pocket.

Exactly how pressing the little horse to her heart grounded her, she couldn’t have explained.

But it did. The toy seemed to wake in her hands, and within moments, comfort flowed into her.

Her heart rate slowed, and she drew a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh.

“Hrabik!”

Again, fists pounded at the cottage door. Lenka couldn’t answer; she wasn’t decent in her chemise. “Papa?” The word was a whisper, but it didn’t matter—he was already fumbling to open the door.

She peered over the loft’s edge just long enough to glimpse a rectangle of pale light framing the crown prince’s figure. “Did you take it?” Prince Marek shouted.