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THEFT AND DREAMS

“ D id I take wha—?” Papa stopped abruptly. “Oh. The apple is gone?”

“Why else would I be here?” Prince Marek’s tone dripped disgust.

“Did you see what took it?” Lenka blurted from her dark perch.

A cold pause, then, “Obviously not.”

“Have you told the king?” Papa asked.

After an even colder silence, the prince grumbled, “That’s your duty.”

Gravel crunched as he stalked away. Papa closed the door. “What now?”

“Do they expect us to find the apple?” she asked, still clutching her little toy.

“The king is no fool.” Papa’s tone implied that a certain other person might be. “Now, how am I to notify him of the missing apple?”

Lenka nearly offered to write a message for the king but remembered in time that they possessed neither pen nor parchment . . . and that gardener girls could neither read nor write. She shook her head in confusion, suddenly aware that she could do both.

“Do you wish me to speak to the king?” she asked, peering down from the loft.

She could barely see Papa Hrabik scowling up at her from under his bushy brows. “The prince may be too proud to admit his failure, but I’m not afraid to report it for him. I’ll go tell the seneschal.”

“I’ll make breakfast and do the chores,” she assured him.

By the time they arrived at the apple tree, the king was already gazing into its branches. He turned to them, heavy-lidded and surprisingly disheveled. “What more have you to report regarding this latest theft?”

“The crown prince came to our door before dawn to ask if one of us stole the apple. I know that Lenka never left the cottage during the night. She was sleeping until the prince arrived.”

“Nothing can fully prove that, yet I’m inclined to believe you.” King Gustik’s scowl deepened. If he didn’t trust Papa Hrabik after a lifetime of faithful service, he was a fool, king or not. Did he trust his heir? Ha! Good luck to him.

As if he’d overheard her thought, the king shifted his feet, and she realized he was squirming.

So, maybe kings were human too? With a slight grimace, he continued, “Prince Marek tells me he sat watch in utter darkness throughout the night and heard nothing, yet when morning dawned, the apple was missing. The exact apple this peasant maid”—he pointed at Lenka without meeting her gaze—“indicated yesterday. I believe my son did remain here all night; I found a pool of candle wax there.” His hand moved to indicate the apple tree’s trunk.

Prince Dominik approached, his gaze focused on the tree. “I see that the apple is gone, Father. Where is Marek?”

The king’s scowl deepened. “Your brother failed to prevent the theft.”

The prince merely nodded. “Is he allowed another try, or may I have a go at it?” Prince Dominik was neither as tall nor as handsome as his older brother, but he seemed more genuine.

While the men discussed plans, Lenka slipped beneath the tree’s branches, placed her hand on its trunk, and pretended to study the pool of wax. “What happened to the apple?” she whispered.

Something like delight trickled into her spirit. Apples with friend.

She did her best to clarify: “The second apple was also taken by your friend?”

Apples. As the tree radiated contentment, Lenka sensed that wherever the apples might be, they were together.

“Very well,” she heard the king say. “Though I hardly expect you to have greater success than your brother.” As Lenka stepped out from under the tree’s limbs, he noticed her again. “What were you doing there under the tree, wench?”

“I was searching for clues that might help us solve this mystery.” Remembering her place, she quickly added, “sire,” and dipped in a low curtsy.

“And what have you found?” Prince Dominik asked.

“I believe the apples were stolen by the same thief,” she replied eagerly.

King Gustik’s lip slightly curled. “Why do you believe this?”

“Because neither theft left visible clues, and the watchmen at the garden gate saw nothing. Unless the thief entered the garden through Your Majesty’s private entrance, I expect it must have flown.”

King Gustik scoffed at her theory. “These apples are quite large, and once they ripen into solid gold, they are heavy. What bird or squirrel could carry one? And why would any bird or beast steal fruit that it cannot eat?”

Were the apples inedible? Lenka wondered.

“A small dragon, perhaps?” Prince Dominik postulated.

“I highly doubt it.” The king’s quelling tone irritated her. Unlike his brother, the younger prince possessed at least a modicum of initiative and imagination. He deserved a chance.

“Whatever the thief may be, I’m prepared to deal with it,” the prince declared. “I’ll return at sundown to stand guard at the tree.”

T hat night, Lenka dreamed.

In her dream she descended a set of steps built into a hillside—almost a cliffside.

They led down to a misty field with an archery range at the far end.

Dozens of boys were shooting at a row of targets.

When she reached the lowest step and entered the field, she turned to look back and saw a castle high above.

In her dream, she was delighted to be there. She even twirled once in happiness.

She carried her bow and wore her familiar quiver. Boys and young men stood around, talking and laughing, but none of them noticed her. No other girls were present. How was she there?

Uncertain, she paused, ready to retreat.

“Helena?”

Her heart leaped. That voice! She turned to see a young man trotting down the steps in her wake.

“H-hello,” she croaked, her throat feeling constricted.

She glimpsed his bright smile before dropping her gaze to the bow in her hand. Oh my, but he was handsome! Tall and broad-shouldered, with curly auburn hair in need of a trim. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Who was he? Why did his voice seem so familiar?

“My mother told me to look for you here,” he said, shifting his feet and fiddling with the strap of his quiver. “How . . .? I mean . . . Have you been practicing archery?”

“Yes!” she blurted. “I practice with Papa Hrabik sometimes.” Her heart drummed in her chest, both in her sleeping body and in her dream.

Was it possible to know that she was dreaming and yet remain asleep?

No matter. She couldn’t take her eyes off his beautiful face. Those thick dark lashes and that earnest expression melted her! His square chin and jaw were stubbly, and his waist was trim.

She longed to touch him. What would it be like to kiss him?

This was the very best dream she’d ever had!

One corner of his mouth curled up, and he inquired in a deeper tone, “Helena?”

“Where are you heading?” she blurted, tearing her gaze away.

How embarrassing, to be caught gawking! Not that he seemed to mind.

“I planned to practice shooting with this.”

She noticed the bow in his hand, which might not have been there a moment before. “I’ve never seen a bow that tall.” A man must be very strong to draw such a bow.

“It’s taller than I am.”

And he was tall enough that she had to look up at him. “May I try it?” she asked on impulse. Pretty much everything she said to him surprised her.

He raised one dark brow. “Are you serious?”

She nodded eagerly. “Show me how?”

With a shrug and a little quirk of his lips, he said, “Sure. Why not?” and led the way to a target range that seemed strangely familiar. Floating on bliss, she knew—without knowing how she knew—that this young man was everything she admired most, in appearance and in character.

“Mind if I take a few shots with my bow first?” she asked.

“Go right ahead.”

She was jittery at first but soon settled down and hit the target consistently.

“You’re an excellent archer, Helena,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone while helping her collect her arrows. “Not just ‘good for a girl.’ You’re good in any company,” he added. Instead of feeling flustered, she basked in his honest admiration. It was only a dream, so why be self-conscious?

“Now it’s your turn to show off,” she said.

He strung his bow, apparently without effort, then flashed a smile that weakened her knees.

Thankfully, she had a moment to recover while he faced a distant bluff where she saw more targets lined up, looking tiny at this distance.

After an “all clear” flag waved, her dream man nocked a huge arrow, drew, and fired in one smooth motion.

Then another, and another, in quick succession until his quiver was empty.

When everyone at that practice range had finished shooting, and Lenka followed her dream man to help collect his arrows, she realized that every last one had at least struck the target. Most were in or around the target’s center circle.

The other archers also exclaimed, and Lenka’s handsome friend laughed. “I couldn’t have planned that better. What with making every shot, and you here to see it . . . I must be dreaming.”

Lenka felt her heart drumming, yet she grinned easily. “You mean, you don’t always make a perfect shot?”

His grimace was part grin. “Not quite always. Are you ready to try the longbow?”

Until that moment she had never realized it was possible to feel simultaneously relaxed, jittery, and blissful. “Yes.”

“Come on then.”

When everyone had collected their arrows and returned to the shooting line, he began to explain and demonstrate.

She did try to listen, but mostly she noticed him.

Everything about him—his profile, a curl stuck to his forehead, his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle definition beneath his tunic, his strong hands, his voice.

She didn’t even care that he smelled of sweat.

Then he placed the massive bow in her hands, offered her an arrow that felt more like a spear, and talked her through the process. “Ready?”

“I think so.”

“Then, nock!”

She placed the arrow on the string.

“Draw!”

She pulled, but nothing happened. She pulled harder. “Is it stuck on something? It won’t budge!”

“It looks right.” He sounded puzzled. “Want me to get it started for you?”