Page 22 of Feathered Thief

The first gossip sighed heavily. “I almost feel sorry for that hapless princess they used and discarded for no discernible reason. I expect His Grace will manage to avoid paying the cancellation fee to King Ryszard?—”

“Of course he will. And the archduke will guarantee his only living grandson’s rise to power, one way or another.”

“The cousin chosen to marry the boy is reckoned a great beauty. She will lead him around by the nose.”

The gossips tittered.

Scarcely able to breathe for the pain in her chest, Helena burst from her hiding place. Seeing no one nearby, she ran blindly through the gardens, never looking back to see the source of those gossiping voices. Something invisible snatchedat her. She flung it aside and ran faster, aware of nothing but speed and . . . and magic? When she could run no farther, she staggered to a stop and doubled over, nearly sobbing for breath. The very air she breathed seemed heavy, and a wholesome yet mystical aroma wrapped her in a comforting embrace.

Sorrow.

The voice murmured inside her head.

Curious, she stood upright. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked twice, then again. Slowly turning in place, she beheld an old brick wall overhung by leafy, blossom-covered branches. Peaceful music seemed to play yet had no visible source. A round doorway in the wall beckoned, and the loveliest of scents freshened the air.

Helena stepped into the walled garden, blinking in wonder at an apple orchard, fresh, wholesome, and peaceful. The sky provided a clear blue background for frilly pink blossoms and fat green apples peeking between vivid green leaves. Here and there amid the foliage, a glint of gold teased her eye.

Powerful magic shimmered everywhere, yet she was unafraid.

Sadness.

Again, the sweet voice spoke into her mind, more a feeling than a word. As she stepped in among the trees, they welcomed her. She somehow knew which tree had spoken to her and approached it. Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around its trunk and burst into fresh tears. Loving arms seemed to embrace her, soothing her heartbreak.

Boy loves girl.

In her mind she saw dark-lashed puppy-dog eyes and a freckled nose. Her heart gave a bound.

But no, she was forgotten.

Remember boy.

Remember what boy? She recalled only sadness. Betrayal.

Helena wept and rested among the worried trees until a deep raspy voice disturbed her. “Why are you here in this magical orchard?”

She peered around the tree at the vague outline of a hooded robe. Yet another form of magic shimmered around the man . . . Why must there be so much magic?

Or did her tears cause the blurriness?

“Who are you?” she asked, wiping her nose with a spare handkerchief. Looking at it, she recalled tying a similar cloth to the tip of . . . what?

“I am called Bogumil. I was assigned by the World Magic Council to help you and others who suffer in this broken land.” The deep voice wavered, and the speaker cleared his throat.

“Whatcouncil?” she asked.

He shifted on his feet, which she noticed were bare. “The WMC—World Magic Council. It is only recently being revived after centuries of encroaching magical chaos. I was called upon to restore order in this part of the world. Under my purview, stability and peace shall soon return to Wroclaw and all of Illyr.”

“Oh.” She nodded, unwilling to appear ignorant, but he saw right through her.

“Illyr is the continent in which this pocket world is currently located.” He sounded amused. “I grew up in Trinec, a wonderful country where everyone is honest, fair, and kind. Sadly, a politically ambitious archduke rules over Wroclaw, one of humankind’s many political constructs, and he placed this pocket world in Ostrów, a grand duchy.”

“What pocket world?” Helena asked, having decided she must be dreaming.

“This one.” The mage held out his arms, making his sleeves billow dramatically. “The one in which you and the golden-apple orchard are held captive. The wicked duke holds a great many magical creatures captive in these unlawful magical gaolhouses.Once I complete my appointed mission, I shall return to right several long-standing wrongs.”

“I see,” she lied. She recognized most of his words, yet no combination of them made sense to her. This had to be a dream. “You talk like a politician, but they aren’t supposed to have magic. Are you a fairy godfather?” she asked.

The hooded figure stiffened. “How did you know? Who are you?”

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