Page 33 of Feathered Thief

As soon as she heard Papa Hrabik slip out to the tiny kitchen garden behind their cottage, she kissed the little horse’s nose, tucked him back into her pocket, carefully pinned it shut, then climbed down the loft ladder.

Protecting her hands with a thick rag, she pulled last night’s pot of broad beans and onions out of the glowing hearth ashes and gave the glop a good stir. It wasn’t much to look at, but the smell made her stomach growl. Papa soon returned with his handkerchief filled with early greens, strawberries, and three eggs, courtesy of fugitive hens from the royal poultry barns who liked to roost in the toolshed. Lenka stirred up the fire, heated the skillet, and fried the eggs in last night’s grease.

Soon they sat at the tiny wooden table for a hearty breakfast. Most of the castle staff took their meals in the castle kitchen, but Papa Hrabik preferred solitude. Thanks to Mama Hrabikova’s training, Lenka was a decent cook.

Every now and then she had a flash of memory, of baking pastries or stirring candy in a warm kitchen. As if a peasant child could ever have experienced such a thing.

Or maybe her real mother had worked in a rich man’s kitchen. How could she know?

She did know that Papa Hrabik cared for her, but he was a man of few words. Mama Hrabikova had been the talker. The cottage was lonely since she’d died suddenly last autumn.

“If you can get a rabbit or pigeons for the pot today, I’ll make us a stew,” Papa offered in his raspy voice.

“I’ll do my best, Papa.”

Once they’d cleaned up after themselves and pocketed bread and cheese to eat at noon, they hiked up their private path to a postern in the castle’s ivy-covered inner curtain wall, where a guard admitted them without a word. Lenka was always grateful for Papa Hrabik’s company; the armed guards were aloof and cold-eyed. They sneered at her bow and quiver but never commented. Thanks to Papa Hrabik, Lenka had royal permission to shoot and take home any bird or beast foolish enough to steal from the king’s magical gardens.

They followed another walkway, climbed a covered stair to another checkpoint, then passed through a hidden gate into the king’s walled garden on the highest hill. As soon as they entered the lush bower of green, tension drained from Lenka’s body. Regal pines stood guard at the garden’s perimeter, magnificent elms and oaks radiated goodness and wisdom, and young birches delighted her heart with their dancing leaves.

Most of the plants and trees in that garden were magical in some way, and a few were potentially lethal. Two ancient trees, a hawthorn and a rowan, had lived at the summit of the garden for generations, like strange guards. They were civil enough, but Lenka never sat beneath them.

How King Gustik and his forbears managed to acquire such a breathtaking collection of trees and plants at Trinec Castle, Lenka had never asked. But she knew that His Majesty’s greatest prize was the golden-apple tree whose mysterious history was entwined with hers.

Lenka remembered almost nothing about the day she’d arrived in the garden, but Papa Hrabik had been there when it happened. One evening not long after Mama died, when he’d had a drop too much beer, Papa told her the whole story in fine fashion:

“As soon as I stepped through the gate that afternoon, I knew something was different. Sure enough, at the top of the hill stooda new tree, the strangest ever I saw. It bore blooms and fruit at the same time—you know how it does, Lenka girl—and it looked for all the world like it grew there from a seed. Confusion so took me over that I failed to notice the young lass hiding in its boughs until I heard you crying as if your heart might break.” When his unsteady hand reached to pat Lenka’s on the table, she gently grasped his calloused fingers.

“We scarcely understood a word you said, but your heart was good. You’re our girl, Lenka,” he mumbled, his bearded chin nearly on his chest. She thought his reminiscing might end in a snore, but he pressed on:

“When King Gustik and the two princes came to see the tree, they noticed a gold apple amid the green ones. I told His Majesty that you’d come along with the tree, and I offered to take you in and train you as its caretaker. I knew Mama Hrabikova would agree.” He released her hand to pull out a grimy handkerchief and wipe his eyes. “I couldn’t convince you to leave the tree, so it was Mama who lured you down the hill and into this cottage with honey cake.” Sighing, he stared into the dregs of beer in his mug.

Lenka knew he was missing Mama. She patted his thick wrist. “Sweets are still my weakness.”

He nodded and sniffed. “You’re the age one of our babes would have been had she lived. A gift from above.”

That was how she had come to live and work at Bolislaus Castle in the kingdom of Trinec. Where she camefrom, no one knew. She worked long hours every day like every other castle servant. Papa and Mama had always treated her like their own flesh and blood. Although she struggled at first to understand their speech, she’d quickly adapted to the new language, which was not so very different from hers. Before long, she’d found a few friends among her peers.

But certain differences made lasting friendships difficult. She didn’t know how to gossip or giggle with the other maidens—she didn’t particularly care to try—and her manners and way of speaking were strange to them. It didn’t help that she was tall—even taller than several of the young men. And instead of trying to find her place among the girls or attract a husband, she’d begged Papa to teach her archery. Mama Hrabikova had nearly despaired of her, but Papa was delighted to have such a motivated student.

Lenka always felt strangely happy with a bow in her hands. Under Papa’s tutelage she crafted her own yew bow and fletched her own arrows. She practiced shooting at makeshift targets every day after work until nightfall, and Papa was amazed at her ability to hit distant targets—even moving ones. Her eyesight was excellent, and her mind calculated each shot without conscious thought. When she used her bow, she felt as if she’d finally found her place in the world, the thing she was created to do.

But gardening was her occupation. She enjoyed that too and worked hard.

That evening, as the afternoon shadows lengthened, she remembered Papa’s request and headed toward the magic-vegetable garden in search of supper.

The one drawback to archery was killing things. She sometimes cried over her prey, and blood made her woozy. Even worse was cleaning the prey. Shehatedgetting her hands dirty. But she and Papa must eat, and the rabbits and hares that preyed on the king’s private patch of lettuces tended to be plump and unwary. Considering the physical and magical barriers they surmounted for the privilege of gorging on magical vegetables, Lenka respected their persistence.

But the greedy thieves pretty much had it coming.

After dispatching and field-dressing two plump hares, she left the offal for a waiting pair of ravens and slipped the fresh meat into her game bag. When she hiked up the hill for one more chat with her apple tree, she found it forlorn, so she sat at its roots with her back against its trunk to commiserate.

“I’m sorry you miss your family. I wish I could remember mine.” She spoke her thoughts aloud. “No one here likes me much anymore. Papa Hrabik does, of course, and Mama did. But I never have fit in.”

You are gentle and kind.The tree spoke into her mind.

“Well, I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

You are a giver. Giving is joy.

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