Page 34 of Feathered Thief

“You’re the generous one. You’re lost too, but you aren’t bitter about it.” Her voice sounded harsh to her own ears. “Why do you keep giving?”

Bees hummed gently in the pink blossoms whose fragrance was so sweet that tears prickled behind her eyes. Blinking them away, she peered up into the fruitful branches and easily picked out which green apple would ripen next. “How do you simultaneously produce apples and blossoms?” she asked, not for the first time. The tree seldom answered a question, but it was always polite.

Lenka is kind.

“You must be the only one who thinks that.”

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 tookMama 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 . . .

The 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.

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