The Warden Threat

  ~*~

  The next morning, Donald awoke with a headache, which he blamed on the brandy from the night before. He sluggishly began to get dressed and completed his morning hygiene activities without haste. These included, thank the gods, a bath.

  Brian Lescroft proved a very accommodating host the night before, providing an assortment of appetizing hors d’oeuvres and drink. They had socialized until late in the evening with Lescroft’s daughter Millie dominating most of the prince’s time.

  When he arrived downstairs, he found his two companions and the mill owner’s family seated at the dining room table, apparently waiting for him. Covered serving dishes formed a neat line down the middle of the long table.

  “I trust you slept well, Your Highness,” Brian said from the head of the table. The other end of the table seemed reserved for the prince. Millie sat to his right and Muce occupied the chair across the table from her on Donald’s left.

  “Yes, thank you. I believe I did.”

  Donald took his seat. After a short prayer of thanks for the meal to the god Lestog and the goddesses Lomaris and Flora, his host began the meal by uncovering the bowl in front of him. Others did the same and the passing of serving dishes and filling of plates began.

  He and the two other people at the prince’s end of the table reminded him of a half-forgotten fairy tale he had once heard. Millie put very little on her plate. Muce piled his to overflowing, and the prince, between them, served himself portions he regarded as just right.

  “How can you still be hungry?” he asked, staring at the young notso’s heaping plate. “You must have eaten a dozen deviled eggs last night, and I don’t know how many of those little sausages.”

  “They were good,” Muce replied between forkfuls.

  “Well, yes they were, but—”

  “Oh, did you like them?” Millie focused her full feminine attention on Donald. “I made the eggs myself from a recipe that has been in the family for generations. I’m told that I’m very good—in the kitchen anyway,” she added with a wink.

  “I liked them a lot,” Muce said. He swallowed his last bite and temporarily delayed the next step of his eager demolition of breakfast to elaborate. “My mom used to make some like that but not exactly. She didn’t put that little fancy green stuff on them like you did.”

  “The chopped parsley,” Millie said. “It’s the little added extras that sometimes make something good into something great, don’t you agree, Your Highness?”

  Donald glanced at his host’s daughter, tried to smile confidently and failed. She tossed her freshly washed and brushed hair over her shoulder with her hand in a way he found very alluring. She must have awakened quite early to wash it for it to be dry now.

  “Sometimes little things can make a big difference.” He was not entirely sure what he meant, assuming he meant anything, but he wanted to say something.

  “Oh, you are so clever!”

  He blushed to think she actually might see him this way. Donald did not consider himself stupid, but he also accepted that he could hold no claim to exemplary genius, and he suspected no one would ever judge him very wise in the ways of the world. Perhaps this realistic self-appraisal did, in fact, make him wiser than most. If so, he failed to appreciate it.

  As they ate, Millie told him about the harvest festival and some of the things they could expect to find there. The town went all out for these, and they always topped even the traditional winter solstice festival at which they exchanged gifts and chopped down trees that stay green in the winter to bring them inside where they would die in order to celebrate life.

  People from all around the area would be coming to it. There would be music, dancing, puppet shows, storytellers, fortunetellers, food, scientific demonstrations, agricultural competitions, cooking contests, and much more. One of her father’s tenants won a prize for biggest turnip last year. Their host seemed to consider this a significant accomplishment.

  Somewhere in the conversation, Donald stopped paying attention to what she said. He did not ignore her, by any means. He followed the sound of her voice, though, not the words, as if she hummed a tune to him. He found it blissfully relaxing as he slowly ate his meal. He periodically looked up from his plate as if agreeing with something she said. Often his gaze would travel from her face to the V pattern her open-neck flannel shirt made against the soft rounded flesh of her blossoming bosom.

  “So what would you like to see first?”

  The rhythm of her voice changed, nudging Donald’s awareness.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I asked what you would like to see first.”

  Donald blushed. “See?”

  “At the festival, silly. Oh, excuse me, Your Highness. I shouldn’t call a prince silly.”

  “Why don’t you call me Donald?” His cheeks faded from red to hot pink. “And anything you’d like to see first would be fine with me.”