Three

Hilda the tailor lived in a cottage on a hill bordering the forest. The prince could see it from his room, small in the distance and half-hidden by the branches of a towering linden tree. A light burned in a tiny window.

The next day the prince gathered one of his brocade coats and several shirts that had become frayed and torn through the course of his travels, with the intent to ask the tailor to mend them. Evren was to come with him, but when Evren emerged from the inn, he was toting Ilyas. The boy had been crying recently—it was rare when he did not cry—and hid himself behind Evren’s legs as he let himself be led forward.

The prince glanced down at him pointedly.

“I know,” Evren said, “but I wasn’t going to let his father whip him again just for looking at roses. He won’t get in your way.”

The prince doubted that, but turned and marched up the hill without arguing.

The little girl, Henrike, was playing with a doll of sticks beneath the linden tree. She watched them as they approached the cottage, her gaze quickly finding Ilyas and sticking to him. She was like a small lion, wary golden eyes and a posture that suggested a new hunt. A dried bundle of herbs hung from the cottage door. The sun was peeking out between the clouds, casting a watery yellow glow against the warped panes of glass in the window.

Before the prince could knock, Henrike called out in a high, bell-chime voice, “Mama!”

The door swung open. Hilda appeared before them, brushing hair from her eyes, looking surprised. Behind her stood a large loom, hung with thread. Hilda looked quickly toward Henrike as if to make sure her call hadn’t been for anything more serious, then turned back to the prince.

“Good morning,” she said. She gave a brisk nod. “Can I help you with anything?”

The prince introduced himself and Evren, then held up his stack of clothing. “I was told you were the best tailor in the village. I was hoping I could employ your services.”

Henrike had scampered over from the tree, but instead of standing beside her mother, she went straight for Ilyas. She held out her stick doll for him and, after enough prompting, he carefully took it.

Hilda watched them. “Yours?” she asked, motioning to Ilyas.

“No,” the prince replied quickly. “He’s with the caravan. Evren is looking after him for now.”

Evren had knelt down with the two children and was facilitating play. Ilyas’s tears had dried and he was smiling as he cast furtive glances at Henrike. Perhaps the prince had been wrong, then—the boy wouldn’t get in his way.

“Could we step inside?” the prince asked Hilda, motioning past her. “I can show you what I need.”

“Oh—of course,” she said.

The inside of the cottage was cramped with tools and other odds and ends the prince assumed were for tailoring. His eyes passed over the details and saw the larger picture. One room, not very large and cluttered besides, a single bed for both mother and child. It got better and better. What wouldn’t she wish for? Beauty and youth, he supposed—she had plenty of both, at least for now.

“The clothing?” she said, pulling him from his thoughts. Her gaze had sharpened since he’d come in; her eyes were honey gold in the shaft of sunlight entering through the open door.

He took her through the wear on each article of clothing, watching her face change as he spoke, watching her hands move over the material. She was calm and confident in her craft as she explained to him how she would mend the damage. He didn’t listen to her—he didn’t care how or even if the clothes were mended—but he enjoyed watching her mouth.

“I’m in your debt,” he said when she had finished. “Truly. I can pay you in coin, or I could perhaps bring some fabrics or other items from the caravan for you, if that would be more useful. Or . . . well, I have another method of payment that many people prefer, but it would require you to do one small thing.”

“I’m not interested in that,” she said plainly, shoulders stiff.

“Oh no!” The prince raised his hands. “No, my lady, I apologize; I didn’t mean to imply anything impure. Rather, what I meant was that I can pay you with a wish. I can grant wishes, you see. All you must do is answer a simple riddle, nothing that would be too hard for you to handle, I’m sure, and the wish is yours. Whatever you’d like.”

Her shoulders relaxed and her eyebrows lifted. “Magic? I see. Yes, that’s certainly not so impure. Anything I like, you say?”

“Whatever your heart desires.”

Her gaze skimmed toward the open door, through which Henrike and Ilyas were visible. They were chasing each other around the base of the linden tree under Evren’s watchful eye. “Mmm. Why a riddle? Have you been cursed?”

The prince shifted as her sharp attention returned to him. She wasn’t surprised when confronted with magic, or if she was, she recovered very quickly. And she apparently wasn’t as easily dazzled by the promise of it as some people were. The same was true with the innkeepers.

“No curses,” he explained. “I have always had magic. The riddles were my own fault; one day I started awarding wishes for correctly answered riddles, and that was what my magic became.”

She studied him, seemed to catalogue the parts of him. “Interesting. This riddle, do I have to answer it immediately? Can I hear it now and have some time to think on it, or should I wait until I’m sure I’d like to take the wish, and then I can hear the riddle?”

No one had ever asked the prince such a question. “I suppose you can hear it, though I promise any riddle I give you would be as easy as I could make it. In exchange for your work, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” she said. A small smile played on her lips. “I’d like to hear the riddle, then. Tell me now, then come back at the end of the week, before the caravan leaves. I’ll have all your mending done so you can pick it up and hear the answer.”

She had taken the bait and she’d given him a week to manipulate her wish. He could easily charm his way close to her by then. He couldn’t have planned it better himself.

“One week,” the prince said, smiling with all his teeth. “The night before the caravan leaves.”

“And the riddle?”

It was his easiest, not because everyone knew the answer, but because it had many answers, and to him they were all correct. It was almost impossible to answer incorrectly.

“What leaves you empty,” he said, “and fills you up?”