Chapter Twenty

Zootch in the Danken Wood Clearing

While Nimble Missst sparked the hutter maiden to an ever higher stage of open-mouthed awe with each shake of a flame orange curl, each flash of a startling violet eye, each shudder of a powder blue wing, Blossom Prince Zootch rubbed his hands together and walked in a circle, nodding and shrugging and muttering to himself. He paced in the witch’s flat round clearing in the Danken Wood. The edible cottage was there, but not the lavender witch. The troll’s house was there, but not the troll. The troll, of course, yet still remained visiting Sadlar. The witch, of course, could have been anywhere. Blossom Prince Zootch was Blossom Prince Zootch, not in Cap of Cloak disguise as softly smiling hutter. His pummeled gold boots settled, heel, toe, heel, toe, as the prince went round and round, gesturing, shrugging, muttering. His battered silver tunic and leggers flashed whenever he turned.

“This is good. This is good,” he muttered. “I’m ready to be Kig. We’ll strike a deal, snapjaw mind to snapjaw mind. What could be simpler? I plant myself in the Castle Boad and eat ladgecakes and gadapple petals at my whim, and even better, am situated an impressive distance from Mother. All good. All fine. And Nimble Missst, she takes herself off somewhere far away else like as she is supposed to prefer. They say she goes to those Falls a lot. O’Tan, I think. I say she can go there forever! My gift! A Kig’s gift! She has a snapjaw mind. She can’t be any happier about this mess than I am. Happy! What am I saying? Her mother is the Replenisher Rindle Mer, as unpleasant a raggedy old weed as I’ve ever met. Almost as bad as … well … my own dear Mother.”

Zootch carried on and on, examining from every angle reasons why he should allow himself to be caught. All of his musings seemed so such to filter back to how tasty ladgecakes and gadapple blossoms were, and truth, to how wonderful it would be to live far, far away from his mother, the Quing. Morning became afternoon, and he began to wonder where Nimble Missst could be. It wasn’t so such that great a distance from the hutter’s cottage in the Outerest Orchard to the witch’s Danken Wood clearing. Hadn’t that been the very why that Zootch had chosen to go there?

“Where is she?” he said, peering northwest above the trees. “The simplest clue. The simplest place. It couldn’t be more simple. I’ll get ready. Now where should I be when she finds me? Should I put on the Cap of Cloak? No. Why? I WANT to be caught. She has to know now that I want to be caught. Snapjaw mind, simple clue. And yet, where is she? Maybe I should Cap back to the Outerest Orchards and see what’s … but no. If I went there, she might arrive here. I’ll have to wait. I’ll plant myself … here … no … here … no …here … no …”

The prince wandered around the clearing, selecting and rejecting places where he should pose to be discovered. In the cottage doorway, no; lounging under a window, no; leaning against a tree, arms folded, no; sitting on the troll’s doorstep cross-legged, leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin in the palms of both hands, no. When the afternoon shadows lengthened and he lounged idly chewing on a candy cane he’d broken from a row of canes along the side of the witch’s cottage, Zootch realized something. He realized he most urgently needed to take a nap. Waiting for

something to happen that never did was exhausting.

“So she’ll find me asleep,” he shrugged.

He closed his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest, and leaned back against the cottage. Instantly he fell into a syrup of sleep. He dreamed. He toppled onto his side. Moons arrived and peeked into the clearing. Moons departed. Dawn streaked. The prince twisted awake, sat up.

“All night?” he croaked. “Where is she?”

He stood unsteadily, stretched. He reached into the pocket of his battered silver tunic. Out he brought the Cap of Cloak. He raised high it above his head. A mumble through his blue Blossom Princely lips, and he was gone.