If he wasn’t such a cynical man, if he still had some remnants left of a soul, he’d weep with joy. But life’s been hard for Laszlo. He’d been on the streets for years picking pockets, panhandling, and swindling tourists.
Not anymore though. Not if this message from his daughter was to be believed.
The note sat open on his lap. He read it again just to be sure. She had swindled some prince into marrying her with a clever ruse about how she couldn’t sleep because of a little pea underneath her mattress.
His little girl had done good.
The Weekday One Hundred 