The castle gardener sipped from his goblet of cold cider. He watched with glee as the princess worked her soft, milky white fingers to the bone.
“How many more?” she whined as she picked at the sickly branches of an apple tree.
A risky scheme bordering on the insane. Convincing the King’s dimwitted daughter that pruning his apple trees would somehow bring her a prince.
“Only a few more, Your Highness,” he grinned.
It would surely get him killed if the King were ever to find out.
But until then, he was going to enjoy his drink and his deception.
The Weekday One Hundred 