Page 18 of Apples Dipped in Gold
“Samara.” He said my name, warm and breathless, then his eyes fell to my lips, and I was spellbound as I waited for him to kiss me, but then the carriage came to a hard stop, and I was thrown forward into his arms.
Outside the carriage, there came a thud, a scream, and then a shout.
“Run, Your Highness!”
I felt an overwhelming burst of fear. It was sudden and hot and made my heart race. I pushed away from the prince, meeting his gaze. He did not appear to be afraid but angry, his mouth tense. Suddenly, I remembered the fox’s warning from last night—Tomorrow, your carriage will be set upon by thieves. You must not move or make a sound, or they will kill you. Wait, and you will be rescued.
The memory was hazy, as if it had been a dream, but here it was happening.
I started to speak, to tell the prince what the fox had said, but before I could, the carriage door flew open, and the prince spoke. “Take what you want, but do not harm—”
His words were cut short, and I found myself splattered with something wet. I blinked, temporarily blinded by it, and wiped my eyes, only to see red stain my fingers.
Blood.
I looked up to see that the prince was dead, an arrow embedded in his eye socket. He fell back against the seat limply.
My mouth opened in silent horror as panic flooded my body.
I wanted to scream as fear clawed at my chest, but I could only think of the fox’s words, so I stayed silent and still, even as the thief pulled me from the carriage by my ankles to the ground, where I hit hard, head ricocheting off the earth.
I bit down on my tongue as pain exploded behind my eyes, and still I did not move, even as the thief straddled me. I expected him to do something terrible, but he only frowned as he stared down at me. He was a grisly-looking man, large with dark, stringy hair and a wild, unkempt beard.
“Oi! What is it, Peter?” a voice shouted.
“Oi, Arthur!” said Peter. “This girl, she is as still and silent as a statue!”
“Oi!” said another voice. “Perhaps she is dead.”
Peter stared down at me. “I don’t know, Puck. Her eyes are open.”
“People die with their eyes open!” he argued.
Peter put his ear to my chest. I was repulsed by his sour smell and where we touched. Everything inside me was desperate to shove him off, yet I remained still, as if the fox’s words were magic and froze my limbs.
After a few seconds, Peter straightened. “No, her heart is beating!”
“Maybe she is mute!” Arthur called.
“Are you mute?” Peter asked.
I did not move, not even to shake my head.
“She isn’t answering!” Peter said over his shoulder.
“Perhaps she cannot hear you,” said Puck.
Peter looked down at me and then yelled. “Can you hear me?”
I just stared at him.
“Oi, you idiot!” Arthur said. This time when he spoke, he sounded closer. “If she cannot hear, she will not understand you!”
“How do you know?” asked Peter. “She might read lips.”
After a few seconds, the man I presumed was Arthur came into view. He was equally as repulsive, but his hair was shorter, and he had a mustache that was so long, it curled into his mouth. Then another joined. This must be Puck, the third thief. His hair was red and stood on end, and while he was clean-shaven, I suspected it was because he could not grow a beard.
“Where did she come from?” asked Puck.
