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she had stood before him as a girl. She remembered broad shoulders, strong, lithe limbs, and a proud bearing. Now, in the unforgiving light that bounced off the profusion of cold stone and color that surrounded them, she could just make out a frail, crumpled old man almost swamped by the cushions on which he had been placed. Gretel tried not to stare, but the change in her king was so dramatic and so unexpected she momentarily forgot her own precarious situation.
    No wonder, she thought, the king had long ago given up public appearances. He could hardly go out among his subjects looking like that.
    There was a word for his appearance. One unavoidable word. Wizened. Not a good look for a king, especially when trying to live up to the nomenclature “Mighty.”
    Behind him stood a small group of men. All were finely dressed and clearly important, but one struck Gretel as a cut above the others, even at first glance. He was tallish, darkish, and more than a little handsome. She shook away the possibility that Agnes might have been on to something. This was not the moment to be sizing up romantic possibilities. If the king lived up to his reputation it would be a very long time indeed before she was at liberty to be troubled by thoughts of men in such a context.
    â€œIn the name of King Julian,” the sergeant’s voice ricocheted off the surfeit of marble, “kneel!”
    Gretel and Bruder did as they were told. The important men stepped forward for a better view of the wretches before them.Gretel felt humiliation warming her cheeks at the thought of the tufts of cotton sticking out of her shoes, the unmissable aroma of ammonia rising from her clothes, the unkempt condition of her hair, and her general state of dishevelment. She also felt her knees beginning to complain about their continued contact with the unyielding floor.
    The king stirred minutely on his bolsters.
    â€œWho are these . . . people ?” His voice had become as enfeebled as the rest of him. The sergeant bowed low as he addressed his monarch.
    â€œMy Liege!” he yelled. “Princess Charlotte has been found! She was abducted by these two peasants—”
    Gretel squirmed, attempting to straighten up. “I take issue with ‘peasants.’”
    A heavily booted foot between her shoulder blades forced her back down. “Silence in the presence of King Julian!” yelled one of the guards.
    â€œâ€”these two peasants,” continued the sergeant at high volume, “who carried her away in their wagon in the direction of the town of Gesternstadt, with the nefarious intent to there secrete her in an unknown place, for the purposes of extorting a ransom.”
    â€œWhere’s he getting all this from?” Gretel wanted to know.
    â€œSilence!” hollered the guard.
    She winced as another boot struck home. The king flapped a flimsy hand.
    â€œWhat’s he saying?” he asked his attendants. “What’s this all about?”
    One of the important-looking men leaned close to the king’s ear. “Princess Charlotte!” he shouted, so loudly that Farmer Bruder yelped.
    â€œCharlotte?” The king was clearly having trouble recalling who that might be. “You mean Lottie? Dear little Lottie?”
    â€œYes, Your Majesty,”bellowed the attendant. “She has been found.”
    â€œAnd these fellows found her?” The king’s wrinkles rearranged themselves into what might once have been a smile. “Then we shall reward them handsomely.”
    The sergeant was scandalized. “My Liege!”
    The attendant tried again. “No, sire, these peasants are the ones who took her.”
    â€œWhat’s that you say?”’
    A desperate note entered the aide’s voice, giving it a shrillness that caused everyone in the room to flinch. “Abducted! Kidnapped! Stolen away!” he screamed.
    â€œNo, no,” said the king, still smiling,