“Your Highness, I’ve taken the liberty of scouring the whole of the Royal Empire to find you this enormous yellow apple,” he said, whipping it out with a flourish from behind his back.
I’m not royalty, and the object in his filthy hand was neither particularly yellow nor was it an apple. It was enormous though, and marked with purplish blotches beneath its waxy pallor.
I sat there on the log in the fading light, next to the fire we’d started. I looked at this strange little man holding a rutabaga, a look of utter pride on his grizzled face.
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