“What about the Miller’s daughter?” a trembling voice squeaked from behind me.
What about the Miller’s daughter? Did he really just dare to question me? I stopped abruptly, and turned to face him. He stood before me, a lanky, skinny boy with a mop of reddish brown hair that flopped over his eyes and covered half his face until he was nothing but lips and freckles. He was but a pesky mouse in my presence, so small that even my shadow towered over him. I leaned down, pushing my nose so close to his nose that they were just shy of touching, mere millimeters of air between us.
“What about the Miller’s daughter?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you kidnap her too?” he squeaked again.
I let out a loud laugh from deep within my belly, and spat it in his face. “Do you really think that I kidnapped you?”
Image Credit: Flickr.com | Martin Beek “The Miller’s Daughter”