He put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine himself as a boy, content on the stool. He thought of the warm sun and the frog-filled ponds and his cooked cream. The tighter he pinched his eyes, the harder he pressed his ears, the more he tried to remember, the quieter the singing became. At last, he thought he’d silenced it, and, relieved, he opened his eyes.

There, in front of him, was a boy, still in his nightclothes.

He gaped, astonished—it was his own self, wasn’t it? The boy, a spoon in his mouth and a bowl in his hand, stared blankly, his face pallid and dull.

The boy took the spoon out of his mouth. “Are you all right?” he asked, his face losing all its dullness. Eyes bright with curiosity, he peered at the king.

“I—” the king began, so sure that yes, this boy was he that he could almost taste whatever it was the boy was swallowing off the spoon, “you—”

But he had no sooner managed these words when the maid, the same that had greeted him the night before, came rushing through the door.

“There you are!” she said, pulling the child into her arms, adding, in the same moment with a bow, “Forgive us,” and to the child, a whisper: “This is the king!”

Bewildered, the king stared at the maid wrapping her arms about the boy. “Who is this child?” he managed at last.

“Forgive me.” Bowing again, she nudged the boy also into a bow. “This is my son. He was having his breakfast and wandered away. He did not mean to disturb you. Go,” she said, whispering to her son and leaning to kiss his brow, “go inside and finish your porridge.”

The boy skipped away. The maid bowed again. “Your mother will wish to know you are awake,” she said, disappearing into the house.

The stool began to feel uncomfortable. The king stood, rubbing his brow. A child! How had he mistaken a servant’s child for himself? Of course, they were nothing alike.

He listened to the maid’s footsteps move through the house. He heard a knock, then a murmuring.

There was his mother’s voice, the flat line. “Oh, is he here? Well, yes… I suppose. Perhaps, yes… I suppose I must… perhaps…”

With both hands, the king rubbed at his forehead. Not wanting to hear more, he crossed to the ponds, to the bank where he used to stand.

Was this the bank?

It was so hard to tell without the trees.

Where was the pond?

There really was nothing to see. A ditch, a few puddles. Dry mud riddled with cracks.

Well. It was what he had ordered. The estate, the land around it, finally made fine.

But…

He felt suddenly short of breath. “My frogs,” he whispered. “I want my frogs.” He had not realized it until just this moment, but this was all he wanted. Just his frogs. Just his frogs and a stick meant for poking. Was it too much to ask?