Whenever I visit the castle village, tale-hungry young urchins latch onto my
arms and ankles, demanding and shrill. I reach deep into my pocket, pick out a
story, test its weight on my hand -- like an apple -- then gently blow it free
of dust. When the tale’s suitably freshened and ready to be told, I'll sit in
the center of the square, on the cracked stone beside the well, and tell it.
Humbly, I must admit that I do love to tell a good story. I collect them, as
it were. And yes, I keep them in my coat pocket.
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