When the Princess died, the King had her body laid upon a bier in a small courtyard. Its walls were high and windowless, and its sole door hidden away in mazes of passageways and rooms long unused. This done, he locked the door and retreated into his grief.

The kingdom ran itself mostly, and comings and goings to and from the castle were few and infrequent. When, therefore, the greenery began to grow down over the roofline to cover the windows of the castle’s upper floor, it was scarce noticed. By the time the greenery had reached the ground, a week later, and blocked all egress, it was too late to do much except hack a new passage clear with pike and sword each morning.

The King cared not, thus it was the chief steward, the baker, the librarian and the scullery boy who, upon opening the door to a small courtyard (the scullery boy was no stranger to locks, or mazes of passageways and rooms long unused), discovered the source of the problem. The bier upon which the Princess’ body had lain had been shattered to pieces of rubble by a tree that erupted from the flagstones and soared upwards, bedecked with short stubby branches and drapings of vines and creepers. Just beside the door, the Princess’ small blue shoes were placed neatly in a pair, with her socks rolled up inside.