Just a bit of nonsense, with younger scoundrel Robin meeting younger Queen Regina before she puts her vengeance face on.

The man was a lesser noble, hardly worth the trouble Robin would bring down upon his own head if he was caught with a hand in the man's purse, and yet he found himself at the man's heel, lazily walking his dirk over and between his fingers as he waited, heart thrilling between his throat and his gut like a living thing. John would call him reckless, irritably cuff Robin on the shoulder as he reminded the younger man how difficult it had been to break him out of the royal dungeon the last time he hand gotten handsy in such a public place, but the stolen coin would buy wine and ale, and John would forget his ire soon enough.

It was the work of a moment for Robin to move from simply taking stock of the man – fine clothes, swaggering step through the marketplace, rings dotted along each hand – to deftly cutting through the leather that secured money bag to belt and slipping back into the crowd. He whistled on the way back to camp, barely hitting the tree line before he began sifting through the coins, weighing them out into his hands with satisfaction. It was no great fortune, but it would do nicely, enough to buy spirits and new boots and perhaps some –

The smooth run of coins was interrupted by a curl of paper, thick and white, which Robin might have dismissed as kindling if not for the broken seal that bore the mark of the King. He scrabbled for the edge of the letter, swore and sucked at the pad of his thumb where the paper cut him in his haste, and read:

His Majesty cordially requests your presence at the palace this Sunday evening, for a Masquerade in celebration of the princess's 13th year…

Oh, yes, this would do very nicely indeed.

…

"An open invitation to the King's own coffers, John! There'll be pretty girls, and prettier things, and, best of all, they're requesting half the kingdom to come in disguise."

"Aye, Robin, and the guards won't have to work very hard to get your head on a pike if they discover you helping yourself to the silver in their midst," John replied with a sigh. "I'm not telling you not to go, but do try to be discreet, man."

"I'll be home before the first waltz, with more riches in tow than you've ever clapped eyes on. We'll feast better than lords tonight."

Robin knew his cockiness rankled John, knew that his confidence could lead him straight to the gallows if he let it, but he couldn't help feeling that this night had been made for him. The invitation falling into his hands, the woodland theme of the ball, even the full moon that leered down from the clouds spoke of luck and fateful design.

He had tasked one of the clever-handed lads with crafting his mask, and the boy had set to work with cloth and reeds and leaves and produced a wonderful likeness of a fox, down to the oversized ears and black threaded whiskers. Robin had washed and dressed carefully (blacks and golds pilfered from other noblemen, none of them precisely fitted to Robin's frame but appearing impressive nonetheless) and set aside his bow, unarmed except for a slim dagger concealed in his boot.

The sky was coloring, darkening, and the ball would be well underway by the time he reached the castle. He waved to John, settled the mask against his eyes, and urged his horse into a canter, already totting up the mountains of gold he intended to carry home with him.

…

The ballroom was a mess of color and sound and scent, everything unbearably rich and assaultive, and Robin was content to stand against the wall for a few minutes until the sensations sorted themselves into something more coherent. He winked at a few girls, watched as the flush of excitement spread under the edges of their masks, and perhaps he would have done more than wink if the first strains of music hadn't started up just then and reminded him of his promise.

"Blast it, John, I'm an outlaw, not a monk," he grumbled under his breath as he scanned the room for guards.

His frustration died away as he took in their appearance, watched them nod and shuffle at their posts, as distracted by drink and dancing as everyone else in the room. Footmen wended their way through the crowd, heavy trays balanced on shoulders or over their own masked heads as they travelled from the kitchens to the banquet table and back again – all through a small brown door that no one was paying any mind to.

Robin wasn't in serving uniform, of course, but what was another masked face passing through the servants' tunnels? They were sure to be dim and bustling with all manner of harried maids and cooks and hall boys, and if anyone chanced to notice him, he could easily pretend to be a wayward young lord looking to relieve himself after one too many cups.

He waited for two footmen to empty their trays and battle their way back to the door, ducking in behind them and pulling the latch closed. The tunnel was poorly lit, as he had expected, and he concentrated on matching the timing of his steps with the other men's while his eyes adjusted. One maid passed them, then two, sparing Robin no glance, and his shoulders relaxed the tension he hadn't even known they were holding. Still, it was unwise to linger in the passage longer than necessary or to put too much trust into the distraction of the servants. He cast about for a way to separate from his guides, nearly missing the door set back into the wall as they rounded a curve. Without hesitation, he swung himself through the door and closed it, shutting himself into darkness once more.

This part of the tunnels was completely unlighted – unused, perhaps, though he prayed he was not stranding himself in some dead-end of the castle – and he tripped and felt his way up the stairs, banging his shins more than once against the uneven steps, until his fingers met wood again. He had gone up one floor, two at most, and this door led to another hallway, lined with torches and more doors, that stretched before him like a labyrinth.

Robin poked his head into the first few rooms, finding nothing but cold stone floors and furniture draped with sheets until he tried the fifth door, which revealed a sitting room, perhaps an antechamber of some sort. It wasn't much warmer than the others, but there was a fire burning low in the corner, and the furnishings, though few, bore the unmistakable touch of a woman.

And where there was a woman, there was usually jewelry, trinkets, beautiful things just asking to be taken.

He stood close to the fire, enjoying the heat working its way up the backs of his legs, as he surveyed the room, seeking out the most valuable objects with a practiced eye. A gold hand mirror embedded with precious stones, diamond hair combs, sapphires the size of his thumbnail that could probably be pried from their moorings with his dagger, an enameled wood box…

Robin began to fill his pockets, and the drawstring pouch that hung at his waist, humming tunelessly as he worked and wondering what lay behind the other doors connected to this room. An apple, its redness alluring among the blues and greys of the shadows, sat on the vanity between strands of pearls and a cluster of rings, and Robin plucked it up, spun it in his hand, and bit into it, savoring its sweetness and the sweetness of the night, of the fire, of pockets heavy with riches –

"And here I thought foxes preferred hens to apples."

Robin swallowed reflexively, coughing as the mouthful of apple scraped down his throat, and whirled towards the voice that had so surprised him, fingers tightening around the hilt of the mirror in his hand as if he could turn it into a weapon through sheer intent.

"It's something out of a fable, isn't it?" the girl continued, leaning into the doorframe as she studied him.

She was small, Robin noticed, nearly lost in the folds of the gown she wore, clothed in hues of midnight and sea and sky. Her eyes were dark, curious, and her face was open to him, already freed of the mask she must have worn to the ball, something feathery that hung by her side. Her hair was partly pulled up into a crown around her head, the rest falling over her shoulders and down her back in soft waves.

Robin waited for her to scream, to rouse the guards, to do anything, but she only looked at him, still waiting for his answer, and he found his tongue again.

"Something out of a fable," he agreed, stepping forward, and when the girl did not flinch from his approach, he made up his mind to win something from her too. "Fables – they warn of the dangers of the night, do they not? You never know what beasts might skulk in the shadows."

He winked at her, piling on the roguish charm, but she seemed closer to rolling her eyes than swooning.

"Oh?"

Her voice was flat, disinterested, and Robin looked at her again, looked for something in her face that he could use to his advantage, but her eyes and her mouth and her beauty betrayed nothing to him. She was hard to read, this one, even without a mask.

"Oh?" he echoed. "And what manner of beast are you, m'lady, to be so fearless in the dark?"

The girl glanced down at the mask in her hand, turned her wrist from side to side as if she was considering it for the first time, before saying, with distaste, "A songbird, undoubtedly. Something pretty and caged."

The words were somehow not meant for him, despite their volume and their violence, but Robin could not let such an assertion pass without comment.

"Why not wear a different mask, if this one displeases you so?"

The girl raised her eyes to him, jutted her chin out with a little flick of defiance that sent heat licking down Robin's spine so that he shuddered when it hit his stomach.

"I had little choice in the matter. One does not say 'no' to my husband." She cocked her head at Robin with a bitter smile, and he realized he must not have covered his surprise as well as he thought. "Or to the princess," she finished darkly, and Robin felt the floor drop away beneath him.

His throat was suddenly dry, his limbs weak with the urge to run, and he had to wet his lips twice, three times, before he could make himself speak. "You're the Queen."

She merely inclined her head, and he wondered how he had missed it all along. She was young, far younger than he had known, and she had none of the severity or sourness of the King, but she was unquestionably royal and commanding and where she belonged, unlike him.

"These are your chambers," he said dully, "and – "

"And those are my jewels, yes."

"Ah."

"Quite."

She stepped further into the room, the light from the hearth catching her as she moved, and Robin, for all the fires he had known, had never burned as he did then for her. He felt alive and endless and so very, very foolish.

"You know, you've missed some of the better pieces," she said over the rustle of her skirts against the stone, gesturing carelessly to the mantel over her shoulder. "The candlesticks? Solid gold. I've never been fond of them myself."

"Forgive me, m'lady – your Majesty – I don't understand."

One perfectly arched brow lifted in amusement. "Don't understand what, thief? The value of my candlesticks?"

"No," he growled, and now that they were close enough to touch he had to press his fists into his thighs to keep from seizing her, claiming her with hands and lips. "Why you're doing this and not calling the guards, why I'm not being thrown into a cell somewhere, why my head is still in its proper place atop my shoulders."

Despite the shadows of the chamber, there was a heat between them, and the Queen felt it too, Robin was sure of it, from the way her eyes lingered over his mouth.

"You can't steal something that's being given to you," she said quietly, and she smiled, a teasing smile that changed her whole face, made it impossibly lovely, and this was the trap closing around him that he dared not escape.

"I came here a thief, and you would have me leave a gentleman."

"Not quite a gentleman, I daresay."

"Let me give you something in return, at least," he said, unable to part from her without something more passing between them. "What would you ask of me, m'lady? A dance? A kiss?"

"Your mask."

Her fingers brushed his cheek, curled around his ear, and he had to dip his head slightly as she raised the mask and pulled it from him, twinning it with her own in her hand. Songbird and fox – something out of a fable, indeed.

She turned from him to collect the candlesticks, unwieldy in her small hands, and he imagined asking her to come with him, to become his queen of thieves, imagined her charming coins out of half a dozen men with her words while her other hand flicked in and out of their pockets, imagined kissing her under the stars, sliding between blankets with her as the fire burned out behind them.

It was her small sigh that brought him back to himself, and he saw that she was holding the candlesticks out to him – had been for some moments now, he thought – and he took them from her, rough hands swallowing up gentler ones, and he bowed over her then, pressing a kiss onto the back of one hand as her other, hesitantly, touched along his side, his chest, and stroked into his hair.

"There's a tree just outside the window. No one will see you climb down."

She broke away from him as suddenly as they had come together, but Robin waited until the sound of her dragging skirts had disappeared entirely (and then a moment more) before he moved to the window and through it, having to pause several times on the way down to steady his hands against the wood lest he fall to his death.

He jumped the last few feet, boots making solid impact with the ground, and found a scattering of apples – red as blood, red as beating hearts – around the trunk. He plucked them up for the way home and went away whistling, nearly forgetting to get his horse from the stables as he reveled in the sweetness of the night again, a feeling like lips against his lips.

The moon was bright, and Robin, impatient to admire his winnings before presenting them in front of the rest of the camp, dropped his hand to his side to dip into the pouch that hung there, faltering, nearly missing his footing over the forest floor as his fingers met nothing more than open air.

The pouch, and everything he had pocketed besides two candlesticks and a handful of apples, was gone.

I said you could take the candlesticks, thief. The rest is mine.

Her voice, as if carried on the wind, echoed in his ear, cut him with that teasing smile again, and he let his head hang as he laughed, laughed until his lungs and his throat and his very teeth burned for her again and he had to lean against the strength of his horse to stay upright.

John was going to kill him.

He picked up the tune where he had left it – a waltz – and carried on through the moonlight, thinking of dark eyes, and songbirds, and the taste of apples.