She was not wicked. But she was never, ever where you expected her to be.
That night, the wealthiest merchant in the valley, old Krešo, lost his prize stallion. The animal simply vanished from a locked stable. Krešo tore his beard and offered a sack of silver to whoever returned it. aza lukava
One autumn, the river flooded, sweeping away the bridge that connected the village to the mill. The elders called a meeting. She was not wicked
The village grew suspicious. The mayor’s son, a sharp young man named Jakov, followed her. the wealthiest merchant in the valley
“Then we starve,” said the farmer.
“Now watch,” she said.
“Did I?” she asked.