I sit on my window ledge high above this town, and scribble over a page on which the sun's bright light dances. When Greta looks up from sweeping the steps before my father's shop, she will see me. She will drop the broom, and rush to tell my mother of my transgression. Our servant Greta does not like to sweep, and is pleased when I disregard custom.

It is unseemly for an unmarried woman to expose herself as I do. At Greta's news, my mother will complain to my father, and my father will send his assistant Jack to tell me to close the shutters. Since the day the banns for my marriage to Jack were published, he worries about my reputation. It matters little to me. I will never be Jack's wife. I belong to the Prince of Byzantium. When I have joined my love and I am no longer here, I believe Greta will be the only one to miss me.

Jack sees in me his succession to my father's trade. My sisters, each as beautiful as the wind through the trees, have married prosperous tradesmen. They have made, as my mother says, good matches. They are both younger than I. I am all that is left of father's seed. I am the last to be planted and germinated to start the process of his life again; but it will not come to pass.

My mother would keep out the light to shade her ugly duckling. She does not care that I am unmarried, yet expose myself to the glances of strangers. Propriety does not apply to women of little worth in this town. Only those women born with the small round faces of my sisters, their lips full and pouty, their skin the softness and the texture of pure cream, are worthy to keep with care. My sisters with their small breasts and slim hips have found husbands. The rough-faced girl with the large breasts and the wide hips of a common serving wench was hidden. At last, my parents have found a man who will take me; not for me, but for what my father will give to him. 

I bend my head over the page. I am again with my prince. He stands straighter and taller than any man in the busy town over which my window looks. His softly curling black hair falls in wild beauty around his angular face. I have run my tongue over his high cheek bones to memorize them. The Prince of Byzantium wears silk robes of purple and gold. He claps his hands, and magic is born. He flies to me, and I to him. He has promised I will be his when the time has come. I feel the time is near.

Until then, I must write. We live in the swirls and the lines of the ink running from my quill to his. Our love has found a way to pass through time and space. I walk with the walk of a woman well-loved, a woman whose flesh has felt the hard beauty of a man's desire. I smell of jasmine, roses, and musk, and carry the scent of a man's lust. My mother senses this. Jack feels it. They do not understand it. They do not think it is possible.

When my mother sees me walk with the love of my Byzantine prince deep within me, she worries even Jack will not have me. She suspects I have given myself to some rough man. I do not argue with her when she says I am common. Let her believe what she will. She cannot guess where my spirit dwells. She sees my quill scratching across the page, but does not guess I am with my dark prince. She cannot hear my sighs as my lover caresses me.

My prince commanded the winds of the earth to find she whom he had sought for centuries. Finally, the cold and bitter winds of the north found me. I was sitting here in my tiny room on the third floor of my father's house, with the shutters closed against the winter. My soft hair was pulled tightly back and tucked beneath a prim linen caul, and my body of love was covered by a rough woolen shift. I was writing. 

The strong north wind blasted open my shutters. The inkwell spilled, and I dropped my quill. The winds spiraled around me, and flew beneath my shift. It was as if a million hands were seeking to know me. It was cold at first, and I feared I might freeze. The winds caressed parts of my body I had not known. I grew warm from their touch. Laughing, I surrendered to them, and reveled in this new ecstasy. 

When the last sigh of pleasure died on my lips, the winds left me as abruptly as they had entered. I ran to the window to watch the winds leave, but was too late. I shut the wooden shutters, and returned to my writing desk. The desk is the only present of value my father has given to me. It is the concession of a merchant to the necessity of a daughter's literacy. A wife must help tend the books of her husband, and thereby increase his profit.

I love this desk. I spend many hours writing at it. It is a small desk, of a fine oak, and its secret drawers tend my dreams when I cannot be with them. I returned to it, thinking to record my experience. The ink spilled by the winds had covered the page on which I had been writing. As I looked at the pattern created by the ink, it moved. It became a dark glass through which I saw a strange garden.

I gazed in wonder at the garden’s lush greenery and brilliant flowers. A summer sun played with a gentle breeze among the leaves. The sweet scent of thousands of roses awakened my desire. Without knowing where or what this garden was, something within me knew it was my true home. This was a garden where desire and love were touched and tasted. Value was in craving the feel of wild grass beneath one's bare feet, or in delighting in the patterns created by the petals of roses. These were things that could not be sold. This was experience. This was my heart's dream. How could a woman be ugly whose senses were filled with desire? 

I felt the light touch of a man's hand as he wiped the tears from my cheek. I looked up and into his dark eyes. I had never seen a man of such beauty. The men of business, who stride over the cobblestone streets of my town, were nothing when compared to he who sat before me. He cupped my rough face between his palms, and gently kissed me. His lips were full and soft, and tasted of sweet spices. For a moment, I forgot who I was, and that I was not valued by men. I gave myself up to this first kiss. 

He drew away from me, and smiled. I tried to hide my face from him. I rose from the bench on which we sat beneath a tree covered by deep red flowers, and looked for escape. I could not bear to see his eyes turn from my homeliness. 

"Stay, my love," he said. His voice was strong and clear. "I have searched for you long and hard. Do not take from me the hunger and the desire the north winds have brought to me. Stay."

I turned to him, but bowed my head. His strong arms encircled me and drew me close to him. He kissed the top of my head, then laughed. I stiffened, still afraid. 

"No, no," he said. "It is this thing you wear on your head. Whatever this hideous thing is, it must come off." He pulled off the caul I wore, and let my braid fall free. His fingers played through my hair. "Yes," he said, "you are as I have dreamed."

I felt his tongue trace the curve of my neck. Shivering, I forgot who I was. I knew only the warmth of his body close to mine, and the flames rising between us. His slender hands drew my coarse woolen shift over my head, and I stood naked and trembling before him. His eyes flowed over my breasts and my hips, and painted me with his desire. My nipples hardened as his brush touched them, and I felt moisture between my thighs. His silk robes of purple and gold fell from his shoulders as he drew me to him.

For the first time, I felt the wonder and the beauty of a man's body. I delighted in the feel of my nipples crushed against his hard, flat chest. I do not know how I knew what to do, but I did. I trailed my palms lightly over his shoulders and down his muscled arms. His hair stood up beneath my touch. I laughed as it tickled me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to memorize his narrow hips and his strong thighs. I wanted every part of him. 

I slid down before him, and gazed at that which I had never seen, but which now I wanted. He was erect and hard. I burrowed my nose in the coarse dark hair crowning his sex. He pressed my head close to him, and I know I would have stayed there forever inhaling his scent. 

After a time, he too fell to his knees, and took my face between his hands. His tongue softly touched mine. His taste was sweeter even than the honey my father sells. He pushed me down until I rested beneath him on the grass. I should blush when I think of how his lips and tongue explored my body. I cannot. I can only long for the gentle bite of his teeth on my nipples, and the touch of his tongue on the folds of the lips between my thighs. 

I gladly gave him my maidenhead. It did not hurt because I longed to feel him deep within me. A little blood was shed. It was so small a price for the pleasure. He has taught me to crave him. Each day I must write so that I may see, touch, taste, and smell him. He has made me his, though he says it has always been so. He has created me from roses and jasmine and musk. I live within his desire. He is my dark prince. He is the King's own son. He is the Prince of Byzantium.

"Marcella, Marcella," Jack calls. 

I do not answer Jack. I continue to write. Jack is nothing to me. He would have me bound to him for the price of my father's shop. My prince wants me, nothing else. He longs to set me free. He despises the garments I must wear to hide my body. Now, when I meet my prince, I boldly untie the ribbon holding my bodice close. His soft hand cups my breasts, and he sighs. He will clothe me in flowing silk that will open with the touch of his desire. 

Jack pounds on my closed door. 

"Marcella," he says in a loud and stern voice he thinks will please my mother. I long to tell him not to worry. He will have my father's trade. He will not need me. In time, all will be his, and he will have it without the rough-faced girl who will not have him. 

Jack has thrust open my door, and stands glaring at me, his arms crossed. 

"Marcella, you must close the shutters. Or else move back from the open window. It is not seemly," he says.

I have memorized this speech. I hear it most days, especially on those days Greta feels cheated that she, who is lovely like my sisters, is the servant, while I, who am ugly, am the daughter of the house. She punishes me for this. I do not mind. At least Greta sees me. 

There are those in this town who have never seen me. At the village fairs the men of the town have walked by and have glanced at me, and, then, without a smile, have looked elsewhere. I have watched them take their partners at the May dance. They choose the prettiest, most valued women with whom to dance around the pole. It does not matter now. My prince knows I am beautiful. 

The great Prince of Byzantium impatiently waits for our marriage. It is the timing of magic that keeps us apart, and allows only brief visits. When the winds gather to play, as they do each century, at the crossroads of dark and light, and, when day briefly becomes night, then may a rose be joined with a man. I am my lover's rose. The time comes soon. It may be today. I sense it near. I will be avenged, not with violence, but with the possession of a love that will last an eternity and be sung about forever. 

I smile at Jack, and return to my writing. 

"Marcella. Now. You must do this now," Jack says with more force. It makes me laugh. The quiet voice of my lover is as a roar compared to the mewling of this boy with the sour face. My laughter sets Jack stomping down the stairs. Next it will be my mother who will visit my door. 

The time is soon. I feel the winds gathering in the distant place that is to be my home. I hear their laughter. The winds are playing together. It is midday here, and yet it is growing dark outside, as if the night has forgotten its proper time. 

I hear my mother's heavy tread as she walks up the stairs to my room. Does she not see that the sun outside has been covered by the dark of midnight? Can she not hear the winds in their play? The time has come to join my love. I am right. It is today. It is now.

"Marcella," my mother shouts from below my room. She shouts when she is angry. She has only ever shouted at me. I am her disappointment. This time, she will not find me. Her ugly duckling will have flown to her own true home. 

"Marcella," my mother shouts again. She is much closer to my room.

"My rose," I hear my prince call. "Now, my love. Come to me. It is time." 

I drop my quill. There is no further need of it. My mother's footsteps sound closer. I will not miss her, or this world. I stand at the window. The sun is covered. In the dark of day, the playing winds have found me. 

"I come, my love," I call.

My dark and beautiful Prince of Byzantium takes my hand. His love has found me across centuries, and we will live forever. We walk across the night of this day, touching the stars, holding hands. He leads me to where the soft clouds wait for us. He will clap his hands, and we will fly to our garden beside his father's golden palace.

As I fly through the night, I hear my mother's scream. It does not matter. I am the Princess of Byzantium. I am loved. 

Copyright © 2002-2003 S.F. Mayfair. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.

Sacred Exchange:  Stories of Spirituality and Transcendence in Dominance and Submission by Lisabet Sarai (Editor), S. F. Mayfair (Editor)  ISBN: 1562013475 Through stories of ritual, communion, telepathy, devotion, dreams, commitment, and personal transformation, Sacred Exchange portrays how the bonds of trust between dominant and submissive might lead to emotional and spiritual revelations.