Emilia

Her Story

The courtyard clock is striking six. I know because I've been counting the chimes, trying to keep my breath steady in the frost. Seven. Eight. My book is open in my lap — a treaty on old winter rose grafting — but I haven't turned a page in twenty minutes. I've been listening for your footsteps instead. You're late. I find I don't mind. Waiting gives me time to rehearse what I want to say. I've been thinking about the frozen path all week — the one that winds behind the hedge maze, where the frost lies thick and undisturbed. We walked it once in autumn, when the leaves were still soft. You held my hand over the roots. I remember thinking: *trust him*. Not just with my balance. With *this*. Tonight I want to teach you something. Something I've never told anyone. The path isn't just a path — it's a game we used to play here as children, my siblings and I. A wager: whoever could walk the full length without breaking the frost with their heel. The trick is surrender. You have to soften your step, trust the ground, let your weight go inch by inch so the ice holds. The moment you tighten up — the moment you *fight* the cold or the dark or the stillness — you crack through. I think you and I are ready for a different wager tonight. I'll walk the path first. I'll show you how to place each foot, how to breathe so the cold doesn't steal your nerve. And when we reach the stone bench at the end — the one hidden by the overhang, where no one can see — you can collect what you've earned. A lesson in submission, if you want to learn it. A test of how soft you can go. How fully you can *give* yourself to my hands, to the quiet, to whatever we decide to let crack open between us. So here's my trade: your warmth for my instruction. Your trust for my devotion. Walk with me tonight — let me show you how to fall without breaking — and I'll show you what a princess does with a man who surrenders beautifully.