Page 47 of The Silent Princess

“What is it?” I let go of his hand to sign. Coming closer to the table, I take in the treasure he brought us to see.

“It’s a collection, Ella. Letters exchanged between a woman named Eleanor and her lover, Thomas. They were written in 1670.”

Am I dreaming? This cannot be real. Tristan did not bring me here, into the archives of this library, to show me a treasure he took the time and effort to find for…me. I blink hard, twice, but the same room remains around me. Definitely not a dream. I glance at him, his eyes shining with a spark, a confidence in the way he points at the sepia shade letters, showing interest in something he normally never would, since this is not chess, or historical wars and battles related, or any of the things he seems to truly enjoy. Yet he seems connected to these people, as if they are part of our story. I want to stop time and write it down, so that I will always know the exact minute I fell in love with him. Right now. In this dusty place, with his presence around me feeling like a cloak of safety and love and recognition melted together. He brought me here, because he sees me.

“You okay?” he murmurs with a quick frown, and I have to pick my jaw up and offer a short nod, trying to ignore the drums in my heart playing at full magnitude. My index finger roams over the glass, above the dozen pieces of paper and ribbons holding stacks of letters, some closed, some open for us to see. The writing is round and elegant and other times tighter, harder. Nevertheless, there is an urgency to it, and my heart hears them, the endearments written in ink above each letter.

To my dear Eleanor.

To my Thomas.

“She was his maid,” he states, a hint of pain tugging at his strings, “and he was a noble Englishman. They had to flee the country to be together, turning their back on their lives, all they’ve ever known. Rules, customs. If you look closely, you’ll see they wrote about it, about fleeing together, about her being beaten by her family and him trying to help her in any way he could. I thought, given that you’re studying English literature, perhaps you would be sensitive to this, given…” His jaw clenches, and he signs, “Us.” The word holds its breath in the air.

“Tristan,” I say silently, a tear rolling down my cheek, fireworks detonating in my heart. He wanted to show me something meaningful. To me. About our story. About what we could be. “Thank you, I…I love it. I’m…” Speechless, unable to process the amount of care and research he took into bringing me here.

“Ella, I need you to understand.” His hand finds my arm, both of us too close to ignore the evidence of fate.

“I…can’t,” I sign, trying to convince myself.

“Why?”

“You’re a businessman.” I wave at his suit. “A rich one. And I’m, like her, just a maid.” He shakes his head, as if annoyed by this description of me.

“I’m a man, and you’re a woman.”

“I…I really appreciate you bringing me here, but please. Don’t do that. Don’t act like this doesn’t exist.” Our differences are as big as mountains. It may be okay for us, but what would his family say?

“Look at me.” He catches my chin gently, forcing my gaze back to his. “Right now, right here, I’m just Tristan.”

“But…”

“No but. Tell me you don’t feel something when we are in the same room, and I will back away. Tell me I am making this up, that I do not make you blush every time I set my eyes on you, that the second we are apart, there is not this particular pain inside us until we see each other again. Tell me I am the only one who has trapped you inside my mind, and I will go away. Tell me we have nothing to do with them,” he murmurs, pointing at the letters, pain slipping from his cracked voice, “and I will walk away.” His hands have found a home on the side of my waist as mine hesitantly rise to his chest, laying a claim I have no right to.

My fingers meet his shirt and the muscle beneath it, just there, under the fabric, makes me feel things I should not. His lips hover above me, calling me, begging me to oblige the most indulgent temptation I have ever tried to steer away from. Time stops as I hold my breath, rising onto my tiptoes, accepting his invitation into a world of possibilities. My senses catch fire, and I snap my fingers once, checking my own vitals. This is not a dream. My lips find his, both of us holding back as if indulging in this kiss would be our downfall. I close my eyes. Featherlight. Weightless. The motion is soft and careful, contrasting with the wave, bigger than a building, crashing over me as I stay still. We part, his thumb gentle at the corner of my mouth, his scent invading me like inevitable fog. How can he be so gentle when he looks so… as if he came out of a boxing match and straight into a suit? Every cracked part of me wants to hide in the crook of his neck and beg him to take me far away, yet another part has both feet rooted in the bitter taste of reality.

I am just a distraction to him, an open window into a cage he needs to free himself from for a few moments. And then he will go back to the mundane, the fancy, the beautiful women wearing gems and designer coats. Women who can actually make small talk and converse about the economic state of the world and their last holidays in Paris. Trying my best not to ruin the moment, I close my eyes, photographing yet another new memory. Words dance in my mind, poetry filling the cracks of my heart.

afternoon walk.

from an ancient love

under the library

may that kiss

protect me

from the inevitable

f

a

l

l

“I’ve been waiting a lifetime for you,” he murmurs against my skin, the dim light reminding me that this is all we will ever be. Hidden.