I’m bored again, as usual.

I wander around the circular room aimlessly, lingering by the bookshelf, the loom, the harp, the desk and the door, respectively. But I have read all my books countless times, the threads on the loom are dull and lifeless to my eyes, my fingers are raw and bloody from playing harp too much, my hand is cramped from writing and nothing stirs beyond the sturdy wood of the door.

Finally, predictably I settle by the window and rest my elbows on the sill, my chin in my hands. Autumn has arrived and the manatu tree outside is starting to lose its leaves. If I stand on tiptoe I can just about see the glint of the afternoon sun on the river water beyond. Even in the heart of winter when the manatu’s branches are completely bare of leaves, flowers and fruit, I still can’t see past it to the road I know passes a little beyond the river. Still, though the view before me is hardly engaging, I find myself drawn to the window again and again.

When I was twelve I discovered that I was tall enough to see past a large branch of the manatu, as long as I craned my head far enough to the left. Truth be told, at that age I also needed to be half hanging out the window to do this. The window being barely a hand-length and a half width-wise, I was forced to lay my side on the sill and slide out sideways.

However, I was rewarded well enough in that I could then see into a portion of the private gardens. Here people often walked the paths and I would catch glimpses of fine clothes and snatches of casual conversation. I was careful to keep my secret concealed, but one day I was so enthralled by an argument between two young girls that I failed to hear the many bolts on the door being slid back until it was almost too late. Marguerite swept into the room to find me wriggling hurriedly back through the window. I fended her off that time with an excuse of wanting to taste the berries off the tree. Luckily it was summer then and the manatu was hung with them. I’m not sure she quite believed me, but I’m sure she knew, as I did, that the berries were poisonous and hoped that I was ignorant of this and would die without any effort on her part. Thankfully she let the matter lie and I was careful from that point onward to keep one ear inclined towards the door while I eavesdropped on the walkers.

Although I lost the end of the girls’ dispute, I had heard enough to start me thinking. I recognised one of the pair as a lady in waiting of Marguerite’s; she often accompanied her Lady when she showed visitors the gardens. The other young woman seemed to be a noble daughter from the mainland. The two were obviously well acquainted. The noble daughter, whom the other called Rhianna, gushed on about a young nobleman who had recently arrived in Camelot, how he was perfect in every way, how he complimented her, how they were completely in love with each other… Her friend listened silently for a while, but eventually could take no more and spun around to face Rhianna, who clammed up in surprise.

“How can you say you love him when you have barely known him a fortnight?”

Rhianna sneered defensively. “And what would you know about love? How can you hope to find a man to complete you when you wear no paint and cover yourself like an elderly matron?”

The lady in waiting turned scarlet. Personally, young as I was, I couldn’t see where Rhianna was coming from. The other girl – I believe her name was Christine – was, in my eyes, much prettier than Rhianna, though she dressed modestly and unostentatiously.The noble girl had a plain face with watery eyes and a down-turned mouth. Her skin was layered with powder, her lips and eyes were painted. The bodice of her dress was cut shockingly low and her arms and shoulders were bare. Her skirt was richly embroidered, but with a garishly bright repetitive pattern that quite hurt the eyes if one looked at it overlong.

“Your father is right, you should listen to him. Just because he was wrong about your last fiancée doesn’t mean he is wrong now. He is not just trying to make you miserable.”

“Why? What reason on earth could my beau have of pretending his love for me?” Christine flushed again and looked away. Rhianna gasped and stumbled backwards as though her friend had hit her.

“How could you think that?” Child that I was I did not understand what Rhianna was referring to.

“I’m sorry, Rhianna, please, I don’t know what made me think that. All I ask is that you just… be careful. Don’t go and do something… well; don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Rhianna’s face softened.

“I apologise as well, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. And I didn’t really mean it about you having no hope with men. It’s just… being with Simon makes me feel so happy. I feel bereft when we are apart. I can’t think of anything else-”

“I understand. You did, after all just tell me this moments ago.”

Rhianna smiled apologetically.

“Shall we make a deal then? I shan’t elope with Simon if you will allow me to help you find a husband.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” scoffed Christine. Rhianna linked her arm through Christine’s. “Well, for a start you could-”

It was around this point that I perceived the bolts being slid back and I was required to return inside.

This conversation is my earliest memory of love or marriage. I had never much thought about either of these subjects before. None of the books in my chamber dwelled on them and I had no one to tell me the truth of them. I was thoroughly confused by this new matter and determined to discover more.