As I was saying, the king is coming personally to pay me a visit. I knew as soon as I heard that I would be ordered to weave something.

At first I wait patiently for the king to arrive, by the window as usual, hoping for a draught to come and rupture this stifling heat. It’s a perfectly summery autumn’s day; the birds are singing and the sun is baking down on the gardens. Locked up in my gloomy tower I get no sunshine, just the suffocating warmth. A shout of laughter drifts over on a sluggish breeze and all of a sudden I’m bubbling over with anger that I’ve held inside for so long. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the feeling of being left out; whatever it is I’m just so sick of meekly doing as I’m told, more of a zombie than a real person with a life of her own. My hands are clenched into fists and I’m shaking. I close my eyes to try and calm myself, but I’ve bottled it up too long.

I lash out unintentionally and catch the edge of the desk. The books on it tumble to the floor in a heap. I knock over the loom, sweep the remainder of the books of the shelf and throw cushions from my bed across the room. Still I’m not satisfied and I throw back my head and scream and scream and scream.

When I finally lower my head, panting and with tears pricking my eyes I find that the king is standing in the doorway surveying the mess I have created.

Strangely for me I don’t even care about the disdainful look on his face. I cross my arms defensively and make no move to clear up. I know my face must be red and my hair a flyaway bird’s nest but couldn’t care less. My tears have left no trace – I don’t like to let them think that I’m weak.

When the king looks up from the torn books underneath his feet I meet his eye defiantly.

“I need another bedcover by this day next week. And no fancy embroidery like last time.”

As he turns to go I wet my lips.

“No.”

He stops in his tracks.

“Excuse me?” he asks coldly.

“I said no.”

I have no idea what his reaction will be and I am beginning to get nervous. I can see his mind whirring behind his eyes. Finally he seems to come to a decision.

“What do you want? What can I give you to change your mind?”

I had been bolstering myself to repel his anger and at first am too shocked to speak. My mind works quicker than his though, and I know him well so I know to say something before he guesses that he has surprised me.

“Books,” I blurt out quickly.

“More books?” he asks, his eyes flicking back to the ones on the floor.

“I finished those years ago.” I can see the surprise on his face and surmise he must be one of those people who thinks of reading as a chore, as I once did.

“New books it is then. Now get to work.” He leaves straightaway.

Still shocked over the way things have turned out I pick up the loom and begin spinning. A servant delivers three new books to my tower later that day.

After flicking through the books for a while, my mind wanders and I find myself wondering about the earlier events. When I expected to be punished I was given gifts; for the first time in my life I had done something in my favour. Will it work again? Have I finally gained some control over my life? I’m eager to try again, but resolve not to do it too soon in case I push my custodian too far. In my mind I begin to make a list of things I’ve always wanted. This inevitably leads to me attempting a summary of myself, as those strange chains of thought tend to do. Who am I really? And how am I to know; one can surely not be capable of judging one’s own self justly. But who else is there to ask. I’m too frightened to ask of Marguerite or her husband the king, for they would surely laugh at me and scorn me. My guard never says a word, no matter how much I pester him – I don’t even know his name. My friend the maid left the palace long ago, I know not where for. There are two maids that serve me now – one is as timorous as a mouse, to scared to even look me in the eye, the other is a conceited chit a little younger than myself who never stops talking. I would take a good guess that there is nothing but air in her head. No help there then.

My world shrinks again until it fits into the palm of my hand. I feel tiny and delicate, like the wind could come and just blow me out of existence at any given moment. Since tears aren’t an option for me, I’ll have to figure out what is.