That night I cannot sleep for a mixture of resentment, trepidation and the still present dreaded heat. In my nightdress I slip from the bed and slide onto the windowsill. I have become used to sitting awkwardly on the narrow ledge and worn it smooth over the years. I stretch a hand out into the night air and watch as it becomes dappled in moonlight that filters though the manatu leaves. A longing begins in me to exit through that window and never come back. I want to fly out above the moonlit landscape I know lies behind the manatu branches, leave the island of Shalott behind, cross the river and find a new life in the lands beyond where everyone is allowed to come and go as they please. I sigh. This isn’t even the most unrealistic of my dreams.

The rising sun finds me curled up asleep in my cream armchair which I have dragged around to face the window. It is early yet but i know I shall not return to sleep for all that I have lost much of it the previous night. I am just beginning to rid my hair of its tangles when I hear someone whistling near to hand. The sound comes, not from inside the tower, but from the ground below. I run quickly to my haunt at the window and lean out trying my best to catch a glimpse of the whistler. The sound is getting further away. Desperately I call out, “Hey!”

The whistling stops. “Hello?” I try again.

“Hi there… wherever there might be.” The voice is young and male. I guess that its owner is perhaps twenty summers, maybe less.

“I’m in the tower, of course.”

“Really? Are the stories true then?”

“What stories? I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Are you a bastard child, or a previous wife of the king’s?”

“No, of course not!” I am horrified. “What would make you think such things?”

“A witch, then, with power enough to bring a whole army to their knees? Or perhaps you’re a magical bird given to the king on his wedding day, and you can only turn to a woman under the cover of darkness.”

“The sun is up,” I point out to him. “And no, I am neither of them.”

After, I assume, pondering this for a moment he concludes, “You must be a madwoman then.”

I giggle. “No. Guess again.”

“I’ve run out of ideas. Tell me who you are then, if none of the stories are true.”

“I’m just a girl,” I admit. It sounds dull to my ears after the youth’s fantastic stories.

“What are you doing in the tower?”

“Not a lot!” I reply as I sink back into my armchair.

“Are you really a prisoner?”

“Yes. You ask a lot of questions,” I admonish.

“Well, it’s not everyday that a voice assaults me from the trees. But it is every day that I have work to do. I’d better be off, Princess. I’ll see you around – or not.” And off he goes, whistling his merry tune. I don’t even have the chance that I’m not a princess. This is my first encounter with anyone apart from the king, Lady, maids and guards in years. Words have even been exchanged. It is so long since I have even been involved in friendly conversation that isn’t just for the purpose of conveying important messages. Happiness wells up inside me, and I don’t know why. He has asked me a few ridiculous questions, a man I don’t know the name or face of, and it is enough, and it is enough to make me think that things are changing in my life. For the better.

The king does turn up later that day. I am still smiling from my encounter with the whistler, but manage to ask for a scissors to cut my hair with, along with a mirror to make sure I don’t make a mess of it. /I also think to ask for a glass of wine along with my evening meal. Wine is mentioned often in my books but I have never tasted it, having always, I assume, been too young. All this in exchange for my promise to complete the bedcover by the following day. The king submits to my will on the mirror and wine with nothing more than a glower. He refuses me the scissors however, and sweeps out of the room in a bad temper. I suppose he is afraid that I might try to stab myself with the scissors, or some such. I am far too precious to him for him to risk my death.

Before I was taken to live in the castle, as I mentioned before, my brothers and sisters and I used to help my parents in their work. I was just three years old when I began to weave and quickly picked up the skill. My mother was amazed at how quickly and neatly I could work. Soon she had me working on separate commissions instead of the drudge of the same pre-designed pieces made over and over again for sale at the markets.

When I made a bedcover for a woman with a dangerous disease who is not expected to live past the next week, she recovered within the month and relatives joked that it was the ‘weaver baby’s’ work that made it so.

Soon after an old man for whom I made a hat swore it had fought off his baldness and caused his hair to grow back. After this my wares became even more in demand, not just because of their beauty and speedy making, but also for their acclaimed healing properties. It was no longer a mere joke.

This was why the king wanted me for his own and took me to love with him at the castle. He hoped that my healing weavings would have some effect on his wife. Marguerite was ill ever since she still-birthed a baby a month before my abduction. I did indeed manage to cure her, or at least something did. The king keeps me on now, presumably so he can wield the power of his all-healing weavings over his subjects in need. Tyranny like this is his speciality. No one knows where they come from. Barely anyone knows I am here. It is a sad existence, sitting alone in my tower room, weaving at the king’s command and losing out on a real life.