On those nights, when the moon hangs by its starry hooks and the wind whispers in her ear—on those nights, she dreams. She dreams of a world drenched in scarlet; she dreams of a naked, pulsing heart.

 

When the Princess wakes, she dries her tears upon the folds of her quilt and takes her place by the lone window in her room. She rests her arms upon the windowsill, rests her head upon her arms, and imagines she can hear the sound of hooves pounding against verdure and stone.

 

“He will come one day. He will come one day, riding atop a majestic steed.” The Princess turns to face the mirror, picks up her comb, and smiles at her reflection, haloed by the dawn light. “He will come one day and rescue me from this accursed Tower.”

 

~ * ~

 

When the roosters let loose their final calls, a Knight gallops into a small town. He has business to attend to in the West, but the chill of dawn rests in his bones, and there is little he would not give for a steaming bowl of porridge. But of course, in a place like this, he dines without charge.

 

In the town inn, the Knight regales all who will listen with tales of his heroic campaigns beyond the Regian Sea. Starstruck as they are, no one dares interrupt him. No one, save the one-eyed crone whose voice rattles like sandpaper against stone:

 

“O, Brave One, your reputation precedes you. We are lowly shepherds and cobblers; there is not a warrior among us. But there is a Tower, Brave One, not far from here, and for years, our Princess has been trapped within its accursed walls.”

 

At once, the Knight recalls the looming edifice he passed on his way here. He had assumed it was abandoned. And who could blame him, wrapped as it was in tendrils of curling ivy and stained with rust?

 

“Brave One,” the crone persists, “you are her only hope!”

 

The townspeople, their faces gleaming with hope, seem to evaporate before the Knight’s very eyes. And it is a vision of absolute beauty he sees in their stead: hair like ribbons of sunshine, laughter etched upon saccharine lips. He has little need for porridge now; purpose drives the cold from his bones and the man to his feet.

 

“My lady, I shall save you,” the Knight intones, “even if it is the last thing I do.”

 

Then, turning back to the townspeople, he gestures at the serving girl. “But first, her.”

 

~ * ~

 

In the Tower, the Princess wipes a bead of sweat from her brow. She knows little and remembers even less. But she understands enough to spend her days at the loom, where she works on an ever-lengthening tapestry of mottled red.

 

For as long as she can remember, this Tower has been her home. But what kind of home has no door, only a single window for you to glean the world beyond? What kind of home traps you within its walls, forbids you from ever leaving?

 

No, it is not a home, the Princess decides. It is not a home, but a prison.

 

“It will not be long now,” she proclaims. “When he comes, his voice will sound like rolling thunder, and I will welcome the rain that follows. I will throw this tapestry out the window, and he will climb up, and he will sweep me into his arms, and he will take me away from this accursed Tower.”

 

In the meantime, however, there is work to be done, and the Princess adds another scarlet thread to her loom.

 

~ * ~

 

The road to the Tower is long, but no match for the Knight. He arrives just as dusk falls, and finding no door to the Tower, he turns his attention to the window high above, where a silhouette lingers, shrouded by a thickening layer of mist. His heart swells as the sight.

 

“My lady,” the Knight cries out, “I have come to rescue you!”

 

At the sound of his voice, a long, red tapestry comes tumbling down from the window and pools onto the ground at the Knight’s feet. He grabs hold of it. The tapestry has a strange, stringy texture, unlike any fabric he has felt before. But it, like the road, is no match for the Knight. Still, the Tower is taller than he imagined. So when he finally tumbles through the window, he can barely catch his breath long enough to bow and, straightening once more, declare, “My love, I have come to—Good God!”

 

~ * ~

 

“What is it, my knight? Why do you stare at me so?”

 

Wondering if there is something caught between her teeth, the Princess gazes past the Knight’s horror-filled eyes and at the mirror on the far wall. But her teeth, bordered by a pair of crimson lips, are as paper-white and serrated as they have always been. Her hair, too—ropes of pewter framing a face patterned with silver scales—is as lovely as it was yesterday…

 

Yesterday…

 

Yesterday…

 

Slowly, the Princess returns her attention to the Knight.

 

And she remembers: she has been here before, gleaned the same disgust etched on the faces of all the other knights who had come, night after night, in search of a fair lady, only to find in her stead—

 

“A monster!” the Knight bellows.

 

“No!” the Princess cries. “Not a monster, my love, but your princess—your one and only.”

 

“You are no princess.” Even his voice sounds the same as the others—harsh, grating, like lightning rending the sky open.

 

Violet tears flood the Princess’s eyes. “Dearest, I know, deep in your heart, that you still love me.”

 

“Love?” All at once, a cold, humorless laugh springs from his lips. “How could I ever love a thing such as you?” Then, in one fluid motion, the Knight unsheathes his gilded sword and lunges at the Princess.

 

His screams echo in her ear like a distant dream as she, by the light of the waxing moon, divides a heart—still warm and throbbing—into its composite parts and adds them to the loom. Satisfied with her handiwork, the Princess slips into bed.

 

On those nights, when the moon hangs by its starry hooks and the wind whispers in her ear—on those nights, she dreams. She dreams of a world drenched in scarlet; she dreams of a naked, pulsing heart.

 

Some things never change.

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