Branded

      There was no escape, a way in but not out. Even the water sparkling with diamonds must evaporate and begin again. She must become a different brand of woman, innocence would only take her so far. She worried that she would not be up to the task, that she would be a poor housekeeper with maggots stealing the food from their mouths. Would she manage to sing honeyed sweetness into her King's ear? Could she become his Queen in the arts of love, a vessel for his bodies joy?
     She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening the the sounds exposed from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and steeled surface. She passed through the lozenge of light that walked down the landing through the day as the arced through the  vaulted oculus and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now.
     Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the glass finger. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.