Chapter 22: Whispers in the Moonlit Garden

I first saw him among the procession of dignitaries, come to pay homage to my father in the Audience Hall. He was of noble blood, a prince of a neighboring province, with skin the color of burnished cedar and eyes dark as the earth after rain. His bearing was proud yet gracious, and his voice, when he spoke the ritual greeting, was calm and deep.

For three days, the court entertained him with banquets, music, and ritual offerings. Each day, I watched from behind the carved screens with my sisters and my ladies-in-waiting, never daring to show my interest too openly. But I felt his gaze searching for me among the veils.

On the night of the great feast, when the oil lamps flickered low and the guests slipped away into slumber or wine-soaked dreams, I slipped out into the garden to calm my restless mind, accompanied only by my most trusted maid. There he stood alone, waiting quietly by the pool where the sacred lotuses had folded their petals for the night.

He turned at the sound of my sandals. “Princess,” he said gently, bowing. “You honor me.”

“I ... I only wished for air,” I stammered, eyes lowered.
He smiled. “And I wished for you.”

My heart pounded so loudly I thought he must hear it. “You ... you should not speak so boldly,” I whispered. “If anyone saw...”
“No one sees but the moon,” he said, glancing upward. “And she will guard our secret.”

I could not help but smile, though I blushed and looked away. “I should go back,” I murmured.
“Stay, if only for a moment,” he pleaded. “Do you truly wish to leave?”

I shook my head, unable to lie. He stepped closer, and I could smell the subtle perfume on his skin, something rich and foreign, like spiced resin.

“Tell me,” he asked softly, “why does a princess with eyes brighter than the stars fear to speak?”
I swallowed, struggling for words. “Because I have never ... been alone like this, with a man.”

He reached for my hand, so carefully, as if I might break. “Then let me teach you. I will do nothing to frighten you.”

He brought my hand to his lips, and my breath caught. “You are trembling,” he said.
“I am not afraid,” I whispered. “Only ... I do not know what comes next.”
“Nothing,” he answered. “Nothing that you do not wish.”

His hands began to roam, tentative at first, sliding softly over my arms, down to my waist. I shivered beneath his touch, shy, yet a fire flickered deep inside me that I couldn’t deny. His fingers traced gentle paths along my sides, exploring, learning, as if committing every curve of me to memory.

He leaned closer again, his breath warm against my skin, and this time his lips pressed more firmly to mine, deepening the kiss with a hunger that both scared and thrilled me. My heart pounded in my chest as the world around us faded, leaving only the heat of his hands and the ache growing between us.

The man whispered something into my ear.

I blinked, unsure at first. “I’m sorry, what was that?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
He drew near, his breath hot like the wind before the flood.
“Part for me,” he whispered, “so I may taste if the Nile has risen.”

A strange mix of fear and curiosity twisted inside me, but somehow I found myself submitting. I bit my lip, heart pounding, as his hand slowly began to explore between my legs. His touch was cautious at first, fingers brushing my thigh, inching closer and closer until I felt the lightest stroke over my ḥnṭ (vulva/clitoris), right on top of my embroidered, ultra-fine linen.

I glanced down at his hand, his fingers were long and elegant, with neat, trimmed nails that glistened faintly. There was something almost comforting about the care he took with his hands, even as they wandered so boldly over me.

I wanted to close my eyes, to surrender fully to the sensation flooding me, but I knew I had to keep calm, keep everything above the table looking normal.