Carol Starkey sat at the table, smoking, and did not sleep again that night. Here she was, scared to death by a dream.

The Fencing Master In Starkey's dream, she hides in darkness beneath the stairs in a great stone tower that belongs to a beautiful princess. Starkey has never described the dream to her shrink because the players are embarrassingly obvious. The first time she woke from the dream, she thought, jesus, you don't have to be Sigmund to understand that. Starkey is ashamed by what she believes the dream reveals.

In her dream, he is the fencing master. He never arrives nor leaves nor has a story to tell, but is forever trapped in the moment of her dream. She has never seen his face, but he has the build and grace of a dancer, clad in leather tunic and tights. He carries himself with the pride of his past as he was once the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor. Now, he visits the tower each day to teach the fencer's art to a beautiful princess. The princess deserves no less than the King's Hero. He deserves no less than a princess.

Starkey hates this fucking princess.

The princess, too, has no face, but Starkey - glumly - knows the fucking bitch is hot. Honey-colored hair cascades over flawless golden shoulders, and a rich velvet gown drapes a body that is strong, athletic, and perfect.

Starkey, meanwhile, wears burlap rags, has dirty feet, and has smudges on her checks. She has somehow made her way into the tower, somehow hidden herself beneath the stair, somehow watched their endless lessons from her secret place, and through it all has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Every time, the dream begins the same:

Starkey, hidden, watches as:

Great stone walls rise high around them, lit by the copper flickers of torches and candles. Tapestries hang on the walls; a fine rug muffles the stone floor. To one side, a heavy oaken door leads to the princess's chambers; to the other, a similar door leads to the outside. The room is empty, like a ballroom; its details missing, like a dream. The fencing master and the princess thrust and parry in perfect unison, back and forth, eyes locked in total concentration on the other. Their foils gleam with bursts of light, the steel tinkling like chimes. He thrusts, she parries, she counters, he denies, back and forth until sweat runs from their brows and their breath is quick -

Starkey, after she wakes, will roll her eyes and think, "I get it! They're FUCKING!"

But not now -

Now, in the dream, her breath quickens with his. She wants to be the one on the floor with him; she wants his eyes on her, seeing only her. She wants to rush from the shadows to take her rightful place -

-but she does not.

She wears burlap, not velvet.

She is flawed, not a princess.