“Yesterday at school?”

“Before school, when I woke up? ... I think.” You remember your head hurt at school the day before, and you were tired as soon as you got home from Kids’ Club after school. You don’t remember seeing any colors though, not until the next morning. “Like... some of my cereal was green... and the limes in the fruit bowl!”

″That’s good, Clarke,” your dad says with a bright smile, picking you up into a tight hug. You both growl into your “bear hug” like always.

“So does that mean I’ll meet someone like you or Mommy? Or I’ll fall in love like you and Mommy?” you ask as your dad adjusts his arms to carry you like when you were smaller. You try to remember what your parents told you about seeing colors some day, so you close your eyes to think because what was once mindless, dreary gray is now a loud, growing spectrum of color. 

“It means you’ve already met them.”

“I don’t feel like I’m in love.”

“It just might take time, hon.”

You’re quiet for a moment as you think about this new information. After a few moments of silence, you open your eyes and look at your dad with eyes like yours. “Ewwww, I hope it’s not that boy, Bellamy. I like his sister, Octavia. She’s in my class. But he plays too rough at recess.”

You’ll always remember the sound of your father’s laughter at that, three perfect laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes. You laugh too, and you feel his deep chuckle rumble in his chest against yours. You wrap your arms around him tighter as you pass under a row of trees on the path, and the green leaves rustling in the wind seem to laugh with you both—everything easy and gentle.

A week passes, and now you can see the colors of the rainbow and everything in-between R.O.Y.G.B.I.V. Your art teacher, Mr. Kane, lets you stay in the art room during Kids’ Club after school. He cleans and prepares lessons while you mix the few paints he has in search of your new favorite color. Because of your immediate gravitation toward art, you parents invest in a paint set. You know they’re expensive and for grown-ups because most paint sets aren’t made for kids; painting is a skill mostly adults learn.

Your parents never seem concerned about their five-year-old having met her soulmate, but you do overhear parts of one hushed argument. Your dad insists on asking other parents at the school, and your mom says something about it making sense “in due time.” They both conclude they’re “old-fashioned,” and you’re not sure what that means, but you hear them kiss and decide to go back to bed.

You know it isn’t common for children to see colors so early and you know you’re the youngest in your small town to have found their soulmate... kind of. Out of curiosity, you start asking your classmates if they see in color too, but they all say no. Some even tease you because grown-ups see colors, and they kiss and have coodies.

You learn to be more subtle about it after.

It’s a Friday, so your mom picks you up to go to the park instead of Kids’ Club. She’ll work late, overnight into Saturday evening, sometimes well past Sunday afternoon, so she spends the time she can with you.

It’s been almost a month since you started school and began seeing the world in color. It makes you tired, trying to explain it and understand it. You're pretty sure you’ve learned all you need to know as a five-year-old and no one in school sees what you do, so you dramatically asked your dad, “What’s the point?” and threw yourself back onto your bed when he tried to get you up for school this past Monday. He had to explain that school lasts basically forever, but some day you can go to a grown-up school and just study art if you want, “if you work at it.” So you fill your nights and weekends with coloring and drawing and painting, which is much more exciting than learning math and the alphabet.

You played tag for a bit with Wells and Octavia, but they had to go home and right now you’re happy sitting at a picnic table with your crayons and activity book. Your mom talks with another mother nearby, waving and coming over to see what you’re coloring every so often. Crayons aren’t very fun; they don’t blend well and they’re made cheap and in weird hues that starkly contrast each other for kids who only see in greys, but they’re all you have since your mom won’t let you bring your paint set or special paper and brushes anywhere but art class or home.

“What are you doing?” a voice asks.

"Coloring,” you say, finishing the last petal of a sunflower. “Do you wanna color with me?” You look up and you remember her from a few weeks ago. You remember her pretty face and dark hair and the same skirt she had on for school. Now you can see her skirt is charcoal—boring and almost exactly the same as before—but her hair is brown, almost auburn in the early evening sunlight. Most of all, you notice her eyes—green like those laughing leaves.

“I’m not very good,” the girl says timidly.

You’re used to this; most kids like tracing or doodling because coloring is like schoolwork—you have to memorize everything, like, “the sky is blue, the sun is yellow, the grass is green.” You decide the grass nearby is a much uglier green than you see in this other girl’s eyes.

“That’s okay,” you say, scooting over to make room on the bench. “I can help.”

She takes off her backpack to sit at the picnic table. “Your name is Clarke, right?” she asks as she settles beside you.

You nod.

“I’m Lexa,” she says to remind you.

You appreciate it because you didn’t remember it. You feel your cheeks get warm and repeat Lexa in your head over and over so you’ll remember for next time. You notice she kept on her school skirt but changed out of the white polo private school kids wear, opting for a soft-yellow t-shirt with a sun in sunglasses on it. “You go to St. Mary’s, don’t you?” 

“Mhm.” Lexa picks up a crayon and fiddles with it nervously as she looks at it for a moment.

“You use that one for the sky,” you say, ripping out a page from your activity book for her to color—a sailboat on the water with the sun in the sky.

″I know,” she replies quietly, beginning to color the sky, careful not to get blue in the lines of the sun or sailboat.

“Sorry,” you say, unsure if you should ask if she knows her colors from school or sees them like you. Instead you decide to say, “I know you from that coffee place.“

“Mhm.”

“Our moms were sleepy and getting coffee before school.”

“She’s not my mom,” Lexa says. She doesn’t sound upset, but she keeps her attention focused on coloring the sky.

“Oh, well she was a nice lady,” you say with a shrug, “and you were in your uniform. Is it weird wearing a uniform?”

“No, but I can get ready for school real fast.”

“Hm... It just seems kind of boring to me.”

Lexa laughs and you smile at the sound and sight of her grin. “It is,” she agrees.

You chew your lip nervously before asking, “What’s your favorite color?”

Lexa looks at the half-colored paper before turning toward you to sit criss-cross applesauce. She tilts her head and hums as she thinks for a moment. “Blue... or yellow. I haven’t decided. What’s yours?”

“Blue plus yellow.”

“Equals green. Like pine trees.”

“What are pine trees?”

“Christmas trees but without the lights and stuff hanging on them.”

“Oh, yeah! I like that green. I like all kinds of green!”

“Lexa,” a voice calls, interrupting your smiles and conversation, “we have to go back to the house to pack.” A girl appears beside the table and picks up Lexa’s backpack. She looks much older and cooler than you, and also like she could scare Bellamy. Before you can say a word, the girl huffs and starts walking off.

“Sorry. That’s my sister. I’ve gotta go,” Lexa says, setting down her crayon. “Thanks for letting me color with you.”

You pout and you think your heart knows what’s happening more than you have words for. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Let’s go, Lexa,” the other girl demands; despite the frustration in her voice, she mostly seems sad.

Lexa shakes her head. “Today was my last day at St. Mary’s. We’re moving to New York City tomorrow with my new family.”

“Oh...” the sound seems to fall out of your chest. “I’ll see you again some day though,” you manage with a smile. “My dad and Mr. Kane say if I work hard enough and paint, one day I could make art in a city or go to school there.”

Lexa smiles back. “OK.”

“You want your coloring?” you ask, offering her the unfinished page.

“You keep it. Paint something yellow or blue for me when you come to New York. Like a sunset or your hair... or your eyes. I like your eyes,” she pauses before adding, “Yeah, I think blue is my favorite. but yellow is my second favorite.”

“OK, I promise.”

“See you later, Clarke.”

You wave goodbye and some minutes later, when you’re by yourself and can’t seem to color because the sunset looks too golden, your mom comes over to check on you. “Did you make a friend, Clarke?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

When your father has business to attend to, you find Alexandria kissing her family goodnight before standing to the side of the thrones. You’re making your way toward her when a peasant boy steps before Alexandria. You watch as he bows, then speaks to her. She smiles and bows modestly. When you arrive by his side, Alexandria bows to you, addressing you formally. He turns to you with wide eyes before quickly kneeling with a bowed head.

“Your Highness,” he says, remaining in position and waiting for your word to relieve him.

You have never seen your father or mother take offense to peasants’ greetings or lack of manners. The only time your father showed an ill-temper was when nobility or the wealthy overstepped their bounds in court.

“Good Young Sir, you can stand before me,” you say warmly.

He stands and offers a small grin.

“Are you enjoying the night’s festivities?” you ask.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says with a show of enthusiasm.

“Young Asher has flattered me with kind words about my performance in the tournament,” Alexandria explains.

“She is an impressive competitor,” you note, grinning at Alexandria who seems to blush.

“The best I’ve seen,” Asher agrees. “I’m the smallest of my friends, so to see someone of a smaller size defeat a knight like Sir Baldric is an incredible experience.”

You nod in agreement.

“I apologize for interrupting your night, Your Highness,” Asher says with a bow. “Please let me leave you to speak freely.”

“Worry not,” you say. “Enjoy your time celebrating.”

“Thank you, Princess Constantine,” he says with another bow before making his way back to a group of other peasant boys who eagerly greet him as he rejoins them.

“Lady Alexandria,” you say with a small bow of your head. “I wish I could honor you by name at the next tournament.”

“I have won all I desire,” she replies, the corners of her lips forming a grin with a bit of secret.

“Would you accompany me for a walk through the gardens?” you ask.

“Yes, Princess,” she says, bowing her head.

The music fades as you make your way through the garden. Alexandria picks a nearby flower you can’t name, the latest flowers having just bloomed. They’re pale pink and smell of the first days of spring after the rain. You twirl the stem between your hands, and after a quick look around to confirm your small escape, you take Alexandria’s hand and sit on a nearby bench.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, resting your head on her shoulder as you look at the flower spinning between your fingertips.

She laughs lightly, and your heart flutters just like the first time. “I have not gone far, Constantine.”

“No, but I miss having you close, like this.”

She hums in agreement, turning to you and brushing back a lock of your hair. She leans in and kisses you softly, then sighs into your hair as she holds you.

“Princess Constantine!” calls a voice from the edge of the garden. You and Alexandria stand immediately. Your chest aches as you watch her fold into herself, back to a reserved maid.

“Agnes,” you greet.

She bows and when she looks at Alexandria, her expression is blank, but she doesn’t question her presence. “The royal family is turning in for the night.” You nod in understanding. “Prince Forwin requests your company.”

You swallow uneasily. “I’m rather tired from tonight’s festival,” you say. “I would prefer getting rest early in the night.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Agnes says with a nod. “I shall tell him.” She wishes you a good night before returning to the center of the festival.

You sigh in relief and take Alexandria’s hand. You feel a certain tension as you turn to her. “I wish to spend more time with you,” you explain, “unless you wish to sleep?”

“I would spend all the hours of the day with you if you wished,” Alexandria replies, but her brow is furrowed and her voice is low and somber.

“What occupies your thoughts?”

Alexandria takes both of your hands, and the sadness in her smile puts a weight on your chest. “You are the princess of this land,” she says. “He is the prince, the future king.”

You nod. This conversation has yet to happen, and you still struggle to find words as if they will offer solutions. You know many royal marriages have involved affairs, that many turned a blind eye to their partner’s company in their chambers. The public was never to know, but if word spread of infidelity, kings were expected to take action to counter the tainted image of the royal family. This affair, between you and a maid, could be dangerous for the both of you; you could be exiled and Alexandria could face execution.

“You cannot deny him company for long,” she says, looking down at your joined hands, “not without arousing suspicion. He or his father will question what preoccupies you at night.”

“I know,” you say, and you have to take a deep breath to counter the way your heart stifles your voice. “I wish…”

“I know.” Alexandria clenches her jaw and takes a quivering breath as well. “He is a good man. There are much more ruthless and uncaring heirs to the thrones.” Your eyes burn with unshed tears when you see Alexandria’s shining in the moonlight. “I cannot ask you to stay away from him, to deny what is expected from a princess. Just know, I am still here, whether or not we are as close as we would like.”

“Is it selfish of me to ask you to stay with me on the nights I am not with him?”

She shakes her head. “Any moment you can afford to spend with me, I will gladly take.”

You want to cry, to yell into the heavens that this is all so unfair. “Maybe someday,” you say as a tear escapes you, “I will owe nothing more to my people.”

Alexandria kisses the wet path of your tears to your lips. “Tonight and many nights to come, we’ll be able to hold each other as close as we wish. We must remember that. Let that sustain us.”

You return to your bed chamber and make sure to press the flower into your book, now thick with a miniature garden between its pages. Because of the wine and the busy day, you find yourself dozing off as soon as you lie down. With Alexandria’s arms wrapped around you, the sound of her voice, recounting silly tales her mother once told her as a child, you fall asleep without thoughts of duty and honor. You fall asleep to the melody of love and the most beautiful shades of green in mind.

- - -

After a voyage to Forwin’s homeland, you return to your castle exhausted. Your days were filled with introductions and draining proceedings with tiring formalities. Most of your nights led to Forwin’s bed chambers. He was patient and kind, and one night told you that he would not ask for your company after a male heir was born. “It is unfair,” he said, “that a princess is to carry the burden of life and the future, that her body is to be possessed by tradition more than her own desires.”  Forwin was a well-studied prince, but you believe his heart is what will make him a good king, like your father.

After your bath Agnes arranged for you, just as you enjoy after any travels, Alexandria dresses you for bed. She remains silent though her hands linger as they trace your spine.

“Have you been well in my absence?” you finally ask as you turn to face her.

“Although I prefer you near, I have managed to keep busy,” Alexandria says, keeping her gaze focused on lacing your dress.

“You seem distracted.”

She sighs and forces a sad smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Perhaps I was allowed too much time to my thoughts while you were gone.”

“What thoughts weigh on you?”

She caresses your cheek. “How I long to touch you, feel your kiss, your heartbeat against my chest.”

You turn to press a kiss to her palm. “I long for the same,” you say, then leaning toward her to press your lips to hers. With little response, you step back to examine her furrowed brow as if sorting through heavy thoughts. “What still troubles you?”

She sighs as she plays with a strand of your hair before tucking it behind your ear. “I feel ashamed by my selfishness,” she confesses, “that I feel as if my heart is breaking when, in the nights I cannot hold you, I think of him… of the prince lying with you… being close to you, touching you.”

You ache all over, but you cannot find words to soothe Alexandria’s or your pain.

“You are not mine,” she says firmly, “nor are you his. You belong only to yourself, Constantine. Just know, I understand you are the princess—I understand what must be, but also know I am here. I will stay because I am sure I am meant to love you, even if it must be like this.” She swallows and takes a breath to steady herself, and when she takes your hands, she grounds you. There is nothing outside of this moment, but there is a sense of infinity with your hands in hers, the warmth of her body and the sound of her voice. “I love you, Constantine. You owe me nothing in return, for I give my love willingly. You deserve the love of many, a gentle life.”

You kiss her because words fail you, but when you part and feel her breath against your lips, you find the strength to reply, “I love you too, Alexandria. You too deserve many beautiful things, and I will try to give you as many of those things as possible.”

“Your love is more than enough,” she says in a whisper, then capturing your lips once again.

You feel tears behind your closed eyes but smile into your kiss because you have found love, something that feels like home, like heaven—it’s something you can believe in. You take Alexandria’s hand as you pull away enough to look at her. You back up so you’re sitting on the edge of your bed. “Will you stay?”

She nods, and you pull her toward you to kiss once again. You lead your bodies further onto your bed, and she briefly separates to look at you as her hands trace the lacing of your nightgown. You kiss her again as a confirmation and you feel her hands shaking as she unties the nightgown. With her body pressed to yours, your hands skim down her body, undoing any ties so you can pull the dress over her head. You allow her to do the same, so when she lies down against you, you sigh at the feeling of skin against skin.

When you sense her hesitation, feel her body trembling against yours, you give her a brief kiss. “We do not have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” you say, tenderly running your fingers through her hair.

She shakes her head and smiles, kissing you again. “I only feel trust and comfort with you.”

You shift your bodies so you lie above her and kiss her jawline. “Then let me make you feel that and more.”

The fireplace fades so only a few candles and the moonlight streaming through the windows lights the room. Once you both remove your remaining clothing, you take in her body—her skin seems to glow, and you try to kiss every inch of it, thinking the heavens must feel like this. When you finally touch her and she sighs your name into your mouth, it feels more holy than any prayers you’ve recited, more divine than matrimony, more forgiving. In your kiss, her love is overwhelming, but you do not drown; you’re baptized in her love, in the green oceans of her eyes.