Fine bits of dust settled on the alabaster window ledge. The silk curtains once stilled by night’s embrace rose as a warm southern wind lifted them, rolled into the parlor and dispensed of their grandeur resting on the figure of the Princess Alaetha and her chamber.
She lie, quiet as a sleeping army, while the soft footprints of the thief pressed into the marble floors. Closer and closer he crept, swathed on the purple sacrement robes of his clan, from forehead to toe nails. The golden sash, projecting momentary glints across the room, the only signal to anyone of his presence.
Alaetha stirred as the thief’s gloved hand slipped itself across her forearm, up her shoulder and onto her forehead. In the shine of his icy eyes reflected her wet lips, and the needlepoint-sized beads of sweat as the humidity of the Mediterranean enveloped the room and the tension of the thief’s work mounted.
She wore no jewels. All her gold, platinum and silver sat safe in teak boxes atop her dresser. Rather, the thief desired something deeper than Alaetha’s material goods. More than opportunities to boast of heists from royal lineage. Greater than even the sum of her parts.
And so, with the sign of the crescent across her forehead and a few moments of intense concentration, the thief stole Alaetha’s very soul and sealed it into a thumb-sized crystal decanter hanging on the gold belt.
She would slumber. He crept out, that southern wind pushing against him as he leapt out the window and onto the Saharan sands. Now collected amongst his stolen loot now was the woman who broke his heart on a bright summer day in a school yard, with nothing but soft fleeing footprints as an answer to his lost spirit.
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