The mansion on the hill stood like a castle above the village, its tall iron gates glinting in the sunlight, its gardens arranged in neat rows of roses and trimmed hedges. From the outside, it seemed like a place of endless beauty, the kind of house children pointed to in whispers and imagined belonging to. Yet behind its white-painted walls, Elizabeth Burke felt as though she lived in a prison.
Her mornings were always the same. She was woken by her governess, Miss Hardy, a stern woman who smelled faintly of lavender soap and ink. Elizabeth's days were filled with lessons in French, piano, handwriting, and endless etiquette. She was taught how to sit, how to speak, how to smile politely at guests she didn't care to know. Every hour of her life was planned, every corner of the mansion carefully watched.
"Elizabeth," her mother would say, adjusting her daughter's ribbon with cold precision, "a young lady must always appear perfect. Do not slouch. Do not laugh too loudly. Do not run about like common children."
Elizabeth obeyed, because disobedience meant lectures, and lectures meant disappointment. Yet inside, her heart ached. She had all the dresses she could ever want, polished shoes, and toys from faraway lands — yet none of it mattered. What use were dolls if you had no one to share them with? What use were books if you were never allowed to climb trees and feel the wind in your hair?
That afternoon, after her secret meeting with Emmanuel by the forest, Elizabeth sat by her bedroom window. The room was large, with pale blue walls, tall shelves of books, and lace curtains that fluttered in the breeze. But to Elizabeth, it felt hollow. Her ribbon — the one she had given away — had been her favorite. She missed it already, but the thought of the boy holding it made her smile.
He will remember me, she thought. Even if no one else does.
Her mother entered the room then, the click of her heels sharp against the polished floor. She looked at Elizabeth with eyes that always seemed to measure instead of love. "Why are you sitting idly, child? You should be practicing your piano."
Elizabeth lowered her gaze. "Yes, Mother."
"And for heaven's sake," her mother continued, adjusting a vase of lilies, "do not sit by the window. You'll darken your skin. A young lady must remain fair."
Elizabeth clenched her fists in her lap. She wanted to shout that the world outside the window was alive — that the trees and sky were more beautiful than any painted wall. But she swallowed her words, as she always did.
That night, as she lay in her bed with its silk sheets, she thought of Emmanuel. His clothes had been worn, his hands rough, yet his eyes had held something she rarely saw in the mansion: honesty. He had not looked at her as though she were a fragile porcelain doll. He had looked at her like a person.
And in that gaze, Elizabeth had felt free.
Meanwhile, in the village below, Emmanuel's evening was very different. He sat on the floor beside his mother as she rubbed her aching hands after a long day of scrubbing clothes. The oil lamp cast a weak glow across their small room, the shadows stretching long on the walls.
"Did you eat today?" his mother asked, her voice weary but gentle.
"Yes, Mama," Emmanuel lied. He had given his portion of yam to her earlier, pretending he wasn't hungry.
She looked at him with soft suspicion, then sighed. "You're just like your father. Always giving, never keeping anything for yourself." Her voice broke slightly at his father's name, and Emmanuel felt the familiar ache in his chest. His father had been gone for years, lost to a fever that swept through the village one rainy season. What little they had, they had lost with him.
After his mother drifted into sleep, Emmanuel lay awake on his mat. In his hand, he still held the ribbon Elizabeth had given him. The silk felt too fine, too precious for someone like him. Yet as he closed his eyes, he imagined her face — curious, bright, different from anyone he had ever known.
And for the first time in a long while, Emmanuel felt less alone.
The next day, Elizabeth's lessons stretched on endlessly. Miss Hardy droned about French verbs while Elizabeth's eyes strayed again and again to the window, to the trees that lined the distant forest. She remembered Emmanuel's words: "Sometimes." He had said he sometimes entered the forest. She longed to know what secrets it kept, what adventures hid in its shadows.
By afternoon, when Miss Hardy dozed in her chair after tea, Elizabeth slipped quietly from her room. She tiptoed down the marble staircase, her heart pounding with both fear and excitement. At the back gate of the estate, she slipped into the open fields. The grass brushed against her dress as she ran, her parasol forgotten, her polished shoes now streaked with dirt.
The closer she came to the forest, the lighter her heart felt. It was as if something within her — something long trapped — had begun to breathe again.
And there he was. Emmanuel, carrying a bundle of firewood, his shirt damp with sweat, his brow furrowed in thought.
"You came back," Elizabeth said breathlessly, a smile breaking across her face.
Emmanuel turned, startled. "You shouldn't be here. If they find you"
"I don't care," she interrupted. "I wanted to see the forest. I wanted to see you."
Her words lingered in the air. Emmanuel looked at her — her dress smudged with grass, her hair tumbling loose from its perfect curls — and for the first time, she seemed less like a girl from the mansion and more like… herself.
He dropped the firewood to the ground. "Then come."
Together, they walked to the edge of the forest. The trees loomed tall and silent, their shadows cool against the late afternoon sun. Elizabeth's heart pounded. She reached out and touched the bark of the nearest tree, running her fingers over its rough surface.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
Emmanuel studied her, his expression unreadable. "Most people think it's dangerous."
"Maybe it is," Elizabeth said softly, "but dangerous things are often the most alive."
He almost smiled, but his face darkened. "You don't know what it's like here. You don't know what it's like… being me."
Elizabeth looked at him then, truly looked. She saw the dirt on his hands, the thinness of his arms, the exhaustion in his eyes that spoke of endless work. And she thought of her own house, filled with servants, food, and silk — yet so empty of love.
"We're both trapped," she said quietly.
For a moment, Emmanuel said nothing. But the sadness in his eyes softened, replaced by something else — recognition.
The forest rustled above them, as if it, too, had heard.
And so it was, on that sad and quiet afternoon, that Elizabeth and Emmanuel stood together at the threshold of a kingdom waiting to be born.