He watched the dance from the shadowed rafters, the women’s dresses like twirling flowers in full bloom. He gazed down on them, searching for her. The music lulled his senses, and he had to shake off sleep several times before the white rose appeared. She, in turn, was mesmerizing. From this distance, he couldn’t see the detail his memory provided; raven hair and snow white skin, her blushing cheeks, her little, wry smile. He watched the virgin spin and mingle in the sea of flowers, his eyes transfixed on the black dot of her head. She would be laying it on thick tonight, he guessed. None of the girls could match her simple beauty, her delicate poise, or that strange commingling of guile and innocence. The right word came to him, wisdom. If anyone should be made queen, he knew, none were more fit than her; therefore, none more dangerous. Would that the prince picked some wealthy man’s daughter or buxom maid. Yes, Hans knew, deep down, that he would let his prince destroy any of them but her. A vague worry passed unnoticed in his shadowy thoughts: Had God sent her to save the others?
Hans watched from his shadowed loft as the white rose moved with the gentle music, gracefully weaving her path nearer the throne. Like a spider himself, Hans’s mind began to weave as well, his schemes slowly taking shape.
Tale Told 