Words to the Wise
Aunt Sylvia isn't actually my aunt. I think she might be my mother's aunt – or maybe Grandmama's cousin? – but we call her Aunt Sylvia anyway. She turns up every few years to tut at me (if she tuts at Elsa I've never noticed it) and she writes letters between-times, letters that I'm sure are well-meaning but nevertheless always manage to get my back up. And she's here now, of course. For the wedding, which is tomorrow.
And because I'm getting married tomorrow (tomorrow!) I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink. I'm in bed, though, at a respectable hour, in my nightdress and with the front of my hair in curlpapers, and I'm just sitting up to snuff the candle when there's a knock at the door.
"Yes?"
"Are you decent, dear? It's Aunt Sylvia."
"You can come in, Aunt."
Aunt Sylvia shuffles in. She has on her nightgown and slippers, and a heavy dressing gown, with a nightcap over her grey hair. She looks anxious, and closes the door very carefully behind her before sitting herself down in the chair next to my bed.
"It's all right, dear – no need to get up – I just wanted to have a little chat. Felt it was my duty."
I sit up and fold my hands on the covers. I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but I've probably done something wrong – her mental rulebook for princesses is very long and very detailed - so I try and look contrite. Let's get this over with.
But she just sits there, for several minutes, seemingly unable to meet my eye.
"Felt it was my duty," she repeats, "being as how your dear mother has passed away, and your elder sister is unwed, and there are some things a young bride should know. Before her wedding night."
Well, I wasn't expecting that. I'm going to laugh. I mustn't laugh at her. I clasp my hands together and say a silent prayer – Please, Lord, don't let me laugh in Aunt Sylvia's face when she tells me about the birds and the bees, because as you and I both know, it is a topic on which I already have a fair amount of hands-on (as it were) experience, and I'm sure we can manage to work out the rest. Amen.
"It can be a shock for a young woman, the issue of – conjugal relations. I, myself – well. I would not want you to be upset. On such a special day. And your fiancé is, after all, of a different – well. Than ourselves. Better to be prepared."
Aunt Sylvia was introduced to Kristoff earlier. He's a good foot taller than her so I'm not sure how she looked down her nose at him, but she managed it. He pretended not to notice so I did too, comforting myself with the idea that tomorrow he'll have a title and she still won't. I know it's childish and I don't care. I'm not sure what kind of an oaf she thinks he is.
She's talking again, and I'm either going to laugh or say something that shocks her, so I try and think about something else, to distract myself. Something nice. On maybe a similar topic.
"He's kissed you before, I'm sure, and a kiss on the lips can be a pleasant token of affection –"
Kristoff kissing me. Kristoff kissing my lips, my jaw, my neck, pushing aside the fabric of my blouse to kiss my collarbone as I run my fingers through his hair and over the nape of his neck.
"- but once you are married, you will be expected to give him not just your heart, but also your whole –"
His hands are on my hips, holding my body tight to his, and I step back, pulling him with me into the alcove by the window. The heavy velvet curtains fall around us like a cocoon, a safe warm space between the empty ballroom and the rain falling outside the glass. He kisses me and kisses me and his hands roam over my body, stroking, caressing, always holding me close.
"You may be aware, dear, that a man has a – well, and when a man wishes to lie with his wife it –"
My arms are wrapped round his neck, and as he presses his chest against mine I shift my hips, lifting a foot off the floor and running it down the back of his calf. He puts his hand on my thigh, then slides it under my skirts, holding my leg in place as he finds the inch of bare skin between my stockings and my underwear. I moan against his lips and I can feel him hard against me, through far too many layers of clothing.
" – and as well as being part of your wifely duty, it is also the method by which children are conceived, so worth submitting just for that, dear."
Footsteps ring out in the nearby corridor, and he lets go of my leg, pulls back until we're just barely touching. His breath is warm in my ear. Tomorrow, he whispers. I pull his head down and kiss him, my whole body thrumming with the promise in that one word. Tomorrow.
I'm pulled back to the present by the realisation that Aunt Sylvia has stopped talking.
"I'm sorry to make you blush, child," she says, "but your husband will have certain expectations. "
Am I blushing? Probably, although not for the reason she thinks. Behave yourself, Anna.
"Thank you, Aunt," I say, to fill the silence. "You've given me a lot to think about."
"Well – don't let it disturb your sleep, dear – there is much more to marriage than what goes on in the bedroom." She reaches over and pats my hand. I manage to look up and meet her eye, and she is smiling. "You're a lucky girl, to be marrying for love. Appreciate it."
"I do. Believe me, I do."
"Well, then. Good night, dear. Sweet dreams."
"Good night," and then she's going, thank goodness. The door closes behind her and I fall back against the pillows. I'm very glad that's over.
I'm just about to snuff the candle for the second time where there's another knock at the door.
"Aunt?"
"What? It's Elsa."
"Oh! Come in."
She opens the door and enters, closing it behind her with a click. "I thought you were Aunt Sylvia," I say. "She just left."
"Really? What did she want?"
I pat the bed and Elsa sits down, then swings her legs up and lies down on her back next to me.
"She was just concerned that I didn't have anyone to give me advice. You know, before my wedding. On...marital relations."
"Marital relations."
"Yep."
She turns her head to look at me, slightly horrified.
"I tried not to listen because it was too, too embarrassing. But she went into a certain amount of...detail. Apparently it's pretty unpleasant."
"Gosh," Elsa says. Then she catches my eye and we both descend into giggles.
"Poor Aunt Sylvia," I manage to say.
"Poor Aunt Sylvia," Elsa replies. "I hope you were paying attention to her little talk, though. I mean, one day I might marry, and I'll need you to give me all this information."
And we're off again, giggling into our hands like naughty children.
"No, wait, it wasn't marital relations. It was conjugal relations. That is such a good word, conjugal. Makes me think of – conjuring. Snake-charming, or something."
"Well, I'm not an expert," Elsa says, composing herself. "But I understand there is a certain amount of –" and she makes a gesture with her hands.
I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the bed.
"You know that cabinet in the library," I say once we've calmed down. "The one that was locked because the books were only for grown-ups? How old were you when you decided you were a grown-up and picked the lock with a hairpin?"
"I never picked the lock with a hairpin," Elsa says severely. "But only because when I was 17 I found out where the key was hidden. How old were you?"
"Fifteen."
"I'm shocked, Anna."
"Sorry."
"You could have damaged the lock, poking at it with pins."
"Sorry." A pause. "Some of those books were very educational, though."
"Mmm."
"Maybe we should lend them to Aunt Sylvia."
"Anna!" But she's giggling again. "Don't be unkind. Poor Aunt Sylvia."
"Poor Aunt Sylvia."
We lie there for a while, looking up at the canopy.
"It's weird," I say, "to think this is the last night I'll sleep here. I've slept my whole life in this bed."
"You don't have to move rooms," Elsa replies.
"I know. I do want to, really. A fresh start. It's just weird."
"Weirder than sharing your childhood bed with your husband?"
"True." Pause. "I don't think Aunt Sylvia likes Kristoff very much."
Elsa sighs. "You have to understand. She's from a different generation. I think a lot of our older relatives think I – indulge you too much. It's true, if Papa was still alive, you'd probably have had to marry someone more..."
"Suitable?"
"Yes. No. Anyway. It's not their decision."
"They think you're wasting me. Princesses are a valuable commodity."
"You aren't mine to waste. Or use. Anyway, I'm too selfish." She turns her head to look at me. "If I'd married you off to some foreign prince or duke then you'd be gone and I might never see you again. By letting you marry a local commoner, I get to keep you here, with me."
"I would never have left you alone."
"You would. Before."
"No! Never."
Elsa smiles, but it's a sad smile. I wonder if she'll ever believe how much I love her. That I would never have let some man take me away from my sister. "I should let you get some sleep," she says, sliding off the bed. "Long day tomorrow."
"Mmm." I look over at the dress waiting on the stand. Tomorrow. I'm getting married tomorrow.
"Sweet dreams."
"I'll try not to have nightmares. About, y'know. Conjugals. Men and their appetites."
She gives me a Look – older-sisterly, a touch regal, but still fundamentally amused – and slips out of the door, shutting it behind her.
I put out the candle at last and snuggle down under the sheets. And when at last I fall asleep, I do dream about Kristoff. But I'm not going to tell you what.