Darkness had fallen early that day. How, apt she had thought as she slipped her cloak around her shoulders and made her way towards the palace courtyard.
The sky was blackened by thick rolling clouds. Much like her own heart was.
She was to be married. To him. Prince Baelfire.
It could be worse, she told herself. At least he was young. But still…
His father was vile. Rumplestiltskin ruled over his subjects with an iron fist. She was to live in their kingdom, which was so far from Misthaven…
As for the man himself, he was proud yet uncultured. He held no interest in books or the world at large - only in his wine goblet and the pleasures of a game of cards.
And she didn't love him. She already knew she never could.
Yet duty and honor called, and her marriage would secure the kingdom's future. Not quite an arranged marriage, she still felt the heavy expectations of her family to make the match. Even as she found herself agreeing to his proposal, she felt like she was drowning within herself. Her fragile freedom fading fast.
Her mother, sensing her reservations, had counselled her and advised she find comfort in the church - she would one day be head of it when the two realms united. So, with three months until the nuptials, she found herself slipping into the small chapel attached to the cathedral where she would be married. Perhaps a confessional would ease her spirits-
But then she saw him. Not Father Collins. No, an altogether different prospect. A taller figure, more youthful, graceful-
This unknown man was at the small altar that was the focus of the chapel, lighting candles that flickered warmth across his handsome - and young - features. She found herself staring - bewitched. He looked like no priest she had ever seen, but the robes and setting made it certain. In fact, he looked like no man he had ever seen.
She cleared her throat.
He looked up.
Oh heavens. His dark looks held deep blue eyes that pierced her soul the minute they met her own. Emma held her breath.
"Oh, your highness, I was not expecting-"
His voice. It was deep and rich, washing over her in a silken wave. A shiver travelled down her spine.
"Please do not worry yourself," she replied, slowly moving a little closer. She found herself unable to stop staring. "I am merely here to confess. Is Father Collins-?"
"He is travelling out of the city. I am Father Jones, the new chaplain."
She wracked her brain. Yes, she had heard her mother mention something of a new minister. But she had never expected this...
Taking a few more careful steps towards him, she allowed herself to believe her shaky breaths and loudly beating heart to be but a consequence of her desire to confess and ease her burden. It was nothing to do with the devastatingly handsome young man before her.
"But I can hold confession if you wish-"
She wrung her hands together. She shouldn't. She should wait for Father Collins.
"That would be agreeable."
Edging towards one of the small wooden pews, she sank to sit, pulling her silk cloak around her body as she clasped her hands together in her lap. His clipped footsteps echoed around the small room. There was no confessional in the chapel so it was customary for the minister to sit in the row in front of the confessor as they begged forgiveness.
"How can I help you, my lady?" he asked.
She swallowed hard and thought of what she had come to say to Father Collins. It had seemed simpler when it was to be revealed to the aging pastor.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I am betrothed to a man who I do not and cannot love."
He paused a moment. "That is a … delicate matter."
Emma sighed. "Not so, according to the politics of the kingdom."
The chapel was quiet enough for her to hear the palace clock tower strike nine pm.
"The Lord says of duty that it is a cross we must bear with fortitude."
"As I plan to," she whispered. "But-"
"Yes?" he asked.
"I know it's foolish, but I can't help but dream that things were different; that I had a choice."
The priest turned his head a little in her direction so she had a fine view of his strong profile, lit by the light of the candles.
"I understand, Milady. Perhaps more than you could ever know."
Her mouth dropped open into a curious 'O'. She wanted to ask more - to burrow beneath that comment and to find what possible regrets this young man held.
But she was a princess and he, her priest. Such conversations were impossible. So she continued her confession and allowed herself to get lost in the mysterious minister's dulcet tones as he spoke of honour as the facilitator of the ablution of our sins.
Father Collins had not returned by the weekend. Emma's maid had told her his uncle - from whom he was to inherit an estate - was sick and he may not return for some time.
Emma mulled over that information as she dressed for church that Sunday. His absence would necessitate another to take his place.
Carefully she chose her softest blue muslin gown, the one with the modest neckline that made her skin glow, so her ladies in waiting had said. The one with lace flounces and tiny capped sleeves that would require her to wear a shawl. Not a dress she would normally choose for church. Her usual choices were far more somber.
Lady Lucas raised a brow as she laced the princess into the fabric. "Blue, your highness?"
"I like blue," she retorted, lashes fluttering as the corset shrunk around her figure.
"Of course," the Lady nodded, a mysterious smile about her lips.
Stays tight, she moved to start coiling Emma's hair into a braid. "Hmm," she hummed.
Emma stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She barely recognised herself recently; her expression melanchonic. A woman condemned.
"Have you met the new minister?" her friend asked.
If she had been more prepared, Emma would have not let the small gasp that escaped her lips be audible. But it was and in the silvery glass, she met Lady Lucas's glance.
"Yes," she whispered, quickly averting her gaze. She bunched her hands in the soft muslin.
Yes. She had met him. And felt her heart race a little. And found his features materialising in her mind's eye at the most unexpected moments.
"Handsome, is he not?" the Lady went on.
Emma hesitated, licking her lips before she replied. "I dare say so. Were he not a man of the cloth."
Ruby tugged on the princess's hair as she tightened the braid she was creating. "Are you saying a man of religious conviction cannot be attractive?"
"I-" she began. Her mind wandered. To those two evenings that week when she had crept into the chapel and pretended to pray. All the while instead waiting for a precious glimpse of the tantalizing priest. "I say it does not matter. For his station negates any feelings on that matter."
Ruby's reflection raised a perfectly arched brow.
"It is not a crime to find a man attractive, your Highness. Even when betrothed to another."
The princess closed her eyes as Ruby began to slide the pins into her hair that would hold the style in place.
She didn't reply.
Father Killian Jones knelt before the altar, hands clasped around his rosary. His thumb ran over the cool jet beads as the familiar words of prayer fell from his lips.
It was not long until the first service of the day. The one for the royal court.
If he were not nervous enough about being thrust into such a central role so soon by circumstance, he would surely have been so by the knowledge that she would be there.
He cursed his own weakness.
Of course he had recognised her as soon as she had entered the chapel. Her portrait hung in the city's art gallery that he had visited when first arriving in Misthaven's capital. But those brush strokes could not possibly do justice to the beauty that the princess held. Quite simply she had taken his breath away. And from thence forward been a subject of mental torture for the young priest.
It was a sin to covet one destined for another. Even more so when he was a man of the cloth. He had vowed to remain chaste and true to the Lord.
He pressed his hands more tightly together until the beads dug into his skin.
This was his penance, he told himself. Fitting it was, too. The church had been his escape from the pain that life had dealt him. Pain he had himself engineered. So it was only right and true that this escape should be sullied by his own pathetic desires.
He shouldn't want her. He shouldn't have dreamed about her every night since that evening in the chapel. He shouldn't have watched her pray over those past few days, head dipped, hands joined… loitering himself in the shadows, conjuring up indecent scenarios involving her lovely form wrapped around him.
Those images returned and he cursed his weak mind.
Oh, Killian Jones was a sinner indeed. How could he have dreamt things would change?
The vows he had promised to God danced in his mind as he reminded himself of all the reasons why this penance was his own and this was a test. God was merely testing his faith. His fortitude. After all - she was royalty and engaged to another. Surely, never such a more unlikely object of affection could there be?
Even with her golden hair and fair skin… Even her intelligent green eyes and soft voice… Hell, he shouldn't even be thinking of her. He should banish her from his thoughts-
(Though a small voice inside asked what hard was there in these thoughts of her? Thoughts were not dangerous. He was still a man with all the desires and needs as before he took the cloth…)
The princess would be there, in this holy space within the hour. And despite his protestations he knew he would find his eyes lingering on her fine form. And he knew she would haunt him once more that evening.
Aye, his traitorous mind was cruel indeed.