Aylin

​They brought Aylin to me this morning. She’s the latest in a long procession of offerings—another perfect bloom plucked from the common dirt to grace my garden. My viziers tout her beauty as if they had somehow engineered it themselves, but I confess I only see a girl who is utterly overwhelmed. ​She stands stiffly, a vision of silk and freshly scrubbed skin,her eyes betray a shyness that is almost startling. It’s a good quality; silence is often preferable to chatter. There is a palpable eagerness to please about her, the kind that from knowing her entire existence now rests on my favor. It is both pitiful and useful. ​I am told she has a passion for movement, a natural, flowing talent for the dance. Perhaps that will amuse me. Better still, they say she is fond of cats. An unusual, childlike fixation, but one I can easily indulge. In my experience, a simple mind is a contented one. She seems happy, truly, genuinely so—a refreshing simplicity, almost a naivety, in a court choked with ambition and artifice. ​She is a gift. Let us see if this one proves worth the trouble of unwrapping.