The Punishment that fits the Crime: Day 2

Day 2

It shames to write of this, but as my punishment, I must report. Mohan has secrets. She has a secret lover, a secret wound. I caught her today, healing her own self with songs. It is more than a flesh wound of which I speak. It was a deep gash. I asked what had happened. She asked me what I had done to deserve the tower punishment.
“My father, the king, was trying to marry me off.” I told her. “He said, ‘Sweetheart, I won’t be here forever. You need protection. I need to be sure you’re looked after.’ I didn’t like the suitors. He became upset. ‘Marian! You won’t even try! Prince Ababa of Russia did not come to England for the scenery!’ I refused. He gave me the tower punishment. I refused the suitors. Angry, he reminded me what the punishment was: a year locked up in a tower with only a jailed servant to accompany me, food to eat, and a diary to fill. But I care not. My heart yearns for Lord Robin, not for some silly, posh, stuffy, tripped up prince! That is why I forbid you to ever call me Princess, my official title. I want a lord, I get a prince. If I call myself a lady, somehow, it makes Lord Robin more reachable, not just a foolhardy dream. Sometimes I ask myself if he really is so wonderful, or if I merely conjured him out of my imagination.”
“I am a poor servant.” Mohan told me. “Just one of the singers on the street. Well, we needed food. A kindly pirate-girl struck a deal with a baker. It was a challenge to duel over bread. They fought, a mighty good sword fight, but then, when he was about to lose, the baker pulled out a pistol. Shot down the pirate-girl, then came after me, saying it was my fault. Struck me with his sword before we were both arrested.” Mohan is required to keep a diary as well. I stole it, which shames me, and I read it.
It tells of a regular raggedy homeless boy. He has longish black hair, and tan skin. She has roughly sketched out his face, and his handsome features. She tells of her adventures with this boy, Koran, he is called, and the love they share. He seems nice enough, but oh how I long for my Lord Robin! If Robin were here, I would not be writing by the burning candle, weeping too many to count tears. Oh, no.
He would be telling stories in that deep voice, and then we would be laughing, him with his low rumble laugh, Mohan in her light fluty laugh, and me just laughing at the pair, glad to be alive with Robin. No, if he were here, I would have no worries, no worries.
For dinner we had meat, heated over a weak fire built from pages of this diary, a few strands of Mohan’s silky black hair, and wood Robin lowered to us. It is long past sundown, so I will retire to my bed for the night.