Monologue of the Goldfinch

Monologue of the Goldfinch by Natalia Lakes

I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies.

That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang once. Low and solemn.

The air smelled of crushed raspberries and the dark sweetness of wild strawberries. There was also the tart scent of red currants warmed by the sun, and a curious sweetness, like sugared violets dissolving on your tongue. Deep pink roses—heady and crushed velvet in the air—spilled their perfume across the courtyard, mingling with the syrupy breath of golden tulips curling at the edges.

I was perched in a ruffle of tulips, feathers bright against their blush. I wasn’t looking for a scandal—I never am. But then it happened.

They came twirling through the peony hedge, the princess and the gardener, breathless and glowing with the kind of joy that only belongs to those who have forgotten they are being watched. His hands—grubby, nimble—wandered up her bodice like they had every right to be there. And she let him. Worse—she smiled.

The castle has rules, of course. Portraits must be painted, alliances made, bloodlines maintained. But under the roses, amidst berries ripe with longing and yellow tulips too voluptuous to be proper, the old laws dissolve. I should know. I’ve watched enough summers to see when something true breaks through the lacquer of duty

She loved him.

Not the prince from across the sea with teeth like sugar cubes. Not the poet with melancholic hands and too many adjectives. No, she loved the man with soil in his nails, the one who, I daresay, knows how to hold a princess like a bloom.

History will erase me. They’ll paint her with lilies, write of her virtue, marry her off in script and tapestry. But I will remember the way she gripped his collar. I will remember the color of her cheek—flushed peony. I will remember, even when the orchard forgets.

Yes, I am only a bird. They say goldfinches bring good luck. That we carry joy in our wings. But what I felt in that moment was not joy. You see, I loved her.