Work Text:
She watched him in those quiet moments, when they were alone in her rooms — her prison — and the skin of the night was thin. The spindle whirled between his deft hands, and the pile of straw slowly diminished, transformed into something smooth, and burnished, and glittering. The gold thread was the key that would unlock the door, and the path she would follow, unfurling from his fingers, guiding her way to freedom.