Demon Stories

Violette: The Fairy and the Prince, 1787, Vienna, Austria

Violette

The Fairy and the Prince

1787, Vienna, Austria

What a strange thing it is to find yourself alone and with nothing at all to do. This is what happened to me on this night just like many nights. However this night was to be so different, it is beyond comparison.

I was dressed in all black, as if in mourning. No one bothers the ones who are in mourning. I was wandering around the city, too lazy to go someplace else. Beau was off doing something. Diana was nowhere to be found. What was a girl to do all alone? 

So I broke into a house. 

I quietly opened the large window, pushed it inwards, and slipped inside. I was met with gilded framed walls which held magnificent paintings and equally splendid mirrors. I traveled about the house, looking at these paintings as if this were my own private museum. I was looking at them for what seemed like hours. I began to notice the occupants of these paintings were all the same, except the people in them were aging. As they grew older, some would disappear and never be seen again. As is life.

As I tip-toed through the house, I began to hear some sort of sweet trail of sound. It wandered around and followed me like a stumbling child who was trying to grab my skirt. Silently, I fluttered into the room which contained the sound and my eyes were surprised.

Making this sound was a child. I would guess somewhere between the ages of 14 and sixteen. He sat perfectly straight, his hands floating over the keyboard of a light green piano. He was focused intently on the sheet music before him. Before my eyes, he picked up a quill carefully from the top of the piano and made a quick, sharp correction with it, placed it down, and began again. Miraculous. Had he written it all himself? 

I watched him for a bit. He played and played, never once breaking concentration on his task. Over time I noticed he was not the best player, which was unfortunate. However, with his diligence I guessed he could become quite better. 

I wondered where this child's parents were. I had passed many bedrooms, and not one bed was occupied. It was not early evening at all, it had to have been quite late. 

I heard it before he heard it. The door downstairs opened and the sounds of stern, heavy boots filled the air. The boy heard the boots. He jumped and quickly gathered up his papers, taking his quill and ink bottle with him. He ran down the hallway and into one of the smaller rooms. I swung down the stairs and peered into the greeting space in front of the front entrance. 

A severe looking man in full white wig and upset looking black clothes was standing there, taking his time, removing his heavy coat which was wet with the rain and putting his hat on the small table in the hallway. He didn't look angry, really. Just lined with age and perhaps bitterness about life. I guessed this had to be the boy's father. 

I glided back up the stairs, far ahead of the man. I peered into the boy's room. 

The boy had put away his papers and the quill and ink were on his desk. He was putting on his bed clothes quickly. I looked away casually from this. I heard the man coming up the stairs slowly. He took his time, as if pensive. It was at this time I entered the boy's room and clung to the wall, my back to it.