• 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 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.

    The boy was at his desk now, his hand on the drawer. He was staring intently at it, lovingly but also sadly.

    "What is that?" I asked quietly.

    The boy jumped and fell on his bed backwards. I gave a small, affectionate smile.

    "Do not be so amazed, it is only I," I said.

    "What are you, why are you here?!" The boy said in a hushed tone, staring at me.

    "I am but a fairy," I whispered with a smile.

    "A fairy," the boy said, smiling, "am I dreaming?"

    "If you wish," I said, gliding to sit on his bed.

    At that moment, heavy footsteps found the top floor. The boy dove on the bed suddenly and clapped his hand over my mouth in the effort to cause me to cease speaking immediately. My heart jumped and my unmoving mouth studied his skin with my skin. His hand was rough, but gentle. The skin a little hard in places, callused. Not what one would expect from a boy from a family as well off as this one seemed. He worked very hard, that was evident. His fingers were so long from the base, slender and strong yet with a fluidly light sort of touch. This boy. I knew then. His hand told the story. He didn't just play the piano, oh no. My brain was very, very curious. What more did this boy know?

    The boy's breath caught as his father's figure came into the doorway. I felt the blood of his hand begin to pulse wildly and nervously, fearful.

    "Johannes, why are you not in bed?" His father asked in a well-worn sigh, the space between his eyebrows creased. This had happened before.

    "I, um, I was waiting for you, sir," the boy sputtered.

    "Fine then, and I am home. Go on to bed," his father said, shaking his head, unmoved, as he strode off towards somewhere else in the house.

    As soon as his father had gone, the boy looked at me, incredulous.

    "You are a fairy," he said breathily, "how can he not see you?"

    I just smiled. "To bed," I said, opening his window to leave. "I want to come back tomorrow. I want to hear you play!"

    "Is that why you came? You heard my heart music?" he asked, getting under the covers.

    I smiled and nodded. He gave a smile now, a small one but still there. It gave me pleasure to see.


    We sat on the piano bench together by the candlelight. I listened to him play and watched his elegant hands. He had refused to touch the piano without cleaning his hands thoroughly first. Such respect for his instrument had me smiling. He seemed to glide over the keys anew, unlike before. My company had seemed to cause a change in him, in his mood.

    Over time together, I began to play with him. He wasn't entirely surprised that I knew how. "You are magic, after all," he grinned.

    In these sessions together, he began to tell me things. Soon his sad story became clear.

    He had been taught the piano by his mother since he was a very young boy. Both of his parents were music teachers, but his father of the violin, of which he also was taught. He had taken interest to other instruments as well, such as the cello and the oboe. However, he found he loved the piano more than any of these combined. His heart belonged to the piano, as much as it belonged to his mother whom he had loved so very much. He had his mother's hands, he said, showing me. They were larger than women's hands, but the shapes of the fingers were no doubt feminine.

    "And your mother...?" I asked, trailing off to invite him to speak.

    "She has gone," he said sadly, his head down, staring at the keys of his mother's beloved green piano. They keys were well worn, well loved for many years it looked like. The instrument itself seemed lonely, longing for touch. Just as much as this boy was. "My father, he has never recovered. He's gone into the instrument trade now, selling and buying. He never plays anymore."

    I touched the boy's hand, pressing his finger to cause it to press a key, making a comforting high sound. He looked over to me, his eyes shining by the candlelight. He sniffed and tried to smile for me. "Let us play. I thought of some new things today," he said, pressing his lips together thoughtfully, turning a fresh page in his papers.

    We played long into the night. As with every night, when I heard his father's boots I tapped him and we gathered his things and went to his room.

    I no longer left at night. I slept in the same bed with him, holding him. He would shake and shiver in his sleep. I wondered what he was dreaming of. In the mornings he had private study with various tutors. I would stay in his room, looking over his compositions. I dared not compromise them, however.


    One day, there was a happy surprise trip arranged by his father. The boy would be going to tour gardens. I of course went along. We walked along the paths, hand-in-hand, his manservant walking a little ways behind him. However, the boy was suspicious.

    "This is not like my father," the boy said, his pale blue eyes squinted a small bit by the thoughts of his negative ideas. "Something is up. I don't know what."

    I tried to take his mind off of this. "Tell me," I said, changing the track of the conversation, "tell me about the piece you are composing."

    "It is not of the ordinary," he said, immediately brightening, the music in his head.

    "How so?" I asked.

    "Well," he said, thoughtful, "I started it with my mother. She was with child, and wanted to write something for the family. She knew I liked to change composers' pieces. Rather than discouraging the desecration of masters' works, she asked me to change her's. 'Our project', she called it. So we sat together, writing together. It was the most blissful time."

    He stopped in the path then. He looked at me. "But then she lost my brother's life. Then she lost her's, too." He clutched my hand more firmly. "But...she didn't lose it naturally."

    I looked at him quizzically. He swallowed and turned his voice to a whisper. "She took her own life," he whispered.

    I squeezed his hand comfortingly. "She left us," he continued. "I don't know why." He paused and then looked at me again, his face red, full of sorrow but also of determination. "I am going to finish her work," he said bravely, "our work."

    I kissed him on the cheek then. I don't know why I did it. But I did. He turned bright red and touched his cheek. "Soft," he said, breaking into a relieved grin. He swung my arm assuredly and we continued on our way.


    When we had returned the piano had gone. Left was an empty room, with worn spots where the weight of the piano had rested, three small spots.

    The boy stood in the doorway, staring at where it had been. "He's sold the piano," he said, his emotion unclear to me. Anger or sadness? Both? He would not move, and this I understood. We stood there for a long time. I could smell the piano's scent. I could smell his skin and her skin. A strangely sweet, chalky smell of the piano's wood and paint. Musty, old book-like scent. The odor of spent candles, and finally of his ink and the quill itself.

    Finally he moved to the center of the room, and sat between the three points, hugging his knees closely to himself. He slowly began to rock back and forth and quietly the tears came. He said nothing and I sat next to him. I wrapped my arms around him to soothe his grief however I could, but nothing could stop his rushing walls of sorrow.


    I could not take him with me. He would just slow me down. But I knew what had to be done. I could smell it. I knew where it was.

    Flying, I followed the scents of his beloved. They formed a telling trail. I could smell his father, his sweat. His father must have known what he was doing was wrong, to sweat this much. Was it money? I didn't go too deep into the why. There are things which you do not take away from loved ones. Things that become no longer your's to take, if ever they were your's.

    Building after building, the scents became stronger. I could see the piano had not been sold to a private house. Finally, I alighted on a small doorstep. Above the door was an ominous sign. "This shop sells instrument parts," I read. A dreading feeling filled me. I broke the lock and stepped inside.

    Within was a scene of which I was not sure would cause horror or delight to the boy. Gutted instruments were hanging from the ceiling, boxes of brass and silver scraps. Naked violins and cellos. Some appeared to be quite old, smelling ripe with age. The piano was not in this room. I glided deeper within.

    I stepped into another room, a large room. Here my eyes were met with a depressing sight. Many pianos lined the walls. Many had no strings, no hammers. Clearly they had been gutted when need called. I sighed at the sight of a particularly delicately painted and sculpted harpsichord in the corner. But I didn't smell the piano in this room. Luckily this room of madness had not been its fate.

    I wondered at the sanity of a man who would sell something so dear to his family to a place like this. How desperate could one be? Surely it was more profitable to sell as one piece on the monetary side. But like I cared. No. What kind of Father could hurt his son this way? He knew that piano was important to not only his son, but to his wife. The motivations of grief go only so far. Had he forgotten love?

    I could feel anger welling up inside of me. Familiar anger. All feelings of compassion went away for him.

    He had sent the love of his family to be gutted. And I would gut him.

    The smells were overwhelming now. If I closed my eyes, I could almost be in that small room with the boy, if I ignored the other smells in this place. The piano was here. I stepped lightly into the next room and opened my eyes.

    In the darkness, I could see almost nothing. I saw large ghostly shapes illuminated barely by the tall windows on the side of the room, lightened slightly by the tender moonlight. But as I closed my eyes, the smell led me to the precious piece. My hand rested on the familiar body. This was the piano. I opened my eyes and there it was. Perfect. In a showroom. I sighed in relief at its wholeness.


    I flew back to the house, the piano held as securely as I could. The boy saw me coming and opened the largest windows of the house, in the common room. I delivered his beloved piano back to him and he cried in relief. He hugged his dear, and I heard him whisper in just a breath, "I'll never let you go, dear Mama..."

    He arranged his sheets of paper and smiled at me. "I've finished," he said blissfully. "I'm calling it 'Mother's Suite'. Play with me, please."

    It was a gorgeous piece of work. Surely not the best in the world, but gorgeous in its way. Full of love between mother and boy child. Tender moments, even comedic at times. Most meant to be played by two people on the same piano. Meant to be played by mother and child, of course. But the ending was wrenching. So full of despair and sorrow. Then just at the very end, a sudden upturn of events. A high pitched, overcoming emotion I couldn't quite place. Not sad exactly. Not happy exactly.

    When we had finished, he took my hands. He just smiled at me, silently. Suddenly, he hugged me tightly, and for a long time.

    "What will happen when my father comes home?" the boy asked.

    "I'll take care of it," I assured. "You'll get away from all of this."

    He looked at me curiously, but asked no questions.


    As the boy slept I waited for his father. I sat at the piano, reading over "Mother's Suite". The boy deserved love. The boy needed stability. I went over the faces I had seen in their family portraits. There was one which stood out in my mind. It was a happy looking older woman, her hand gently carressing her grandson's cheek in the piano room. He must have been no more than 6 years old. But I saw her in more portraits after that. She looked like the boy's mother did. I could think of no better place for him.

    I heard the boots one more time. One last time. I positioned my hands at the keyboard, at the ready. I heard the door open. Brightly, I started the beginning of "Mother's Suite". The footsteps paused for a long moment. Then quickly they began to become louder and louder as they neared at a fast pace. An angry pace.

    I broke into a grin and began to play at a faster pacing, matching his footsteps. My hands flew wildly over the keyboard, playing the part of Mother.

    The doors burst open and there stood the severe man all in black, the most angry look of hatred on his face. His mouth opened to speak, a yell perhaps, but he never got far enough.

    I looked up and he fell backward in a gasp. "WHAT ARE YOU?!" he cried out.

    I continued to play, grinning at him. "I am death~," I sang out in perfect matching melody, "you are my patron. I will take you away~"

    And in a flash I was upon him. The very best music was hearing the sweet victory of his terrified screams, and the calm breaths of his son asleep snugly in his warm bed, finally free at last.