Demon Stories

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

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.