The Fairy King's Bride

Chapter 1 - Green Hill

The night was long and still, and when the ghastly moon awoke amidst the residence, down followed the beacons of the night, shining brightly a deep canary.

Unknown to what caused the stillness, only that it was as though not a human soul dare to stir the calmness. Out in the darkness, a willow branch stirred, as the cold winter blew in from the distant hill. While the fog that had crept out of its slumber, entangling the many fountains that populated the terrace, seemed to make the silence of the night more unbearable.

A deafening wind ushered inland by the Atlantic stirred needlessly, freezing the Port in little time, spreading its reach to the stretch of rolling green hills and trade roads that Vienna was built on, atop the cliff overlooking the town, the orphanage existed, the changing of the season was quite beautiful from that view, and at the center of its many towers, a window emitted an intense light—that cut sharply, like a lighthouse that beckoned home all the restless creatures of the night.

Inside, the corridors breathed dust when the floorboards settled. Shelves bowed under the weight of untouched books. A candle guttered on a nearby desk, its flame leaning with each draft that pushed through the warped frame of the window. The light filtered through the wafer-thin curtains billowing in the wind. A clock on the mantle ticked, brass hands taking time, and between the ticks, nothing answered. Time was holding dominion, until the absolute came swiftly to an abrupt end, morbidly wounded by a knock—soft, but decisive— and followed by the hesitant creak of a door.

"Forgive my interruption, Father."

The Reverent Father lifted his eyes, the faintest crease forming between his brows. He was old. He no longer was the man he had once been—age had seen to that, wearing him down with a slow merciless patience. And yet, despite the sudden interruption that jarred him from his thoughts, his body still moved with a grace that belonged to someone half his years.

From behind his great oak desk, he rose, the leather of his chair whispering like a dying breath. With a practiced, almost ritualistic motion, he nudged the spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, lifting them with a flick of his finger. He studied her over the rim of his spectacles, her movements, the lamplight stretching her shadow long across the stone floor. Olivia, the orphan, currently standing at his doorway— her lips pressed into a tight line, her black hair with the faint sheen of sweat, and them big brown eyes locked firmly on the floor, avoiding the full weight of his attention.

"Speak child, what is it?" His voice calm, but tinged with urgency.

Olivia clasped her hands tightly around the wooden cross hanging low from her neck. "A maiden hath appeared," she hesitated, catching her breath, "And worse, she has refused to leave till she has spoken a word with thee, Father."

"Her name?"

Unease betrayed her continence as it crept across her face, swallowing her whole, causing her to shift her weight underneath the crinkled nightgown desperately currently clinging to her armpits. She recalled having ushered the maiden into the sanctuary of the drawing-room, her senses having been ensnared by the labyrinth of propriety and hospitality, as dictated by her position, and in her diligent fervor, the simplest act of soliciting a name had slipped her mind altogether. And now, she stood in front of her superior, what possible excuse hath she to offer for her stupidity?

She shook her head. "Alas, Father," she confessed, her voice masking her fatigue. "She did not offer one."

"The purpose, then?" Surely she has spoken of that? he pressed, lifting his head.

A faint sigh escaped her lips. "Nay, Father, she has said nothing of her business here."

The Reverent said nothing further. He leaned on the edge of his desk, sifting in his mind the roster of partitioners, vagrants, merchants' children. Someone's daughter he thought, burdened with such troubles, that now would seek solace within the sanctuary of his monastery? And what dire circumstances could have possibly driven her to his abode on this most dreadful night? He felt an unexplainable unease by the sudden appearance, a disruption to his well-ordered night, now completely ruined. And still, his shrewd intellect recognized the gravity of an uninvited stranger driven by intent, particularly one of potential importance could have on his reputation, and so decided that she would not be brushed away or left unattended for too long. "You need not worry any more, Sister. It seems that we are in for an eventful evening after all," he proclaimed, his voice a soothing reassurance. "Kindly inform our guest that I shall shortly join her company in the drawing-room."