The Fabler at Daybreak

Chapter 2~ Butterfly Girl

I hope you like the story so far!! Not much has happened, I know, I know... Gimme some time!! I'm workin' on it!

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Chapter 2~Butterfly Girl

It’s June 21st, 1891.

It rained last night.

Herra Cain is awake. So’s Dusty.

So’s the entire tavern.

Lindita Quill snatches at the wisp of consciousness she senses at the edge of her awareness. Her psyche is already wakeful and humming with thoughts.

She lifts her head off of her pillow, blinking erratically. She stumbles hazily out of her bed and scrubs crusty sleep from her eyes. The chattering voices from downstairs summon a deep irritation from within her. Along with this comes a childish feeling of humiliation.

They’re all up and at ‘em while I am still here, lost in my dreamland. They’re sitting at the bar, chattering away like little larks, and I’m missing out.

She hurries while buttoning up her liberty bodice and slipping on her petticoat. After slipping into an agreeable celadon green gown with trim the precise colour of cream, the girl coaxes her blonde ringlets into a nest on the top of her head while standing before the tall mirror on her wall.

Lindie triumphs in the tiff against her hair, then meets the eyes in her mirror with one of her fierce glares. Her chocolate eyes, as her father lovingly called them.

At the lingering memory of her father, Lindie’s glare softens, then her eyes lose their fierce look and drop to the floor in defeat.

Her parents were both outspoken nobles—though Finnish, they mixed well with the Russian government and other high Russian nobles. Aimo and Margareeta Leppälä were clever, intelligent, and agreeable. They were loud advocators for the rights of the lower classes. However, some lofty nobles found this an unworthy cause—to put it lightly. They came to the conclusion that the only way left to discontinue their voices was to discontinue their lives. Though caught soon after, amercement of the thugs will not return loved ones to our sides.

But that was four years ago; she was a young, naïve girl of twelve. She was allowed to cry then.

The fierce look is back in her eyes as she stares herself down, swiping at her damp cheeks crossly. What would the men at the bar think of you? Crying because of something that happened four whole years ago. You’ve left that life in the dust, remember? You even changed your name to a name that’s not even Finnish.

You aren’t Päivä Satu Leppälä anymore. She no longer is in existence. Your name is Lindita Orchard Quill.

With that, Lindie whirls around on her heel and storms out of the bedroom, only to pause once outside the door and dash back into her room again, trying—a little immaturely—to keep up the pout on her lips.

She hastily pulls the green blanket over her bed, arranging the two plain white pillows so one leans against the dull yellow wall and the other against the first. Stepping back, she hardly gives herself a moment to admire her work before she's at the mirror again. Sighing, she analyzes a few small spots on her cheeks, and moves on—though she mutters a light curse under her breath. She pinches first her top lip, then her bottom lip. She widens her eyes and gives her reflection a doe-eyed look. The slightest of smiles materializes.

This is certainly not her routine every morning. But why this particular morning? Her thoughts at this time hold the answer.

The time for him to come is drawing near. I've been dreaming of him more and more often, and he comes closer to the tavern with each passing day; something’s drawing him here, though he doesn’t know it yet. Nonetheless, I should at least work on my appearance for this meeting. I know fate is determined to connect us.

In the midst of this muddle, she holds the image of a foreign-looking, red-haired boy. This image is from her many dreams of this same boy. He rarely talks in her dreams, but she’s heard him enough to be able to connect it to his regular voice. His voice is as deep as the north harbour, and holds an outlandish accent that, no matter how many men at the bar she asks, nor how many nights she spends thinking, she simply cannot place it. He’ll be the mystery at the back of her mind until he decides to make an appearance.

Not able to stay away a second longer, she dashes out of her room and into the hallway. Past Cain’s room she flies until she reaches the old wooden staircase. And down that she darts as well, her fair fingers caressing the smooth oaken rail.

Bursting into the main bar room, her eyes scan the small crowd. An older man with coffee-brown hair and eyes a soft cerulean gives her a curt nod. This is Cain Nykänen’s way, and it is the equivalent of a hundred smiles and greetings.

Lindie grins sunnily back at her guardian before