A visitor
Dec 4, 2008 15:14:17 GMT -5
Post by Cendrillon on Dec 4, 2008 15:14:17 GMT -5
Cendrillon hadn't had any reply from the angel Notre-Dame, but for some reason this did on unsettle him, and on Sunday he decided to go to Paris anyway and poke around.
It was done rather tricksily, for Mourant - indeed, most faeries - did not spend a great deal of time up at daylight. Cendrillon pondered what to wear, eventually chose a pair of short school-boy trousers and a white shirt with a short little schoolboy necktie, and rang for a servant. The one that came was sleepy and wore a crown of white, wilting flowers on her head, but she would do.
Cendrillon took a carriage to the place the letter had fluttered down to and decided to get out. Paris looked so lovely to him, and also rather strangely different; he took note of all kinds of things he had not noticed before. He could not remember having ever seen some of these things.
No one seemed to notice him or his servant as they passed, with notable exceptions - as they walked own a street-corner they passed a girl with pink hair playing the violin, who turned deathly white and stepped back into the wall on accident; an otherwise ordinary if beautiful man - or woman, perhaps, in retrospect - who sat at a bench and smoked a cigarette winked at him; a fox, of all things, trotting along the ground, sniffed at their ankles as they passed. It was still rather early in the morning, Cendrillon noted, and the city's people doubtlessly still drowsy, but it was not a difficulty.
When they reached the place the letter had last been seen, Cendrillon pouted in disappointment, but waited around expectantly. The servant girl bit at her long blue fingertips and looked very anxious. She had clung to the bride the entire time but did not seem comfortable at all. She was looking rather ill.
Belatedly Cendrillon realized that this large city was filled with noxious fumes and iron and things that were undoubtedly wearing on the poor thing and that she wouldn't like the sunlight anyway. He looked over at her curiously and suggested she return to Under-the-Hill; he'd make his own way back.
She fled at such a speed that her crown of white flowers fell off. Cendrillon glanced down at it and then lifted it up, placing it on his own head. He leaned back against the wall of the dim, narrow alleyway heavily and suddenly, with a rather petulant expression, folding his arms across his chest and staring opposite himself, wondering for the first time if it would not be impossible to find this angel.
((Marquis de Carabas: tag!))
It was done rather tricksily, for Mourant - indeed, most faeries - did not spend a great deal of time up at daylight. Cendrillon pondered what to wear, eventually chose a pair of short school-boy trousers and a white shirt with a short little schoolboy necktie, and rang for a servant. The one that came was sleepy and wore a crown of white, wilting flowers on her head, but she would do.
Cendrillon took a carriage to the place the letter had fluttered down to and decided to get out. Paris looked so lovely to him, and also rather strangely different; he took note of all kinds of things he had not noticed before. He could not remember having ever seen some of these things.
No one seemed to notice him or his servant as they passed, with notable exceptions - as they walked own a street-corner they passed a girl with pink hair playing the violin, who turned deathly white and stepped back into the wall on accident; an otherwise ordinary if beautiful man - or woman, perhaps, in retrospect - who sat at a bench and smoked a cigarette winked at him; a fox, of all things, trotting along the ground, sniffed at their ankles as they passed. It was still rather early in the morning, Cendrillon noted, and the city's people doubtlessly still drowsy, but it was not a difficulty.
When they reached the place the letter had last been seen, Cendrillon pouted in disappointment, but waited around expectantly. The servant girl bit at her long blue fingertips and looked very anxious. She had clung to the bride the entire time but did not seem comfortable at all. She was looking rather ill.
Belatedly Cendrillon realized that this large city was filled with noxious fumes and iron and things that were undoubtedly wearing on the poor thing and that she wouldn't like the sunlight anyway. He looked over at her curiously and suggested she return to Under-the-Hill; he'd make his own way back.
She fled at such a speed that her crown of white flowers fell off. Cendrillon glanced down at it and then lifted it up, placing it on his own head. He leaned back against the wall of the dim, narrow alleyway heavily and suddenly, with a rather petulant expression, folding his arms across his chest and staring opposite himself, wondering for the first time if it would not be impossible to find this angel.
((Marquis de Carabas: tag!))