It was a bright and early morning, and the sunlight that streamed through the windows of the station was welcomed with cordial vivaciousness. For Belle French, this only enhanced her mood as she made her way to the familiar flower booth that her and her father owned.
Well, it was now just hers, but to the onlooker's eye, it was still the property of Maurice French, and she liked to think of it as that. Her father may be gone, but that did not mean the flower shop wasn't his, and Belle worked hard to preserve its golden reputation that they've gathered over the years.
"Hello, papa," she said softly to herself as she adjusted the newly imported flowers. Fresh off the train, she pressed in closer to let the aroma envelope her and she sighed in content.
After fixing the flowers, Belle withdrew a small poster board from her case and searched for an appropriate spot to place it. Taking a step back, she eyed the flower stand and decided that just under the sign would do, so she found a stool and began to fix her poster.
HELP WANTED stood affixed in bright red lettering, and with a pleased smile, she stepped from the stool to look at her handiwork. Surely someone would notice and take the job? With her father gone, the work had piled tenfold, and she was no longer able to keep reasonable work hours. She just needed someone to take inventory and help out with customers; it wasn't a big deal, and she found a new appreciation for her papa for running the booth for as long as he did.
She drew her usual apron around her body and tied a messy knot in the back to hold it in place. Brushing back some flyaway hair, she stood ready for the morning rush; it was often her favorite time of day for business.
You had the everyday folk who purchased flowers out of courtesy—perhaps they were meeting someone important or new. And then you had parents who often bought a small daisy for their children as a token of familial love. But her favorite were the lovers—the unsure ones who tentatively asked for roses, knowing that roses were the utmost show of affection. Sometimes Belle guided them in the meaning of flower color, but red was always the most popular.
Speaking of which, she should probably get to clipping the thorns before the rush came in. Finding her scissors, she gently began to cut the thorns off, one by one, letting them fall into the bucket below her.
"Excuse me mademoiselle, may I trouble you for a rose?"
A smile lit Belle's face as she placed her scissors into her apron pocket. "Of course, sir! What color?" She turned around to her stockpile, awaiting her customer's request, but after a brief moment of silence, she turned back and a gasp flew from her mouth.
Belle's seen her fair share of odd customers. It was only to be expected working in a train station and the amount of lives that converged and diverged were nearly infinite. But the man that stood in front of her was a different entity entirely. He was dressed well, no doubt some sort of gentlemen, and a gold pocket watch adorned his right side. But, it wasn't his clothing that put Belle off. No, it was his skin that was a ghastly shade of mudded green. His eyes were large and his hair twisted in a strange way that drove her curiosity wild.
Realizing her rudeness, Belle regained her composure. "What color, monsieur?"
The main tilted his head in an almost child-like fashion and he gave a disturbing grin. "Red, dearie, but I do have an odd request to make. The rose I require needs thorns. I assume that you have some in your inventory?" He nodded his head towards Belle's handiwork, and she nodded back in return, already finding the paper to wrap the man's rose in.
"That'll be five francs," Belle said, extending the rose to the man. He gave an outlandish giggle that startled her as he plucked it from her hands.
"Thank you," he replied through his strange candor. "I'm afraid I don't have…Francs. But I hope my form of currency will do." And with that, he withdrew a hearty amount of gold from his pocket and placed it into her hands.
She expected his hands to be cold, or for his peculiar skin to feel like gooseflesh, but it didn't. The only thing that made her uncomfortable were his black nails, but they were quickly taken away from her sight as he pocketed one hand and held the rose in the other.
"Good day," he said, tipping his head, and Belle gawked wordlessly, remembering the gold that was now in her hands.
She doubted it was fake—there was no mistaking it in the luster it held and the weight. But all this gold for a rose? It didn't seem fair, but the man was already out of her sight before she could ask any questions.
Deciding that gold was much too precious to be put into her usual cashbox, Belle tucked it away safely into her pockets to be deposited into the bank as soon as she closed shop.
The usual stream of customers began, and Belle tried to shake the strange man from her memory, but found that she couldn't. People's faces blurred together as she sold her flowers, and she desperately looked for the man in the crowd, thinking that maybe he would return. It didn't seem likely; she wondered what he was doing in the station to begin with since he carried nothing with him.
Lunch break came and passed, and most of the flowers had been sold by the time she had to close. The last train had arrived at the station and people were making their way out into the night. For Belle, that meant cleaning up so she could go home.
Glancing at her help wanted sign, she gave a resigned sigh. Who would want to work at flower shop? While she did love tending to the flowers, it was a mundane job that didn't require much. The flowers that she sold weren't even grown by her; they arrived from a train every morning. Her papa had done business with the fellow who provided them the flowers, and she known them to be on good terms for many years.
She couldn't bare the thought of parting from the flower shop. It held too many memories, and it was so important to her father. She would be a poor excuse for a daughter if she closed it; keeping this shop was honoring his death, and she held herself to that.
Still, she often wondered what else she would do. There were so many people in the station; you had the tinker, Geppetto, her dear friend Ruby who owned the local indoor diner with her grandmother, and several more reputable people. Belle had always assumed her place was at the flower shop; it seemed natural enough. But truthfully, her love had always lied with books. In her younger years, remembered stealing away into lone corners of the station to read. As she grew older, she realized that she had responsibilities that spanned beyond her books, but she still found time whenever she could.
The lights in the station began to dim, and for Belle, that signaled it was time for her leave. Gathering her coat from the hook, she slipping it on and pulled up the collar to brace herself for the chilly night.
It wasn't quite winter yet, but one could smell the coldness in the air that spoke of the coming frost. Paris was beautiful at night—the lights of the Eiffel tower served as a beacon for the rest of the city and the street lamps at the corners were comforting.
Her house wasn't too far from the train station, and Belle fumbled with her key as she turned the lock. Greeted with the familiar setting, she let out a welcoming sigh as she deposited her shoes and coat.
Belle's nighttime routine rarely strayed from its usual course—bath, tea, and then read in bed till her eyes became weary. This night was no different, and Belle was snuggled in her blankets, but for some reason the words on the page didn't interest her tonight. Deciding that sleep might be necessary, she placed her book back on the nightstand and gave a smile towards the picture of her and her father.
"Goodnight, papa," she whispered, touching the key draped on the frame. It was an odd object—instead of ridges, there was a heart at the end. It was made of brass and almost a work of art in itself. While she didn't know much about it, she knew it was precious to her papa since he often kept it around his neck, nestled under his shirt. When she asked about it, he would gain a sad sense of nostalgia and say that it was not important anymore. She never pressed further, attributing it to something about her mother or some demon from his past.
Dashing out the light, Belle let sleep carry her into tomorrow.
xxx
Tomorrow was no different than yesterday, save for the gray cast of the sky, but that didn't deter Belle's influx of usual customers. No one had responded to her help wanted sign, and Belle felt the weight of work on her shoulders as she took her lunch break for the day.
Ruby's diner was crowded today, so she found a small café at the end of the station and ate her soup in silence, taking as much time as she needed. She observed the bustle of the station and the familiar blow of the train whistle, wondering where each and every person was headed off.
Belle and her father liked to play a game where they took a person and imagined their lives from the way they dressed and where they were headed. For example, Belle spotted a middle-aged woman, holding handkerchief, waiting for the train to come in. Perhaps she was waiting for her lover to return? Maybe it was after a long trip for business and it would be their first reunion in months. Belle saw no ring, but perhaps a proposal was underway and then even a wedding.
However, Belle didn't get a chance to see if her guess was correct since a man stepped in front of her line of vision. Eyes trailing upward, Belle gasped, recognizing him as the man who wanted a rose with thorns, and a puzzled expression immediately graced her demeanor.
"Monsieur?" She spoke, feeling uneasy.
The man gave a lopsided grin. "You may call me Rumpelstiltskin, dearie."
Belle nodded slowly. "Rumpelstiltskin," she said, the name feeling strange on her lips. "Is there something you need? I'm afraid I'm on lunch break right now, but if it's flowers you require, you can come to my shop as soon as I'm finished with my meal."
A strangle giggle erupted from him, and Belle stared in confusion. "It's by fate that I bought a rose from you, actually. And yes, there is something I need. I believe you're familiar with this object?" He pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket, marred by aged with its yellowed edges. Unfolding the paper, he spread it across the round table Belle sat it, and her eyes widened at the sight.
It was her papa's key.
So this was a plot bunny that ran rampant! I honestly don't know where I'm going with this, but this story has a much different feel than what I'm used to writing and it's quite fun. I have so many other projects that need working on, and this isn't my priority so I have no promise on regular updates, but I do hope you enjoyed it.