This is a series of quick ~1,000 word exercises that will form a short story as a whole. It's a minor piece alternating with L'ombre de Samedi (L'ombre's next chapter is well on its way to finally being complete, by the way), so that I won't burn out. Enjoy.
In case you didn't know, Mademoiselle Charlotte is an actual loa (voodoo spirit). She's very interesting to read about.
Disclaimer: Disney owns Princess and the Frog and I'm not making money from this.
Glass Castle
La Rêverie
The package comes on a Friday night in May with the evening post. There is no other writing on it except for To: Mme. Charlotte and the address to the La Bouff estate in graceful, spidery cursive; there is no sender's name, no return address. When the postman is asked about the identity of the sender, he says he doesn't know, so the maid Lorraine bids him goodnight, brings Mr. La Bouff his evening paper, and takes the small box upstairs to Charlotte.
Charlotte is in her room, straightening out her makeup bureau. It has a mirror stand and is stacked with all sorts of rouge, mascara, eyeshadow, tubes of lipsticks and small bottles of lotions and perfumes. Just yesterday, for her birthday, she had gotten the entire array restocked by her father, and so when Lorraine comes in with another small box, Charlotte takes it from her aged brown hands and asks, "Who's this one from, Lorrie dear?"
"I ain't know a thing, Miss Charlotte, an' apparently, neither does the postman," the elderly woman replies, as Charlotte turns the box over in her hands and peers the writing of her name. Lorraine adds, "It looks like a gentleman's handwritin', but there's no name on the outside except for yours."
"Perhaps I've got another fellow who's secretly admirin' me," Charlotte suggests to Lorraine with a playful wink, entertaining the idea. None of the fellows around were princes, but she can't deny that some of them she wouldn't mind going out dancing with.
She bids Lorraine good night and, once she's by herself, sits in front of her bureau and eagerly opens up the package. Inside a few folds of tissue paper is a small, purple bottle. Delighted and curious, she plucks it out with her thumb and index finger and holds it up to the light, marveling at its amethyst color. A small label on its front says La Rêverie, a company Charlotte has for her life never heard, but it sounds exotic and she likes what is written on the back: Dreams made real.
Charlotte unscrews the top and inhales, expecting the strong smell of perfume, but instead what hits her nose is some kind of odorless, purple dust. She sneezes, releasing a small cloud of the purple stuff, and sets down the bottle hard. With one hand over her nose and mouth, her eyes watering with surprise, she stumbles out into the hall and into the bathroom across from her room. With her free hand she quickly turns on the tap and splashes her face with lukewarm water, once, then again with both hands. The itching in her nose begins to cease, and she pulls a nearby hand towel from the rack and pats her face dry.
"Goodness gracious," she mutters to herself, "I certainly wasn't expecting--" Charlotte stops to inhale sharply when she looks in the mirror.
She's still in the expansive upstairs bathroom looking at her reflection, but she is different. She is no longer in the pink summer dress that she had slipped into that evening, but in a big, poofy gown that she only wears to special events, like her daddy's masquerade balls. Her farthingale is covered with fabric like the layers of a wedding cake, tiered and decorated with roses.
Charlotte sets down the towel and touches a gloved hand to her face, amazed. Not a trace of her face is wet from the water anymore. Her hair is all done up in a bouffant with a tiara resting atop, and – why is she wearing a veil? She's practically fit for a wedd--
"Lottie, is everythin' all right?"
In the mirror she catches sight of her best friend standing in the doorway, and turns around. Tiana is dressed up too, wearing a simple but elegant white dress and holding a small basket of flowers in her hand. At the same moment, Charlotte is aware of the sound of voices and music coming from downstairs. If Tia is here and people are downstairs, there is an occasion going on of some sort, and Charlotte is only just beginning to get an idea of what.
Tiana's wearing that soft, I'm so happy for you smile. "Everyone's waitin' for you down in the parlor," she says.
"In just a minute, Tia dear. You go on, I'll meet you down there," Charlotte responds automatically, completely bewildered, and wonders if she has somehow slipped into a dream.
Tiana nods and slips away, and next a stranger comes to the door. He is incredibly thin and tall, and he wears a jaunty top hat with a purple feather stuck in it. He just stands there for a moment, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, one leg crossed over the other casually. He's smiling at her in an odd way that doesn't seem quite reflected in his eyes, and Charlotte never knew until now that people could have purple eyes, and – realizing that she's staring, she fumbles for something to say.
"Excuse me, have we met b'fore?" she tries cautiously.
"Remember the favor I done y'all, Mademoiselle," he says without introduction, in a voice that is as chocolaty as his skin. He comes over, taking her hand in his much larger one and turning it palm up. Charlotte is so startled by his forwardness that she lets him.
"I got you your prince. Come by sometime soon we'll discuss the matter of payment." His thumb briefly strokes over the lines of her palm, but he lets go before Charlotte can pull her hand away on her own. To her surprise, he has somehow managed to slip a business card into her hand. There is an illustration of a shop and, in familiar writing, text at the bottom that reads Dreams made real.
Charlotte looks up to ask, but the stranger is gone, and she can't help but jump as the card in her hand vanishes. She looks over her shoulder and back into the mirror, and all she sees is herself with some loose strands of hair plastered to her face and her hands damp from the water. She glances down at the sink, and sees some of the purple dust dotting the rim. The tap is still running, so she quickly washes the rest of the substance down the sink and turns the faucet off.
Taking a deep breath, she announces to her reflection, "I think you best be lyin' down and takin' a rest, Miss Charlotte." She says the words with a firm smile but shaky hands, and wastes no time going back to her room, stopping only for a moment in the hall to listen for voices downstairs. Nothing. A daydream and not enough oxygen to her head from that fit of sneezing. She feels lightheaded from her reverie.
Safely back inside her bedroom, Charlotte returns to her bureau and picks up the purple bottle again. It sits in her hands innocently, so Charlotte just sighs and closes it back up and for now places it near the other bottles. Before lying down, she looks through the rest of the box it came in for anything else. At the bottom, hidden beneath the tissue paper, is nothing, not even a note.