Ma Petite Libellule

Francoeur ran. Or rather, he jumped. Going far away from Paris, far away, but broken hearted. When he finally came to a standstill, he was in a city called Toulouse. Deeming himself far enough from Paris, he sat on a street corner, unsure of what to do.

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A little over a year passed and he found himself once more working at a cabaret. The pay was decent, and he was allowed to wear a mask. He knew he was good at guitar, and a decent singer. Okay, not decent, he was an amazing tenor, and he knew it. It was after an act that it happened.

He had been walking along the street in a light drizzle when he heard it. It was somewhat muffled, but loud enough for him to hear. The sound was of a baby laughing. The laughter led him to a deserted alleyway, only a few trashcans and a pile of rags in it. The rain was getting heavier by the second, and he needed to get home. Once again he scanned the alley, looking for the source of the noise. Slowly he approached the pile of sodden rags and looked at them. A baby was in it, a small girl. "Hello there. Where did you come from?" He touched her nose and she laughed again. Then there was a flash of light, followed by a loud crashing noise. The expression on the child's face changed. She began to cry. "Maman!"

Francoeur tried to say 'shh!' and still look comforting. "Hush ma petite une." Gently he picked her up, she a tiny little thing compared to him. As she felt the ground disappear beneath her, the girl quieted. "Comment tu t'appelle?"

Stitched into the now ruined blanket was the word 'Audrey'. "Hm?" A necklace hung from her neck, the bejeweled dragonfly pendant too big for the child. Engraved on it were the words: "Fairies are dragonflies to the untrained eye."

"Well then, ma petite libellule, let's get you home."

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The blonde sighed, and turned the page in her sketchbook. Her name was Audrey, and she didn't talk much. She supposed her father had taught her well; speak softly, carry a big stick, and have a beautiful singing voice. But she didn't sing in public. The closest thing to going onstage at La Blanche Noire Cabaret she ever did was design the costumes. She had a knack for sizes.

She adjusted the mask on her face. She had learned long ago not to show it. Her face was covered in scars acquired from people trying to keep her away from them. She wasn't that scary. She was only a sixteen year old girl. She sketched some more before snow fell onto her page. She looked up. The snow was getting steadily heavier, so Audrey stood, and tucked the sketchpad under her arm and began to walk home.