Author's Note: I get bored. And when I'm bored, I write random PTO ficlets. This goes a bit against the ending of the movie (sarcastic gasp) so you'll have to bear with me. Enjoy.

Fairy Girl

I had a fairy girl
for a child-
one who brightened up
my world.
I had a fairy girl
for a daughter-
the most beautiful child
ever known.

Mother had been tired lately.

When I was little, she would attend my tea parties, and Suella, Bella, Mother, and I would have a wonderful time. She'd dress me up in her finest gowns and teach me how to play the flute while she sang along, making up nursery songs for me to sing with her when I grew older. She had pretty eyes that were dark and sparkled with secrets, special secrets just for me.

Her eyes were dark still, but they had lost their sparkle. And I, as a knowledgeable 7-year-old, was determined to know why Mother never smiled anymore. I studied my reflection in the small mirror beside my vanity table. I had Mother's hair, what she called, "unruly locks of dullness" and what Father called, "the softest side of Heaven". I just called it curly brown hair. My eyes looked just like Father's, warm and soft and different colors all mixed in. Hazel eyes. Patting down my hair into a neater shape, I turned the brass knob and made my way to Mother's room.

I knocked on the door. "Mother? Are you awake?" I heard a soft cry, like a very loud and sad sigh. Mother had been sick for a very long time, and Father always told me not to disturb her and to read my books in the study like a good little girl. I used to like to read, mostly stories about dragons and brave princesses and true love.One day I told Mother that she was a brave princess held prisoner by a dragon, and that Father was her knight that rescued her for true love. She only smiled and patted my head, but her eyes didn't smile, didn't sparkle. That's when the sickness came. I didn't like reading after that.

"Isabeau, is that you?" Mother's voice was very faint, as if she were speaking from the other side of Paris instead of the other side of the door. Not waiting for an answer, she continued. "Where is Yvette?"

"Mother, it's Sunday. Yvette is at home on Sundays." Yvette was my nurse, but since I was a big girl I didn't need a nurse every day. I heard coughing inside Mother's room, and being worried, I rattled the doorknob. "Mother, are you feeling well?"

She coughed once more, a short, hacking sound that made me feel very sad and lonely. "I'm fine... I'm fine." Her voice was shaky, as if she wasn't sure that she really was fine. Pressing my ear against the door, I could barely hear the soft rustle of bed sheets and the groaning of the floor beneath her feet. I heard her feet padding their way towards the door and I stepped back, making sure my dress was clean. I always wanted to look pretty for Mother.

Before she was tired, Mother used to swing me around in the courtyard. She'd say I was her little fairy girl, and she'd weave us both a crown of flowers and I'd make her the Queen of the Fairies. Before she was tired, Mother used to teach me about dressing up and the rules that went with clothes. True to her teachings, I wore a white playdress with a yellow apron that had sunflowers printed on it. Mother had made the apron herself, just for her little fairy girl.

She always said I reminded her of summertime.

The door opened slowly, and there was Mother, standing tall and pretty in a fine robe of periwinkle. Her eyes almost lit up with the old sparkle when she smiled down at me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Hello my little fairy girl... have you seen my daughter Isabeau? I know she's here somewhere..."

I giggled. "Mother, it's me!" I laughed, and she soon followed suit. However, her laughs soon turned to coughs, and I had to help her stand up. "Come on Mother, come to the kitchen."

Her soft hand stopped me. "Not today Isabeau..."

"Today isn't a good day, is it?" There were never any good days lately, only bad ones where Mother would sleep in bed all day until Father came home. I always liked it when Father came home, because he'd help me and Lionel forget that Mother felt unwell and talk of nonsense. Father always made me laugh, even though he could never laugh lately.

She shook her head no. "I'm sorry Isabeau... maybe tomorrow." I scowled and she chuckled slightly. "I love you, Fairy Girl." With that, she patted my head slowly before shutting the door. I crossed my fingers and shut my eyes, hoping she'd come back out feeling all better; the sound of her climbing into bed told me otherwise, and it was with a heavy heart that I left her doorway.

My feet slid across the wooden floors, and my eyes traveled across the picture frames that adorned our hall. I made my way down to the study, where the books slept, collecting dust. I hesitated in the hallway, afraid to enter yet hating to just stand there. Finally I stumbled in, my hands roaming over the old covers softly, as if discovering a new treasure. Everything looked just as I had left it... that day Mother became sick.

Suddenly, a magical thought entered my mind! If Mother was sick from my stories, then maybe by reading the same stories again I could undo the sickness. I grinned at this childish plan, certain it might work. Searching for the hidden book that would help Mother, I began to concoct another story. In this one, Mother was a brave princess cast under a horrible spell by an evil wizard, and I, the clever Fairy Girl, aided by the noble prince (Father), had to rescue her. I soon became so involved in my own tale that I stopped looking for different books and just stared out the window, imagining away all of our problems through fairy tales.

I heard footsteps creep by softly and looked up to see Father. He was home much too early, for he usually stayed at work until dinnertime. He smiled at me and came into the study, giving me a big bear hug as I told him all about my newest story. Unlike Mother, who sometimes told me to stop imagining such foolery, he encouraged me, even helped me figure out how the clever Fairy Girl should defeat the evil wizard. He gave me a kiss on the head and went in to check on Mother.

All was going well until I heard someone cry aloud. It was short and quick, as if whoever uttered the outburst was alarmed and didn't know how to express it. Suddenly there were feet running to and fro, and I became frightened. I grabbed a nearby book, not bothering to glance at the title, and hid beneath the tall mahoghany desk. I told myself over and over the stories I had made up, with the brave princess always being rescued in the end. When the parson came over and walked down the bedroom hall, I closed my eyes and hugged my knees to my chest. When I heard a door open and close softly, I began to say my stories aloud. And when I heard weeping, not Mother's weeping but a man's weeping, a sad cry that only noble princes make when the brave princesses were not rescued in time, I began to cry as well, pouring my heart out to the small book I held in my hands.

I must have fallen asleep underneath the desk, but I don't remember that. When I awoke half a day later, I was in my bed with the covers pulled up. It was very dark outside, but I wasn't tired at all. I threw off my covers and jumped out of bed, hoping that everything had just been a horrible dream.

But then I saw a familiar looking book lying on my vanity table. Going over to it, I picked it up. There, on the front, was the title, "The Little Fairy Girl". The cover blurred before me as I began to weep.

Whose fairy girl would I be now?