That night passed quicker than most, and though I'd come home with no paintings, having sold them all, I felt as though it had been a bad day. I could not get Parvatio's (or whoever he was) words to leave my memory. He'd told me not to come back, and as I sat finishing a portrait to sell the following day, I knew I was going to, I had to. This was my life now, and I liked it. My only comfort was that he'd been a drunken mess when he'd spoken these words, practically raving. Certainly he wouldn't even remember falling or pushing me away…but what if the sight of his desecrated lot, the painting strewn over the dirty pavement, remind him? I couldn't safely go and really be sure that nothing would happen. I was afraid…

As I lay in bed that night though, I thought about everything I'd come through to get here, how hard I'd worked, and how the only other choice I had would be to return home to be married off.

I refused to let that happen, not over some drunken fool. It was time I grew a backbone anyway, and I felt courageous as I drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I once again set up, looking over my shoulder often, something I'd never done, or thought I'd had to do. Despite my uneasiness though, it was only another eventless morning, though I did sell a painting for twice the asking price to an elderly woman with towering gray hair and a silver billowing cloak who refused to "pay so little for something so beautiful." No matter how many time I brandished the price tag at her, she remained just as obstinate, and I only ended up with a large roll of one hundred pound notes in my hand as she walked away and my face shone with a bright smile. I gently tucked them into the front pocket of my skirt, already bulging with pens and brushes and paint, and I sat down again, picking up the notepad I'd lain aside to negotiate with the elderly lady.

I looked down at my own neat script on the page, slightly runny in my classic rushed writing. I had always had plenty of time to write, but it was my greatest fear that I would forget the perfect combination of words in my head before they had the chance to flow through my pen onto the paper. It rarely happened, but that fact did not stop me from hastily scratching out the words of whatever poem, story or letter I was working on.

This particular day, I was in the mood for writing romance, so I took out a story I'd begun years before, and wrote in periodically over time. It was a tragic, but juvenile tail really, of mythical creatures like vampires, forgotten then remembered love. It was a story that never came true in reality, but I couldn't bring myself to put it away, never finish it. First stories seemed to cast some sort of spell on writers.

I was in them idle of the first meeting, a vital part in any romance, but I was having trouble describing the feelings as the main character met her soul mate. It wasn't as though it was a feeling I was familiar with. I'd never even fallen in love, but then again, I'd never really wanted to. I was quite content with my life as it was, I had books and pain and writing for company.

I leaned down closer to the page, my knuckles supporting my head by my chin, as though by staring at the page, I would fall into the story and meet my characters personally. It was a funny thought, and I smiled a bit, thinking about what I could possibly say…

'Yes, I was just wondering, how exactly does it feel to fall in love?'

Of course, in this fantasy, I could speak.

I sat back up straight, sighing as I realized I'd put all the thought I could manage into this piece today. I closed my portfolio and stood, intending to head over to my bag and put it away until tomorrow, when I saw him.

Across the street, there was a narrow alleyway, each day. I took it to go home, it was a bit of a shortcut. At its end, there was a sudden drop, which I jumped and it brought me out almost directly behind the house where my landlord and I lived. That's why I didn't take it in the mornings though; I couldn't climb the wall with my paintings, satchel, and stool. It was dark and unfriendly, and I usually walked quickly through its dark shadows when I traveled at night. Fortunately, nothing horrible had befallen me yet.

In its opening, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a cold stare, was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Even that was an understatement, but I, a writer, was at a loss for words to describe him, even to myself. He was unnaturally pale, but it somehow made him even harder to look away from, and he seemed to glow in the midst of the gray haze London was constantly engulfed in. His mouth was set in a narrow line, accentuating his high and graceful cheekbones in sharp contrast, and above his brows, which seemed knitted in high concentration, unruly bronze hair moved discreetly in a slight breeze I seemed to be disconnected from. And finally, the only part of him I found remotely disturbing, deep black eyes. I felt I was close enough to pinpoint scarlet speckled in them as well, though I was at least fifty yards away across Market Street. And he was staring at me. No matter how many bustling people passed between us, his eyes were locked on me every time I saw them. I was frozen in place, standing there, mesmerized as though he'd cast some sort of spell over me, just with his gaze.

I realized slowly how I must look to him, and became conscious of my own body again, though I still couldn't move. My mouth was hanging halfway open, my chest rising and falling as I breathed a little faster than usual. My pen lay on the sidewalk where it had fallen from my fingers, and my vampire book hung limply from my other hand. And suddenly, the strangest thought came to my head, though I knew nothing about him, not his name, his age, what he did, who he was…

'Maybe this is what it feels like…'

All this happened in what could not have been more than a second, and the next second came at me without warning. I was shoved back against the wall roughly, my book joining my pen on the sidewalk. My head hit the side of the corner building roughly and I grimaced. It took me a moment to realize it was Parvatio breathing in my face, though the fact that I felt I'd fall over at any moment from the smell should have been an immediate give-away.

"I thought I told you not to come back." He said, holding me to the wall by the top portion of my arm, his large hand easily wrapped around my entire limb.

I stared back defiantly, my free fist clenched, ready to punch if he ever took his weight off of me and freed me.

"This is your last warning." And he threw me back roughly, moving quicker than I thought possible before I had a chance to react.

Leaning there for a moment, I breathed evenly, though there wasn't a bit of indecision that I would be back tomorrow as usual. It was easier than I'd thought, this not being afraid, what was the worst he could do?

Eventually, I bent and retrieved my notebook and pen from the ground, then hesitantly raised my eyes back to the alleyway across the street. Of course, he was gone. I shook myself lightly, but even without a second try, I knew no amount of shaking would make me forget his cold, hard stare. Or anything of the man who'd made me think maybe true love wasn't a fairy tale for less than second that felt like half my life.

Well, at least not a fairy tale for the woman he loved, which most certainly wasn't me.

Somehow, the thought was sad.