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[euterpesflute]

strolling through the rose garden while plotting a coup

you should be dead. no, really. you remember dying. so you’re really not sure how you ended up here—an unrealistically hygienic medieval noblewoman embroiled in complex and embarrassingly petty court intrigues. you draw a rose towards your face and inhale the heady scent. were people really so bored without the internet that they had to make up such lethally dramatic games just to keep themselves entertained? what ever happened to elaborate hairstyles and sheep husbandry? you could’ve sworn you remember reading something about that.

and yet when you did wake up in this reality, you were informed by an ominous omniscient and disembodied voice that the only way to return to your life, you must win the game of royal musical chairs. so maybe you’re just in a coma actually and this is your elaborate coma dream? who knows.

but what you can be sure of is that you do not have the patience for all the simpering and subtlety. if you’re going to win this game and go back to your life, you’re going to need a show of force. 

rose garden - marie oakey dewing c.1901 | roses from the south Op.388 - Johann Strauss II c.1880

[euterpesflute]

trying to study while house-sitting your rich friend's penthouse

mckayleigh is really not so bad once you get to know her. you’d met the same place you’ve ever met anyone—in class. she’d been assigned as your project partner, and looking back you do regret the internal groan you’d indulged in when your names were read off. she’s just so…rich? blonde? delicate? from the outside, at least. she’d really pulled her weight in that project, and after all the time you’d spent together working on it over the course of last semester, you’d both sort of fallen into the same routine. one that included the other person. and, you guess, that’s kind of what friendship is. so, after complaining about your roommates for the millionth time, it hadn’t seemed strange for her to offer her apartment over spring break. she was going skiing with her family, and she needed someone to water the plants. and why not, if it meant a reprieve from your roommate’s all-night headphone-less video games, and your other roommate’s penchant for eating all of your food, and your other other roommate’s boyfriend who uses all the hot water? you just wish, you think as the doorbell jolts you out of the textbook you’d been reading, that she’d given you some warning about the stupidly handsome neighbor who apparently (!) just swings by with misdelivered mail, or to borrow a screwdriver, or whatever this latest interruption will prove to be.

[euterpesflute]

holing up at the magical safehouse after fleeing a murderous wizard

you’re not sure exactly where you are right now, though that is kind of the point. the world outside these windows is distorted, warped at unnatural angles that belie the dimension-bending magic at play. to say nothing of the windows themselves, stretched and asymmetrical as they are. but you do not have the energy to puzzle out the unreality around you. the adrenaline is no longer singing through your veins. all you are able to feel right now is the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs you down into the cushions, pushes—or tries to push—the terrible memories of what you have just survived out of your mind. there was blood. so much blood. but somehow what you remember most are the colors. bright flashes of magic slicing the dark, washing the battlefield in the vivid pinks and greens that you so desperately want to call unnatural. and yet, you had seen something like it before. when you were a child, piled with your sisters in the middle of your living room, trying to stay away from the windows as a hurricane raged outside. the rain on the windows now feels so familiar, in that way. and the bodies of your friends—the ones who had made it out with you—warm and pressed against yours. you and your sisters had survived that hurricane; you are surviving still.

[euterpesflute]

waltzing with a ghost

the landlady had mentioned that the house was haunted. you’d thought she’d been making a joke, in the way of odd old unmarried women. of course you did not believe her then, and you are likewise unsure that you believe her now, in large part simply because you don’t fully believe your own senses. there is a woman sitting at your piano, playing the most lovely melody—one you’re sure you’d never heard before in your life—and yes, you’ll grant that she is quite translucent. but still. this must surely be a dream. you recall toiling away as ever at your latest composition, and you must suppose that you had collapsed from exhaustion at the keys, as you do most nights of the week. you do not recall, however, the means by which you arrived here, in your bed across the room, at the perfect vantage to observe your spectral guest. she is quite lovely, and a masterful pianist. you think that perhaps if this is a dream, why should you not enjoy yourself? approaching the ghostly form, you describe a low bow and extend your hand to her in invitation. raising your eyes to gauge her reaction, you notice the tilt of her chin, a slight pull at the corner of her mouth. and then she seems to step out of herself, to duplicate. she is still sitting, playing the beautiful music, but she is also standing, placing her hand in yours as you lead her in a waltz.

the ghost pianist - georges roux c.1885 | la cave waltz - dominique charpentier via #Uppbeat (License code: AQNGXUEJVJJKKVQH)

[euterpesflute]

passing over a haunted bridge in the golden light of a winter afternoon

when you’d been younger, the other children had told you that there was a ghost haunting this old covered bridge. they’d said that a long time ago, a girl had jumped. she’d been in the family way, but her boyfriend didn’t want to marry her. she had, the story goes, regretted her decision the moment gravity got hold of her, but the water was deeper and faster than she’d realized. you never really understood how anyone could know that she’d regretted it, if she’d died. but the other kids said that the ghost had said so. she’d told their older brother’s best friend’s cousin, and that was as good as gospel.

the story passes through your mind as it always does when you see the covered bridge. but today, with the bright, cold air, the gentle breeze, the almost spring-like warmth of the golden afternoon light, you think, as you have sometimes thought before, that there’s no such thing as ghosts. how could there be, when the world is so clear, like it is right now?

of course, once you pass into the mouth of the bridge house, once you lose the warm sunlight on your skin, you think, as you have sometimes thought before, that maybe you don’t know what the world is like. what all it might hold. and then you hear it. a gurgling sobbing that could very possibly just be the river bubbling up underneath you. and this happens every time. every time, you think logically, right up until the moment you don’t.

[euterpesflute]

sheltering in a cozy cabin after fleeing the manor in a snowstorm

when you took on your position as governess of the manor, you had anticipated a life of quiet instruction. a life dedicated to the education of the young girl in your charge. you had decidedly not anticipated the heartbreak and betrayal you have experienced at the hands of the lord of the manor—a man you thought you loved. a man, indeed, whom you did love. whom you love still, despite the knowledge that he is already married, that he proposed to you anyway, lied to you about his eligibility.

it was all you could do to pack away your belongings and flee, on the night that was meant to be your wedding night. the reminder of what could have been stings deep in your breast as you wander the moors, stumbling against the ever-growing drifts of snow and the curtains of flurries eddying around you.

but, what is that in the distance? a flicker of warm light like a star fell to earth, guiding you forward as the wise men to bethlehem. surely salvation awaits, if only you can reach this destination.

the light seems at once so close and yet always just out of reach, right up until the moment you collapse on the threshold of what you distantly realize is a humble cabin. but no sooner do your eyes close than they open again and you are inside, swathed in a blanket and sitting before a cheerful fire. you’re not convinced you are still of this earth. because surely, you think, you must have died out there. this must be heaven. and indeed here—

“oh good, you’re awake!”

—is an angel.

[euterpesflute]

strolling with your valentine after a candlelit dinner in a late-night cafe

the only complaint you can think of this evening is that the air is a touch chilly. though even that, you concede as you bundle yourself in closer to your companion, may not be a fault entirely. it certainly gives you an excuse to walk close together, to cling to his arm. more of a feature, really. from the food, to the wine, to the candlelight, this has been a perfect date. a perfect reprieve from an otherwise dreary winter. 

as you lean into him, murmuring something wry about the strangers passing by, you can feel his answering laughter as puffs of warm air in your hair, against your cheek. the heat of it sends a shiver down your spine, incongruous with the cold february air.

paris by night - edouard cortes c.1910 | excerpts from romeo and juliet - tchaikovsky c.1880

[euterpesflute]

abandoned in the snow in hopes of being showered with treasure by the winter king

you’ll be the first to admit that perhaps your mother had been harsh when it came to her new husband’s daughter. no one deserves to be driven out into the middle of the forest and abandoned, certainly not when the snow is piled up this high. and frankly, you had been relieved when she’d arrived home safely. there was comfort in the idea that your mother was not an actual murderess, if only an attempted one. maybe it had rankled a little bit that your step-sister had come through the door bundled up in furs, riding a sleigh full of treasure. how she had managed to pull that off, you’ll never understand. but at the end of the day, she brought those furs and that treasure to your shared home. there was enough there for all of you to live comfortably for the rest of your days! certainly you did not think that y’all needed more.

and yet your mother had insisted. whatever your step-sister had managed to accomplish out here to have come home with all that finery, your mother was sure you could do the same. and so here you are! freezing your hide off in the middle of nowhere. and oh god, have your fingers always been that shade of blue?

before you can dwell too much further on whether the cold has addled your brain, something stirs overhead, sending a heap of snow crashing down off an upper branch and onto the ground beside you. you feel yourself jump away on instinct, but you’ve stumbled backwards into something sturdy. not a tree, you realize, as you turn around to see an undeniably strange man, eyes wild, dressed in fur and velvet the cold blue of ice. the same cold blue as your fingertips, you think wryly.

“well, maiden,” he says to you, “are you warm?”

he’s got to be kidding.

[euterpesflute]

curling up by the woodstove on a cold winter evening

sparks drift up as you add another log to the fire, but you’re able to shut the door of the woodstove before anything incendiary drifts onto the rug. the snow is falling outside. you’ve just eaten your fill of something warm. this cabin is miles away from anything resembling civilization. your phone is off. your skin is hydrated. finally, finally, you can just exist. there’s no one around to perform for, and there’s no expectation for how you should be spending your time. in this moment, you can just curl up in front of the woodstove and empty your mind.

[euterpesflute]

ice skating with your family when you see something moving in the abandoned castle

the scrape of your blades against the ice is one of the few pleasures to be found in winter. finding joy in these short, dark days after the holidays have passed is always a struggle, but there’s comfort to be found in the simple pleasure of moving your body—the burn of your muscles, the pounding of your heart. your older sister is skating around with her new boy, and you had felt a little abandoned, but now you’re glad for the freedom. she would never have wanted to skate so far out, so close to the crumbling ruins of the old castle. you can barely hear the rest of your family, back as they are by the road. there’s a quiet out here. a stillness. but you suppose it’s because of that stillness that you notice it. a twitching movement somewhere above you, at the window of the tallest tower. your head turns towards it on its own, and your eyes narrow, trying to find some shape in the dark. what could that possibly be?

romantic winter landscape with ice skaters by a castle - albert bredow c.1899 | winterstürme, walzer, opus 184 - julius fučík c.1906

[euterpesflute]

searching your abandoned castle for the source of a drip as you slowly go mad | rain drips 6hrs

you simply cannot believe how difficult it is to find good help these days. it seems like only yesterday that this castle was bustling with the highest caliber servants the realms had to offer. you needed only the best in order to maintain your impeccable reputation. gods forbid one of the many foreign ministers you so frequently hosted would have an experience any less than perfection under your roof.

your roof. perhaps that is the issue.

an incessant dripping has echoed through these halls for some time now. minutes? weeks? who can be sure. but one thing you know you can be sure of is that someone is going to pay for this. why, any day now, you could be hosting a large party of the most important ladies and dignitaries this side of the mountains and it simply will not do to have this dripping noise persist.

but if one wants anything done right, one must do it oneself. with your skirts gathered up in one hand, you track down the hallway, following the echoing drips up a staircase to the tallest tower. the white cloudy winter light pierces through a hole in the roof, and you feel a rush of vindication to have been correct in identifying the problem. snow from the roof is melting, dripping through the hole and seeping into the floorboards. as you take a step forward into the room, you feel that the wood beneath your foot is soft, rotten, and you leap back. the stone of the wall, once so firm, so unmoveable, groans against your shoulders. you feel it shift, crumble. just how high up are you?

[euterpesflute]

burning a list of your regrets to invite new beginnings | crackling fire 2hrs

in the darkest nights of winter, you can feel the urge for something new budding inside of you. it’s time to start fresh, time to start over. and to do that, you need to leave the past behind. 

folded tightly in on itself, hidden in the deepest corner of your overcoat pocket, there is a list of hurts, embarrassments, regrets, that you carved out of yourself and put onto paper. the act of writing it out left you feeling lighter, but it was only the first part of this exorcism.

you pull the list into the cold night air, and between your fingers it feels so small, so inconsequential. it would be easy to flick this folded up scrap into the crackling fire. and you think that maybe it would be just as easy to forgive yourself. 

“no harm in trying,” you sigh, dropping the neat square into the flames.

the fire seems greedy for it, but it takes longer than you expected for the list to fully burn away. something about how tightly you folded it, compacted it. the density made the fuel last longer. and so you take that time—the time it takes for the flames to worm their way between the creases—to peel the regrets away from yourself.

the flames have burned out, but you are still standing. not the you who stood here before, but a new you—fresh. clean. free.

[euterpesflute]

walking home on a winter morning after dancing all night with a mysterious stranger | waltz loop 1hr

the rising winter sun shines clear and bright, casting the city in gold. you take this as an auspicious start to a new year. it feels like abundance. it feels like hope. tucking your chin into your scarf, you can’t help but smile, giddy, as you recall the night you just had. 

dressed in sparkling midnight blue—the fanciest thing you have ever worn, by far—you almost looked like you belonged in the swanky hotel ballroom, at the fancy party your brilliant, rich friend had dolled you up for. honestly, you almost felt like you belonged. the people there were so nice, when they thought that you were one of them. especially…

you tug at the loop of your scarf, suddenly a little too hot, even in the cold morning air, at the memory of that sharp tuxedo, the large, warm hand at your waist when you danced. 

yes, you decide. an auspicious start to a new year.

avenue de l'opera morning sunshine - camille pissaro c.1898 | new year’s waltz - günter noris c.1958

[euterpesflute]

dripping wax into a bowl of water to divine the side profile of your true love | water drips 4hrs

“careful, careful,” she giggles, guiding your hand down the candle’s shaft, away from the flame. “you’re going to get wax everywhere.” her voice is low, a whisper, as if whatever spirits are supposed to be guiding this divination might startle and bolt at too loud a noise.

“i’m not getting wax everywhere.” you manage to pout, even through your breathless smile. a drop of wax does miss your target though, cooling against the wood of the bowl instead of joining the rest of the blob in the water.

“ok ok that’s plenty, let’s see it!”

she pulls the wax blob out of the water and holds it up behind the candle’s flame. squinting at the shadow on the wall, you think at first that this is nothing. that’s not a face, not even close. but then her hand shifts, and you guess you can kind of see it. a delicate slope of a nose, a pointed chin.

“ooh a pretty boy for you,” she teases and you look back to her. she’s still looking at the shadow on the wall, and it hits you all at once. the delicate slope of her nose. her pointed chin.

“who doesn’t want someone pretty?” you concede.

pіздвяні ворожіння - mykola pymonenko c.1888

[euterpesflute]

overhearing gossip about the bachelor prince at the annual boxing day soiree | crackling fire 5hrs

you only came out this past season, so this is your first time attending the duchess’s annual boxing day soiree. having spent all your life prior to this spring at your family’s isolated country estate, you are still unused to how overwhelming society can be on the senses. the scent of the foods, of the perfumes, of the candles. the warmth of the fire made warmer by the combined body heat of all in attendance. through the din of voices echoing off the walls, the ceiling, you manage to pick out one voice in particular.

“did you hear? about prince ruprecht?”

your ears pop as they strain to listen in, and you feel your head turn of its own accord.

“it may be totally unfounded, of course.” the woman speaking is older, but her hair is still a smooth and shining gold reflecting the warm candlelight. “but i—” her gaze connects with yours—she’s caught you staring, you hadn’t even realized—and the heat rises to your cheeks as you dart your eyes away.

“well,” the woman continues, clearing her throat. “i’ll tell you later, i suppose.” and you feel your ears burn.

salon de la princesse mathilde - sebastien charles giraud c.1859

[euterpesflute]

summoning orbs of light to accompany dancers at the fae winter's ball | waltz loop 6hrs

tonight, all of faerie—realms seelie and unseelie—have gathered to bear witness to the turning of the seasons. but more importantly, they’ve gathered to bear witness to the glory of your aesthetics. to bask in your ingenuity, in your ability to make something fresh and novel out of the same cycles we have all borne out over eons.

you take great pride in the fact that the seelie queen trusts your taste above all others. that trust comes with an unspeakable pressure, of course, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. not just anyone can do what you do, after all. if it were easy, you wouldn’t be so highly regarded.

the evening has begun well enough. from where you’re leaning on the mezzanine, you can see the assembled crowds cooing over the hothouse flowers and iridescent finishings. right on time, the gilded double doors press open and the royal fae court make their entrance, dressed in finery rarely glimpsed by those who have traveled from the farthest realms. with a breath and a flick of your fingers, bouncing orbs of golden summer sunlight swoop down over the crowd to flank the court as the queen steps onto the dance floor and raises one arm. the band begins to play and you catch the queen’s eye, the gleam of approval in it that has your chest swelling and your heart racing.

fairy dance, moonlight girls - hans zatzka c.1900 | sphärenklänge op. 235 - josef strauss c.1868

[euterpesflute]

finishing up your holiday shopping on the sleet-drenched high street | rain sounds 3hrs

you step out onto the street, arms full of paper bags and mind occupied with mental checklists. it’s been a long day working your way from one end of the high street to the other, but you’ve finally got something for everyone on your list. honestly you’re impressed with yourself for even going out in this weather. it’s one of those rainy winter days, temperature caught somewhere between too warm for snow but still cold enough that the puddles freeze over.

as your mind wanders to your cozy fireplace, hot baths, and which blends of tea you have at home, your foot slips on one such frozen puddle and you feel yourself falling. bracing for the inevitable impact, you find yourself worrying foremost about the delicate glass ornament you just purchased for your mother. it was beautiful, if a little pricey, and the thought of it breaking would be a terrible blow. it’s only after turning the ornament over in your mind a few times, trying to preserve its beauty as you remember it, that you realize that you really should have hit the ground by now. there is a solid weight at your back, but there was no harsh impact, no scattering of your goods across the wide sidewalk.

chancing to open one eye, you find yourself staring up at the gray canopy of clouds but also at the quite pleasant face of a man.

“are you alright?” he asks as the weight at your back shifts—his arm, you realize—and he helps you to stand up straight.

“ah—um, yes. thank you,” you manage through your burning cheeks.

the boulevard montmarte on a winter morning - camille pissarro c.1897