THE CAPE OF GLASS FLOWERS--
------H is head was carelessly tossed in the blue toy chest, and the rest of his body was chopped into pieces so as to fit in the other small boxes placed around the room. They didn't bother to remove his clothing; it would take too much time to have to find somewhere to burn them. What mattered was the body got into those boxes, -and was shipped out as fast as possible.
In a dusty corner of the dark room where this heinous act was taking place, a young man stood quietly, arms crossed impatiently and watching his friend wrap the remaining body parts in silky white cloth. Once the final body part and chest was shut and locked, it was sealed with glue and stacked onto the others in a vertical pile next to the window.
“How long do we have?” Asked the one stacking the boxes.
“About three minutes, give or take a few seconds. The police will be all over the scene in about ten.” Answered the impatient one.
The one boxing grunted.
“Plenty.”
The sound of horse hooves ad whistles soon filled the room, and both demons quickly melted into the shadows, allowing their victim's body to be in plain sight.
A warning for their pursuers, most likely.
But on the shelf, they forgot one very important thing, pulsing with other-world energy, glowing faintly in the darkness, crying for the loss of its master now lying in the boxes.
The French police of the year 1660 soon entered the room, taking the vacant house by storm, guns pointed at nothing but shadows.
She was dancing. Her body hung limp against her partner's, her head tossed over her shoulders, blond hair spilling over. Her mouth was agape, but she had no feeling or touch in her at all.
She could hear someone singing.
Perhaps her partner? The man she was dancing with? It was very sweet... a low baritone. Something she'd expect to find only in the Prince of Italy or the man of her dreams.
A piano played.
It was a very slow and sad little tune, and she wondered why they were dancing in the first place if she was dead...
... Dead? Was that it? Was she dead? She couldn't tell. All she could feel was the hot breath of her partner's tickling her skin. She still couldn't move.
Something snagged on his foot by accident; and she suddenly became aware how dark it was, and that she was conscientiously wearing a dress. Of what color, she couldn't see. She could only make out the faintest traces of the extravagant murals on the ceiling, and that was almost squinting. Her eyesight was by far the worst...
She also realized they were alone. The only two on the dance floor, slowly swaying to the sad little piano tune, her arms pre-placed around her partner's waist and clasped in his free hand, assuming a tango position.
How awkward, she thought, bemused. I cannot move, and yet we are dancing... but with whom am I dancing? How did I get here? Why am I in a dress? What...?
A feeling of being hushed silenced her, and she continued to dance; albeit not by her own doing.
Suddenly, a great cry from another room close to their's pierced their soothing musical dance. It was agonizing, and sounded painful, but it died out shortly.
It startled her, and she'd have jumped and ran if she could, but her partner didn't flinch. They continued dancing in her partner's awkward way; her head still lopped over her shoulder, hands locked into position around him, dancing.
And they stayed like that for a long time, until finally he let her go, slowly, and she fell. She braced herself for the feel of hitting the cold floor; but it never came. Instead she kept falling and falling....
...Falling until everything faded from view, and she awakened to find herself on her bed, the morning sun shining brilliantly over her window in the high sky of Venice, Italy.
Emilia was only seven.
