Page 164 of Blood of the Fairest

Wait. The Pied Piper?

Isn't that the guy who led all the rats in a village away with his music, and then when the village wouldn't pay him, he came back and led their children away, too?

At least, that's how I remember the creepy tale.

But maybe it's different in this world, because everyone in the ballroom is reacting like they're about to see a celebrity. They whisper and press closer to the orchestra stage, watching the cloaked object with bated breath.

The green fabric is pulled aside by one of the musicians, fluttering to the ground and revealing…a shit ton of butterflies. All different sizes, shapes, and wing patterns, perched all over inside a giant cage.

When the musician opens the door of the cage with a little squeak, the butterflies stay right where they are, apparently not interested in whatever magical show is supposed to be.

At first, the grand reveal seems pretty fucking anticlimactic.

And then the single, clear note of a flute fills the air.

The note dips, then climbs, over and over until it reaches a breathtaking pitch.

Something inside my chest abruptly seizes so hard that I press a hand above the neckline of my dress as I whirl to face the source of the music.

The awed crowd is moving to form a large circle around a handsome man. He can't be much younger than me. He's dressed in a tunic that's half bright green and half dark green, with brown trousers and dark boots. His hair is a wavy, messy, dark blond that falls over his forehead.

Despite his humble outfit, the Pied Piper must have slipped in with everyone else—but now he's playing the long, bone-white flute in his hands without a care in the world, his fingers moving expertly and swiftly over the tone holes.

The tune transforms into something playful and timeless, teasing through the hushed silence and echoing throughout the ballroom.

There's something so pure about it. In this space filled with so much contrived beauty and wealth, this honest sound is just so real. So whimsical and free and so fucking joyful that tears prick my eyes.

Somehow, it makes me miss something long gone.

Another version of myself, I guess. My younger self, who looked at every new thing with wonder and excitement, instead of wariness. The Verena I was before life knocked me down so hard I decided it was better to just stay down.

The Verena before he came along.

Silently, I brush a tear off my cheek.

As if the soulful music wasn't moving enough on its own, gasps ring out as butterflies suddenly pour out of the cage. As the Pied Piper's fluted tune becomes something fiercely hopeful, the butterflies flutter and whirl through the air—and they begin to glow.

I'm mesmerized by the synchronized display of luminescent colors above me. It's so strange and otherworldly to watch this swirling mass grow brighter and brighter.

For a moment, I'm not thirsty beyond belief. I'm not standing in the wrong world, or running from the evil queen's fate.

For a moment, I think I'm happier than I've ever been.

And then, my heart tugs violently again as the Pied Piper's music cuts off.

At once, the magical butterflies disappear into thin air, leaving nothing behind except glittering multicolored sparkles that rain down on an enthralled audience.

Everyone applauds, thrilled by the fantastical performance.

I drop my gaze from the vanished butterflies, brushing away another stray tear.

Then I startle, realizing the Pied Piper is now standing right next to me, studying me—and now that I can see him this much closer, I blink rapidly when I see his eyes.

At first I think they're two different colors, but no.

He has the David Bowie thing going on. One pupil is noticeably bigger than the other, giving his green gaze a quiet, distinctive intensity. It's almost as though each eye holds a different shade of thought as he peers curiously at me.

"What an intriguing soul you have," he muses in one of the most beautiful male voices I've ever heard. He speaks so softly, I almost don't hear him above the ongoing applause.