For a considerate amount of time it took her to change. I won't call it a change though. More like fall... being forsaken. She didn't want it, did she? But she didn't leave it either. Isolation... wealth and fortune, these three she learnt to control. The first one chose her but the latter ones she chose. Henry, Jared, Arthur and so on. But Arthur was the one I fancied...even just a bit perhaps. But it was not only wealth she was after. Perhaps wealth was really not what she was after... never. It just came near her feet and she kept. Perhaps it was the deed that possessed her... inflamed her. She became addicted to it. Or perhaps it was another reason why she looked so young and beautiful. What was her age? Right, I never questioned it. Because curiosity wasn't my trait. Earthly creatures' traits intrigued me—Curiosity, Emptiness, Love, Sorrow, Jealousy, Envy, Greed. But I did not possess any six but one. My work was to observe—nothing else, cause she never asked nothing but my presence. And my presence was nothing but everything.
I despised mirror. Once Olivia brought a beautiful Victorian hand crafted mirror. She liked it so much that she'd almost take it everywhere she went. But oneday she forgot to take it with her. I went to her chamber. It was kept on her bed, upside down. The handle was of Bronze's, one ruby at the centre of the front of the handle. Old patterns carved out by the sides of the mirror and the made–year behind the back, written in gold cursive letters. The back was shining. I caressed it, then turned it round. There before me the image appeared—red hair curly, came down a little below the shoulder, short pointed nose, brown-orange freckles, maroon-red lips and orange eyes—the upper lid of the eyes—faint purple. Orange eyes were never a real thing for those whimsical creatures but it did look better. Even though some people—
Then some earthy seconds led to veiny thin cracks appear upon the crystalline reflector. Later Olivia fell into a fit of madness. Whimsical creatures! Yet did anyone find a piece of trace? But I heard Vanilla grumbling about white powdery substances in her Belladonna plant while watering them.
Right, Vanilla...we were talking about her. Countless tales, Realism, Nightmares, Vintage Souvenirs and Vast Unnamed Estates—these all came with her name... and she never even cared. Why? Wasn't she too a whimsical creature? But she was different, a lot to be precise. She loved this Belladonna plant. And this plant got another her side of fair story.
Once she made a friend...that's what Arthur believed. Poor, pathetic Arthur. He was once a overseer. When Vanille met him, he already owned everything that required a lavish living. Helena, his previous wife left him with (their daughter) Olivia without a reason. And she disappeared overnight, mysteriously. He engaged a group of search party in fragile hope of finding his missing mistress. But she went missing on purpose, and Arthur knew that quite well. He wore a heavy concern on his face but his eyes were speaking otherwise.
A week later Vanilla appeared at his doorstep, a stranger to the people but him. Glances, scared stealthy glances, innocent stares and gazes—they all screamed 'Unwanted! Disgrace! Misfortune!' for they were believers of goodness. Whispers rose from the dead mounds of rumours—An old woman muttering curses in the slums.
None but one recognised her through the pile of stenched muddy clothes or rags that she wrapped as clothes... unwashed hair— perfect supper for live and mice parasites, not to mention the restless flies fluttering round her head all the time. It was a thirteen years old boy named Carl. According to him, he, a beggar boy of the city once knocked the door of this old hag of a lady who mercied him with three silver coins. He could recognise Helena anywhere. But who could have believed him?
Carl (later an employee) used to give the old hag foods but she refused any bite. Few days later Carl was found strangled near the old well out of the slums. His eyes were open and teeth being crushed under his reddish pale tongue. People suspected the old hag as a witch. As a result she was drowned deep into the well.
The reason of her being suspected as a witch was that Carl was strangled to death but his body was bloodless. The news was all over the Pendle Hill but it did not reach the creaking stairs and vintage walls of his red mansion. He did get ears, didn't he? But he just burnt the newspaper in the furnace just minutes before Vanille entered with his coffee and cheese biscuits. The next day she cleaned the ashes that contented the grim newses of two people's demise. That day Arthur came home with a vacation letter. He seemed as excited as ever.