“Give her back, Monty!” Sally, now five years old, jumped at the demon boy, trying in vain to reach him. He had her most beloved doll, Beatrice-Louise-Marie, in his hands. “I’m going to throw rocks at you if you don’t give her back!”

  “Will not!” Monty shouted back, “If I fall Beatrice is gonna break!”

  Seeing no other way out of the situation, Sally dropped to her shins on the ground, bawling her eyes out. Her sobbing was so loud and out-there that it seemed all of the teachers within a five-mile radius would come to investigate.

  “I’m sorry, Sally!” Monty said, landing and handing her doll back, “Please don’t cry!”

  Let two things be said about Sally - the first, is that she was quite intelligent for her age, as already discussed, the second, is that in spite of this intelligence, she was nonetheless possessing of the maturity one would expect of a five year old. All this is to say that she immediately decided to take a bite of her friend for his treachery, shaking her head like a dog for good measure before she reclaimed her stolen treasure and hugged it to her chest.

  “What’s going on?” In stepped an older girl at the school. Gifted in such sciences as geography and sociology, she was around fourteen years old, and as such sometimes assisted in the care and tutelage of the younger students. She was tall for her age, and her dark skin complemented her even darker wings.

  “Nothing, Ms. Genevieve.” They both said, abashedly. Being good friends, they were both possessing of an unspoken, never-ratified truce between them when it came to authority figures, each protecting the other as a bien s?r. Still, the older girl wasn’t stupid, and she’d been at the school for a few years now. She knew how kids acted, and saw the teeth marks on Monty’s shoulder.

  “Did you bite him, Sally?” She asked, and the jig was up. Neither of the children would explain the mysterious wound, but their faces belied the truth. Instead of a harsher discipline, Genieve just sighed, with a hand on her hip, and asked, “Sally, would Beatrice-Louise-Marie want you to bite your friend?”

  “No -” The younger girl, for a multitude of reasons, could not meet her senior’s gaze, and kicked the ground limply instead, “But he took her!”

  “Monty, is that true?” She asks, and Monty nods.

  “Alright, you two.” She crouches down, getting eye-ish level with the two children, “What do we say when we’ve been mean to each other?”

  “I’m sorry.” They both apologized to each other with a great deal of shame. However, after seeing the smile on their teacher / classmate’s face, their own spirits were lifted.

  “Very good, you two!” She clapped with joy, before her spirits fell as the clock on the wall read that school had ended nearly an hour ago, “Now, where are your parents?”

  As though summoned, the eldest teacher, a wizened old man named Claude, opened the door of the room they were playing in. He coughed into his hand to get everyone’s attention, “Montagne? Your mother is here to take you and Sally home.”

  “Mama!” Monty forgot the shame he was just feeling at being scolded, and he was swiftly followed to the door by Sally and Genevieve.

  “Come here, Monty.” Marie was a woman of average height, with silvery hair, that flowed down to her shoulder blades in a well-groomed set of locks. She pat her son on the head, and then Sally afterwards, “You must be Genevieve."

  “Yes, madame.” The girl replied, “Has he mentioned me?”

  “In passing, dear,” Marie made a gesture like she could follow, as she took the two young kids by the hands, “But Sally here has mentioned you quite a lot.”

  “Tata!” Sally stomped her little feet in protest, and her pale face developed a scarlet blush.

  “It’s alright, Sally.” Genevieve leaned down and ruffled the younger girl’s hair affectionately.

  “Anyway, Django is having us over for dinner tonight,” Marie looked at the group, “And he wanted me to invite you as well, Genevieve.”

  “Me?” The girl asked, “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Yes, you, dear,” The woman said, showing a kind, genuine smile, “He wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for Sally. Why? Do you not want to come over?”

  “No, it’s not that -” Genevieve said. She was about to come up with an excuse, but she happened to look over at Sally’s anticipatory face, and gave in, “Alright, alright. I’ll come over.”

  —

  “Papa! Papa!” Sally ran over to her father as soon as she saw the door, slamming through the threshold and rushing over to her father to hug his leg.

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  “Hi, Sally!” Django reached down, taking his hand off of whatever he was cooking to pat her on the head, “Did you have fun at school today?”

  “Yes, we were learning…” The young girl racked her mind, trying to remember what the topic was, “I can count my nines.”

  “Okay, what are they?” He asked.

  She put down her fingers, studying them with fervor as she counted, “Nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six…”

  She was so engrossed in her trick that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, and was none the wiser when someone snuck up behind her and covered her eyes.

  “Guess who.” A familiar, feminine voice, with a nice pair of cotton gloves sang out.

  “Ghislaine!” The little girl turned around and hugged the military woman. She had already served her time as a civil servant and as such was no longer obligated to take care of her anymore. Still, she had undoubtedly developed a level of affection for her, not dissimilar to a rather distant aunt or uncle.

  “C’est moi!” She produced a candy from her pocket, a few bon-bons of assorted color for the girl, “How have you been, Sally?”

  “Good!” Sally beamed at her pseudo-aunt, “I’ve made lots of friends - Monty, Michel, Jean, Jacques…”

  “Yes, I hear Monty will be joining us.” Toulouse looked around, “Where is the little one?”

  “We’re here.” Marie said, having caught her group up with the larger one.

  “Good, good.” Django said, and Joseph joined him, both men with food in hand, in setting the table, “I’m glad you all could make it - please, take a seat.”

  “So, what’s the occasion?” Marie asked, taking her place next to Monty.

  “Occasion?” Django asked. “Does there need to be an occasion? You’ve all been so kind to me as I’ve gotten my legs here.”

  Sally discreetly rolled her eyes. She already knew, though in her own childish vocabulary, that he was about to launch into quite the emotional spiel that she didn’t particularly care for. So, she stealthily began daydreaming and playing with her dolls in her mind.

  “Your dad is very nice,” Genevieve leaned over and said to her, “And his cooking is… very fragrant.”

  Sally nodded, unsure of what to say. Seeing the people around her being so friendly made her wonder why she didn’t have horns like her dad, or why she was easily the palest person at the table.

  “Are you alright, Sally?” Genevieve gave the young girl a sympathetic rub on the shoulder, “You look glum.”

  “I’m fine.” She replied, poking idly at her food while not even pretending to eat it.

  “Sally -” Genevieve pressed on her a bit hard, not physically, but in the sense of her high-strung tone, “Don’t lie to me, please.” After a few seconds of grumbling, Sally relented, and the two conspired to speak after dinner as to what was bothering the younger girl.

  —

  Once dinner was completed, and the dishes cleaned, Sally found a moment to sneak away with Genevieve to her room. It was decorated much as one might expect a young girl’s room to be - bright pastels sprawling upon every inch of the walls, colonizing the floor with their hues, and even extending upon the ceiling.

  The owner of the room sat on a chair - she had no bed for she had no need of one - across from her small glass case of dolls. She was far too awkward to speak, and sat there fiddling with her fingers.

  “Okay, Sally,” Genevieve pulled up another chair, far too small for her and adorned with pink cushions, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Does my Papa love me?” She asked, bowing her head in a mixture of shame and anticipation that her worst fears would be confirmed.

  “I’m sure your father loves you.” The older girl said, stroking Sally’s long yellow hair with the back of her hand, “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t look anything like him.” Sally admitted. Her voice was small and frail, cracking and breaking as she choked out the words. “Wouldn’t he rather have a child with horns?”

  “I doubt that matters much, Sally,” Genevieve pulled her chair closer until she could pull the younger girl’s head into her chest, trying to comfort her with her presence, “Say - do you know why you don’t look like your father?”

  “No.” She replied, although it was muffled by her face being covered.

  “You’re…” The angel tried to think of a sensitive way to phrase it, but one which would still be unambiguous enough for a five year-old to understand. “Your father isn’t your ‘real father’, per se.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when you were just a little baby,” The angel sighed, dreading having to explain, “The woman who birthed you, and the man who... helped, died. You know what dying is?” Sally nodded, “And afterwards, your father took responsibility for you. So that is why you don’t look like him.”

  “Excuse me,” Django knocked at the ajar door and let himself in, before being shocked at the sight of his daughter, “Sally? Are you crying?”

  “Papa!” His daughter cried as she ran over to hug his leg.

  He lifted his knee up until he could grab and hold her to his shoulder with his arms. “Do you mind giving us a minute, miss?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Genevieve stood and made for the door. Before she made it there, however, something caught her eye. Around Sally’s father’s neck was a necklace, or locket of some variety, with a somewhat elaborate design and made of some lustrous metal. It was strangely familiar, and she stared at it for a solid few seconds, “Say, nice locket, sir.”

  “Oh, this?” He asked this while simultaneously taking the chain and defensively placing it under his shirt, “It’s an heirloom.”

  With no more words passed between them, Genevieve left, though not without keeping her eyes solidly affixed to the father’s neck. After she left, said father closed the door behind her, looking at it trepidatiously, as though it was haunted.

  “What’s wrong, ma princesse?” He always knew how to calm her down, and he grabbed a brush to smooth out her most prized possession.

  “Are my parents dead?” His daughter quickly wetted his shoulder with her tears.

  “What?” Django paused mid brush, and his tone was incredulous. “Who told you that?”

  “Miss Genevieve.”

  Again, he looked at the door. The whole dinner she’d been giving off a strange energy. If Sally didn’t speak so highly of her, she was quite frankly rather frightening. She had a strange, unnerving gait, and the slow, delicate manner in which she spoke was both ethereal and eerie.

  “Really now?” He asked rhetorically, not intending an answer. “Well, to tell you the truth...” He saw his daughter about to start another wellspring of tears, and asked “Say, Sally, what’s your favorite thing in the world?”

  “Cocoa.” She answered meekly.

  “Right, do you want some cocoa, then?” He asked, this time non-rhetorically. He helped her down and grabbed her hand. As they left the room, it was clear that all the guests had already left. So, as one last joy to cap the night off, he went to the stove and began to prepare a cup of cocoa for his daughter.