Black Butterflies

A short story

Once, not so very long ago, but long enough that people have already forgotten, there was a quiet town. It was a sleepy little place which had sprung up around the train-line that cut through the surrounding country. Most of the town was clustered to the east of this dividing line, but on the west side lived a cold and lonely man — an alchemist, who some whispered was a magician.

He was, in truth, nothing of the sort. He could no more practice magic than he could fly, even though magic would eventually change his life. But his time had not yet come so he was simply a bitter man, alone with his experiments and memories.

The people of the town left him to himself, believing that one so eccentric deserved to be alone. The only person in the town who doubted this was the little girl who lived next door with her mama and her papa and her governess. Her name was Violet and she would have said, if asked, that she rather liked the alchemist despite his queer and crotchety ways. In his own way he liked her too, though he never would have admitted it.

Nor would he have admitted that she reminded him of someone he missed dearly. That despite her youth some things — like the shine of sunlight on her golden hair, the way she sat in the parlour's big armchair, the clarity of her sweet voice — reminded him of someone he wished…