Chapter One

Maybe I could be the one they adore
That could be my reputation
It's where I'm from that lets them think I'm a whore
I'm an educated virgin...
~ The Wallflowers, "Sleepwalker"

Paris, France, 1900

Opium smoke hung in the air over the loosely coiffured heads of several Parisian bohemians. The smell was slight, but not overpowering, and the dim lighting only added to the mysterious atmosphere.

"If there's any place La Fee would be, it would be here," Toulouse pronounced, making his way toward the bar. "It's the perfect place to find a fairy."

"You've said that about the last five cafes we've been in," Harold muttered, sniffing at the air. "Mon Dieu, how much opium do they sell here...."

"Enough," Toulouse shrugged. "It isn't bad, but you know what I prefer." He turned to Zidler with a glass of absinthe in his hand and a smile on his lips. "Cheers, Harry."

"Toulouse," Zidler objected mildly, "that's the fifth glass of absinthe in just as many cafes. And we haven't seen her yet!"

"We will! We will," Toulouse insisted, sipping delicately at his absinthe, smiling at the green liquid affectionately. "It's just a matter of finding her. Have a dwink."

"I had a glass of bourbon at the first place, Toulouse, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." With that, the painter began to wander around the cafe, humming to himself. Harold seated himself down at the bar and leaned a cheek on his hand, drumming his fingers on the counter as he watched his friend flit from table to table.

"Excusez," Toulouse called out after a moment, tapping a thin girl on the shoulder. "Are you the gween fairy?"

"Buzz off," she told him, then went back to sampling her opium.

"Well!" He took another drink of absinthe and proceeded to progress from table to table. Any thin, dark-haired girl became an object of interrogation by the time his glass was half empty.

"Pardonnez, mam'selle, but, you're my fairy, aren't you?"

That particular woman decided to answer Toulouse in the form of a sharp slap to the cheek, and he returned to the bar, slightly humbled, to request a refill on his absinthe. "That," he said indignantly, rubbing at his cheek, "was not our Fee d'Absinthe."

"She was a redhead, Toulouse." Zidler sighed, holding up a hand to signal the bartender. "Maybe I will have another bourbon. But after that ... you and I are going back to Montmartre. We've looked in every cafe around, and we haven't seen the girl anywhere. I'm tired. My feet are getting rather sore from all this tramping. And moreover, you, my friend," he proclaimed, putting a hand over Toulouse's freshly-filled glass of liquor, "are drunk."

"Noooooo," Toulouse scoffed. "Don't be thilly, Hawold."

Resignedly, Harold left Toulouse to his absinthe, and finished off his glass of bourbon with a roll of his eyes. "Fine... let's go."

When night falls on Paris, the whole atmosphere softens. Low candlelight and laughter beckon from the cafes, lamplight glows in the streets. On this particular night, however, the normally friendly glow was becoming blurry around the edges, and tinged a strangely familiar pale green.

Henri Toulouse-Latrec ambled crookedly through the park, twirling his cane awkwardly as he slurred out some old drinking song, with brief segues into Frere Jacques. Not far behind him - yet far enough to avoid being hit by the cane - trailed Zidler, looking rather tired and quite less red in the nose than his compatriot.

"Toulouse.... Toulouse," Zidler spoke up, pulling his top hat down as far on his head as it would go. "I'm sure that the green fairy thinks you sing wonderfully... but you're killing my eardrums."

"The fairy likes it very much," Toulouse slurred, his lisp making him almost completely unintelligable. "And so does that one and that one and that one." He pointed at random points in the air, smiling merrily.

"Mmm, hm." Zidler winced, leaning up against a tree on the edge of the path. "Just remember, I'm not dealing with you in the morning.... You don't see my fairy, do you?"

"Yes...There...And there..." Toulouse made smooching motions towards the fairy as she zinged merrily here and there.

Harold grabbed him by the shoulder. "Snap out of it!"

There was a rustling in the branches overhead, but neither heard it. Toulouse was lost somewhere in his absinthe state, and Harold looked a little worse for wear himself. In a flurry of movement, a small bundle of fur dropped from the tree and right onto Harold's top hat.

"Toulouse...." Zidler said slowly, "Am I drunk as well, or is there something on my ... head...?" He paused. Maybe Toulouse wasn't the best person to ask.

The monkey chose that moment to wrap its tail around Harold's face, and chittered.

Harold Zidler reacted in the same way any respectable showman would do upon realizing that there was indeed a monkey sitting on his head.

He screamed.

The monkey took this as license to scurry down to his shoulder and peep. Toulouse, however, had different things on his mind than feeding the monkey, who was holding out its hands like a postulate. "The green fairy!" he cried, tugging on Harold's sleeve. "Hawold, I see her! Sweeping up there!"

Harold was too busy with the monkey's antics, which included picking at his hair. "Get OFF me!" he blustered, swatting at the suricate with his glove, which the monkey had managed to pull off his hand, thinking that it was something edible.

"Cheee!" The monkey bobbed its head, and the tiny beret it had been wearing fell off. With a swing of his hand, Harold hit the monkey. Angrily, the monkey leapt up onto the nearby lamppost, shaking its fist and still holding onto Harold's glove.

"GIVE ME THAT!" Zidler growled. Swiping up the miniature beret, he shook it at the monkey. "You give me that and I'll give you this."

"I don't think he wikes you Hawold."

"Toulouse, be quiet."

The monkey tossed the glove at Harold's face with a squeak, then crossed its arms and glowered, almost pouting. Sighing, Zidler threw the beret up into the tree and set out down the path again. "I've had enough of this, Toulouse..... let's go."

"But Hawold! I saw her! The green fairy!"

"You've seen her all night. I haven't. Come ON."

"Bye monkey," Toulouse waved sadly. "Bye faiwee."

"When you're sober again ... and when I feel like dealing with monkeys again ..." Zidler sighed, "We'll go look for that fairy girl again. She's too good to be dancing in the streets, I tell you. It's damned frustrating. And she could be making so much more. Even as a dancer, nothing more..." Putting his top hat on decisively, he took Toulouse by the sleeve and dragged him down the path.

Behind them, the monkey scampered up into the foliage and curled up to go to sleep, and a girl's voice murmured sleepily in Russian.

The Bar Absinthe at the center of Montmartre was particularly crowded that afternoon, and Toulouse-Latrec smiled halfheartedly as he entered the patio. He'd meant to come with company, both to be fashionable, and to make the going a little more amusing. However, his intended companion, one Christian, was too engrossed in his writing and had refused to answer the door. At least, the bohemian artist sighed, he's stopped drinking and started shaving. There's a comfort. Hooking the end of his cane over his arm, Toulouse craned his neck, looking out at the scene. A particularly large group had convened at one end of the patio, and he ambled over to see what the fuss was about.

One thing was for sure, it was not about a certain young gentleman's singing skills, or lack of them. The gentleman in question was trying his best at Nuites de Reve, and doing a pitiful job of it too. In several minutes, if he wasn't careful, he would be escorted off the premises and forced to do his lovesick braying elsewhere. At least, that's what it appeared to be from Toulouse's point of view. The young man kept trying to position himself above the crowd, to glimpse, no doubt, whatever lorette or grisette had captured the crowd's attention.

For once, Toulouse realized happily, being diminutive had its advantages. Smiling, he slipped carefully between the people of the crowd, making his way as close as he could to the front.

Hedged in, a barricade of people could be claustrophobic at times, but none more so than this time. What made this circumstance special? Nothing, really. The stench of unwashed bodies mixed with wormwood liquer was the same, as was the language. But what really made Toulouse's head spin was the awed disbelief.

"It's really her!" -- "No, you fool, of course it isn't, look at that silly dress she's wearing, any man can see she's a common showpiece." -- "La Fee Verte! How simply amazing, I must have the honor of your..." -- "Mon Dieu, but I did not realize you were so..."

"AH!" Toulouse fairly shrieked with joy. Here, indeed, was the same exact young creature that he and Harold had been trying to tail the night before. Though he'd just managed to chase off his hangover, he realized that it was well worth it. Now, if he could only find some way to approach her! At the moment, however, that feat was nigh impossible. A flute of absinthe in one hand, she looked for all the world like some otherworldly queen.

Maybe, he thought, I could ask permission to paint her? Toulouse nodded to himself. A good enough thought. But there was still the problem of getting there!

A tall, sickly looking man stepped out from behind her and waved his hand for the crowd to quiet. "Monsieurs and mesdames! May I present to you, that lovely liquer you've all heard so much about, La Fee Verte!"

Toulouse applauded thunderously, along with the throngs of other spectators.

"Madame Absinthe will be appearing..." the man cocked his head so she could whisper something in his ear, "...in a bottle near you straightway! A toast!" He nodded to her, and she pirouetted grandly, as if in a dream. The crowd held its breath.

"A toast!" She sang out, holding up the flute, her voice clear and lyrical in the chill of the evening air.

"A toast, indeed," Toulouse echoed. "Now if I only had myself a glass."

"Isn't she marvelous, Max?" Toulouse's neighbor hissed to his friend. "I heard none other than Manet himself painted her! In deshabille, no less!"

Toulouse's eyes widened slightly and he allowed himself a low whistle. Then he let his eyes wander with more of an artist's care over the elusive fairy. She was a rather skinny thing, and he was suddenly aware that an artist would probably leave out the lines he was certain her ribs left in her pale skin.

"To La Fee Verte!" The skeleton thundered across the cafe, nearly causing Toulouse to lose his hearing as the denziens answered in kind. The flute, normally used for champagne, went pirouetting up as the dancer had, sparkling in the lamplight. A conjurer's trick, the absinthe left the glass and spilled in a glorious stream right through her open mouth. She caught the flute with a flick of her wrist, and smiled as if blessing every man in the crowd.

Max's friend whispered again, this time below the clamor. "I hear if you catch that glass, she'll be yours to paint and do with what you will for one night! Imagine! Watch, maybe she'll do it again."

Toulouse sighed. Someone of his stature had absolutely no hope of catching that. But it was obvious that this night La Fee Verte would not be for sale. With a flutter of dark lashes, she offered a deep curtsey, and turned her back to the crowd. A hum of disappointment surged through the mob.

"La Fee is accepting your cards," the skeleton man quickly assured them, tossing his top hat onto the cafe table.

As the spectators all threw cards into the top hat, Toulouse hung back, looking up at the sky. It was beginning to look like the usual Parisian rain, and he was glad for his umbrella. Beyond him, the girl shivered visibly, and was talking rapidly to her partner in a language neither French nor the street English of the day before, but something far more Slavic. She gestured at the sky, and the man shook his head with a crooked grin, gesturing that he would soon be off, wouldn't she join him? But, no, she was shaking her head emphatically.

Seeing his chance, Toulouse stepped up to her, coughing politely. "Pardon me, Madame.... it appears to be rain... and I see you have no umbrella. Would you care to share one with me?"

"Where is your rude friend tonight?" She inquired, and, as if in afterthought, "That would be lovely, and ever so kind. But I'm afraid we might be going in different directions, and poor Jacob might think I have deserted him."

The corpse-countenanced man shrugged, as if to say, What is it to me what you do, and who you do it with?

Toulouse blinked, digesting all that. She called Harold rude. Best not to tell him about that. However... "Well, if I may suggest treating La Fee to something that could take the rain's chill off those delicate bones?"

If his invitation took her by surprise, she did not show it, just ducked trustingly under his umbrella as raindrops began to decorate the cobblestones. "I could not refuse such a widely known painter's request. It will be my pleasure."

The inside of the Moulin Rouge was a stark contrast to the grey Parisian spring weather. Red and gold dominated the walls, floor, and ceiling, and it was quite possible for a rain-soaked traveler to feel a slight warmer even at the sight of the conflagration. Toulouse smiled as he led La Fee over to the ornate bar at the side of the dance floor, whisking his jacket off his shoulders and draping it over her own as he took his umbrella and shook it out, taking care to do so towards a bourgeois customer.

"Order whatever you like, my dear," he smiled. "I should go see if we've got something warmer in the costume room for you to wear..."

La Fee sat gingerly onto the chair, taking great care to ignore the various lecherous glances suddenly directed her way. She snapped her fingers imperiously and ordered a shot of absinthe. "Absinthe, s'il-vous plait."

"Of course," Toulouse smiled, holding up two fingers to indicate not only that he wanted some as well, but that it would be on his tab. "What else would La Fee order?"

She smiled kittenishly. "Pain au chocolat, if monsieur does not mind it."

Toulouse shook his head. "Not at all. And please... call me Toulouse! I would like to think us less formal." He grinned as the bartender, a thin little man in striped red pants and gold vest handed them their drinks, still warm. "Cheers."

La Fee clinked her glass to his, and tipped the drink & swallowed it in one quick motion.

Toulouse did the same, smiling contentedly. "Another?"

Pale green eyes danced wickedly. "I wouldn't dream of refusing such a famous painter."

Laughing, Toulouse signaled for another round, and it was recieved along with two generous slices of pain au chocolat. "Pretty fairy, you're making me blush..." He grinned. "You will let me paint you some day, non?"

She leaned forward, so every rib stuck out of her wet muslin dress. The effect was supposed to be seductive, if pathetic. La Fee Verte was losing that gamin sparkle to hunger. "Any time you would like," she batted her lashes.

Toulouse smiled happily, then gave her what remained of his bread. "Eat, please," he told her. "Can't let my favorite subject go hungry."

The girl devoured all of his pastry, then hers, sipping her absinthe with a small grimace. "I..." she began, looking towards the door, "should go."

"Please, stay," Toulouse implored quietly. "Don't you want some supper?"

She blinked sooty lashes. "Just some soup, if you don't mind...and those...ah... What would you reccommend to La Fee, monsieur?"

"The stuffed mushrooms are quite good," Toulouse shrugged.

"Ah!" La Fee seized upon the idea with gusto. "Stuffed mushroom and a little pate?"

"And baguettes!" Toulouse nodded exuberantly.

"And more pain au chocolat?"

Another nod, as the painter motioned the bartender over and told him their order.

"That's quite a lot," the bartender blinked. "Are you sure you want all that on your tab?"

"Put it on ..." Toulouse paused, then winked. "You know whose."

"He's not going to be happy with you."

"Oh, he never is," Toulouse laughed.

"And a bottle of wine, if you don't mind." La Fee winked at the bartender. "I like to be nice and toasty for the road."

"I do wish you'd stay," Toulouse lamented.

"There are places to go...studios to visit...monkeys to watch." Wisps of hair were beginning to frizz as the girl dug into her meal. The shadows below her eyes gave her a vaguely haunted look. "Monkeys need a place to stay, same as the rest of us, sir. When will you paint me? I need to pay you back for..." she waved her arm theatrically "...all of this."

"Well, whenever you wish," Toulouse shrugged. "Do you and the little creature need a place to stay? You could stay in the same hotel as I - they would welcome him."

She giggled, fiddling with the bodice of her gown. "La!"

Toulouse raised an eyebrow. "Excusez?"

"You, sir, are the first to ask La Fee Verte to stay in a hotel! So far she has only been asked to pose! La Fee does not do well inside walls. But...I think on your offer."

Toulouse immediately blushed. "That is ... that is not what I meant," he stammered, sipping at his absinthe.

La Fee, to her credit, blushed a warm rose, and spooned her soup carefully.

A slight, awkward silence followed, during which Toulouse busied himself by picking the filling out of a mushroom cap. The girl, who had settled her napkin in her lap after watching Toulouse do the same, was busy covertly sneaking bits and pieces of food.

"TOULOUSE!" A voice bellowed from across the dance hall. "What's this I hear about you putting sixty francs' worth of food on MY bill??"

Toulouse coughed. "Now...." he muttered, "would be a good time to leave..."

La Fee jumped as Harold Zidler strode up to the bar, his moustache bristling. "Wine? Absinthe? What exactly do you think you're .... do...ing ...." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of his elusive Fee Verte sitting not three feet away from him. ".... Oh." He finished simply.

"I hope you don't mind," Toulouse said brightly, "but I took the liberty of buying Mademoiselle some supper."

"Not at alllll!" Zidler beamed exuberantly, his mood completely and instantly reversed.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, my dear," he said congenially to the elusive fairy.

She arched a brow in disbelief, and went back to her mushrooms. The pilfered food had yet gone undetected. "I sorry...Do I know you?"

Harold's brow creased in disappointment. "M'sieur Harold Zidler," he reminded her kindly. "We met at the foot of La Butte a short while ago ..." He blinked, wondering how on Earth a girl could forget a man who left her a twenty-franc note.

"Ah..." the girl smiled at her plate, and pulled out a twenty-france note. "This?" She asked, rising a little from her seat to waggle it in the showman's face.

Harold coughed, trying to figure out how to not come off sounding like a complete salaud. "Well .... ah .... yes."

Toulouse, meanwhile, poured himself another shot of absinthe and downed it, shaking his head.

"Just what do you mean by this?" She spat, her accent getting thicker and thicker by the minute. "Do you want me to get robbed?"

Zidler blinked, taken aback by that comment. "Well, no, of course not ... I think that you're an excellent performer, and thought that you should be garnering more than you do on the streets," he backpedaled, choosing his words as carefully as he could.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "'Ow much? This much?" With careful precision, she made to shred the bill between nimble fingers. Emerald eyes locked on sapphire, and the bill drifted softly to the floor, a wall between the two of them, showman and muse.

Zidler's face fell, but only for an instant ... an instant too long, by his standards. "Think what you will, but it's still yours to keep. I know of others who would recieve such gifts more graciously... and I would have more than that to give you." With that, he turned, taking the bottle of wine with him, sampling it straight out, not bothering with a glass.

"Wait!" She took a step forward. "Like what?"

Zidler paused, allowing himself the tiniest of smiles. Battle's not won yet, he reminded himself. Without turning, he replied enigmatically, "That depends upon what you're looking for."

She spread her arms out, as if encompassing the whole theater. "Where La Fee goes, brilliance will follow her to the ends of the earth. For now, the streets and parks are her home, and mere men her playthings. Would you deny La Fee her home and her freedom?"

Zidler shook his head. "No, not at all. ... I would only offer what she wishes."

"What must she do in return? I am much skilled in the..." and here her eyes dropped to the ground, and the franc note between them. "...in the ways of the world, monsieur. But I will not do it again, not for all the francs on this earth."

Zidler looked at her quite gravely, nodding his understanding. "I would not ask what you are not willing to give. I would only wish that you grace my stage with your dancing, whenever and as often or as sparsely as you wish."

La Fee nibbled on her lower lip thoughtfully, and a few wisps of ebony fell in her face, making her appear more gamine than feminine. "How much? How much will you pay me?"

"What do you think is reasonable?" Zidler shrugged amiably. "...We could go up to my office, if you wish, to discuss things. It's a little more conducive." He gestured subtly to a few of the customers at the bar who had been leering at her.

La Fee shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking towards the door with longing glances.

"Or outside, en plein air, if you prefer."

She shrugged. "I would prefer not to sit in the rain for as long as possible, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Zidler chuckled. "Sometimes I forget my own name..."

She peeled the scrap of money off the floor, and nodded regally, a princess disguised as a beggar. "Of course, I will expect room and board included."

"Of course." He paused, noting her regal stance, and the flash in her eyes. In that instant, she reminded him of someone - and remembrance had always been his weakness... "I know just where you can stay."

"A room with a view?" Back was the flash in the eyes, and a smile to put you on your toes.

"Well, how about I let you take a look, mademoiselle." Zidler said grandly. "And if you do not care for it, you may choose your lodging."

She spat on her hand and stuck it out. "Monsieur, La Fee expects no less."

To her slight surprise, the showman did the same, shaking her hand without hesitation. "But of course." Reaching into the coat rack by the door, he pulled out a large black umbrella and took one of the showgirls' long coats, sweeping it over her shoulders. "Shall we?"

"Certainly," she replied, ducking her head as they moved beneath one of the Moulin Rouge's many low doorways.

As they stepped outside, Zidler held up the umbrella, taking care to keep it over her head as he led the way toward the towering structure that was the centerpiece of the courtyard gardens ... the elephant, abandoned for a year.

"La!" She breathed, staring at it. "That, for me?"

Withdrawing a heavy iron keyring from his coat, Zidler nodded silently, selecting an ornate skeleton key studded with a small, delicate diamond. Forgive me, sparrow, but the show *does* go on ... Straightening his posture an inch or so more, Zidler unlocked the door. "It is a bit musty, and you must forgive that, but it can be easily remedied." Gesturing grandly, he pushed the door open for her...and choked on a year's worth of dust.

La Fee Verte peered into the gloom. Whoever had lived in the room before had not cleared it out, and all of their possessions still lingered, as if to say, Once I belonged here.

Gingerly, she stepped beyond Zidler and into the darkness. There was nothing to be afraid of, and if ghost there was to be found inside this quiet place, she did not fear it. If you would come, come, and let me face you alone, as I have with so many of the others. She glanced behind her. Zidler remained at the door, his expression an unreadable mask. We all have our demons.

A breeze blew through the room, carrying a faint hint of strawberries as it ruffled a few wisps of La Fee's hair. The only sound was the rain softly drumming against the shell of the elephant. Naomi put a hand out, confused, but the breeze was gone as suddenly as it had come, and the scent of strawberries with it. "Well," It's a beginning. "Shoyn tsayt," she mused in a mixure of street English and Yiddish. "Do not blink too hard, monsieur, or La Fee will be gone, back to the absinthe where you first found her."

Zidler managed a smile. "Wonderful," he nodded. "You may come and go as you please ... I'll ..." He paused - damn those pauses, someday they'd be the death of him. "I'll have some staff up to clean this out for you." Lord knows I won't want to be here to see it.

"And the money?"

"Ah, always the practical one." His smile broadened as the topic changed to one he was better at. "How much would you request?"

"Thirty-five francs a week," she challenged him. "Nu?"

"Done," he said, not batting an eye.

A bit stunned, she gaped widely at him, not bothering to close her mouth in case of flies. Recovering herself, La Fee stuttered, "Of-of course, monsieur, that's wonderful. I'll see you here, in the morning?"

"Whenever La Fee wishes to be here, M'sieur Zidler shall be waiting," he replied with a wink.

Silence. She had melted into the darkness, and neither she nor the cloak were anywhere in the elephant to be found.

Zidler chuckled, looking around the empty courtyard. "Now," he said aloud, "how do you think I'm to tell Jane Avril that her cloak disappeared into nowhere, along with a little wisp of a fairy girl?"

Only the breeze answered.