Our story begins in the underworld, in a secret cavern filled with thick, perfumed smoke. A crow flies out from the shadowed entrance, its caw a warning to those who dare to cross the threshold. No one returns from this cave.

Inside is a beautiful woman. She brushes her hair in her boudoir. The walls are encrusted with precious metals and rare jewels, firelight dancing in their reflections. She is surrounded by beauty, encased in it - imprisoned by it. 

She paints. First, her skin, in intricate lines, pathways, rivers: maps of the underworld and memories of the above. Then her lips, in the blood juice of cherries and merlots. Then last, her eyes, with the charcoal of the fire and the fat of the consecrated cow. These lines she draws as wings, a charm that she may one day fly. For now, his voice calls. She must attend his beckoning.

As she sweeps out of her chambers, the mirror sheds a tear. It will miss harboring her form.

In the throne room, the prince of our story sits at the end of a long iron table. His staff rests on its surface.

‘Vella,’ he says, and her name is a ballad even on his dry lips. It is the only graceful sound to escape his mouth.

He seeks to own the world. Already he has stolen the stars from the sky. Already he owns the rain forests and the waterfalls and the mountains. Soon he will own the sun and demand payment to watch it set. But he does not say this outright. He says it with a twisted mouth, preaching independence and free will. She listens and bristles, his words tedious to the ear.

Her teeth are lengthening, sharpening themselves on his evil words. The hairs on her skin thicken into shaggy black fur. The whites of her eyes turn to black and he is seeing her now, as the last shred of her humanity splits into a universal howl.

Black dog and dark prince lock in the moment together, like lovers before departure or soldiers after the bullets stop flying. Black eyes watching black eyes, one set sneering, one set snarling, she with fangs bared and he with sword drawn. And he strikes as she pounces, her claws in his chest while he slices her cheek. And the sound of their bodies is heavy and drastic as they slam into each other, teeth in flesh and metal in fur. They slip in the blood and pant as they face each other again. His leg will become infected, and her cheek will scar forever, and this moment will fuel them as they glide to their pinnacles and slide down the slopes of their illusions.

Vella is free now, of course - though it will take her many moons to realize the fact - and even more to accept it. The prince is wounded, unable to stand on his broken leg, calling for his minions.

Our darling bounds through the underground chambers, a black wolfhound of body and a monsoon of soul. She is at the maw of the great cave, her footfalls awakening the bats from their slumber, and as she steps into the light, a violin bow draws upon an electric guitar. The music echoes throughout the valley. She is human once more.

Jasmine fills the air with her sweet parfum, wisteria falls in violent purple swathes. Lily sighs, her delight an atmospheric bliss. They are her sisters and they sing up a chorus of celestial hymns. Darlings! Darlings! Darlings, the lot! They are angels of love, cherubs of the spring, flowers and floral maiden swaying in tandem with the breeze, petals star-ward, roots earthbound. Vella, barefoot upon the soft grass, dances because the sky is blue, because her heart is red, because the earth is emerald, sun is golden, air is clear! She is heady, the fragrance of the wildflowers seeping into her skin, slipping her into reverie.

Where is the smoke coming from? It is not of fire, nor incense, nor foul cigarette. It is tasteless, rising from the compact earth, shaking the dew from the bluebells, opening the branches of a buckler-fern. It is taking her, levitating her, and Vella is letting it happen, letting her form shrink, surrendering to the space that is opening from within, from rosebush into shamrock into raindrop into mist.