Chapter Text
I was the firstborn and rightful heir to the French crown, but my heart belonged to a man far beneath my station. With my sister Carmilla being the youngest, and already pledged to the Ambassador of Spain, the burden of the throne fell to my younger brother, Asmodeus.
When our father disowned me for marrying a commoner, it was Asmodeus who welcomed me back with open arms, allowing my husband and me to raise our family within the gilded halls of Versailles. I had adored my brother since the day he was born, having practically raised him myself. In turn, he was endlessly sweet and supportive—if a bit notorious for his colorful, unconventional taste in lovers. Because he took no queen, my children were destined to be his heirs.
My husband, Michael, was the gentlest, most unselfish man I had ever known. A royal gardener and stable hand, he possessed an innate devotion to flowers and animals, but he loved me above all else. In my youth, I was no great beauty. Courtiers called me "regal" and "handsome"—the image of a proper queen—but I could read the unspoken truth in their eyes: Remind the suitors they will sit on the throne; they can always take mistresses. Michael, however, swore I was the most beautiful creature God had ever made. He told me my beauty could only be seen by eyes that loved me, shielding me forever from false flattery. He never dared ask for my hand, believing he had no right to dream so high, so I proposed to him instead.
For years, motherhood proved a cruel struggle. I endured four miscarriages and two stillbirths before heaven granted us a miracle: a healthy, beautiful little girl. My princess, my Lilith. She became the center of my universe, and I poured all I had into her happiness.
Those were golden days, wrapped in the warmth of my brother, my husband, and my child. I wanted for nothing. But then the fires of the French Revolution consumed our world. In the bloody chaos, I lost both Asmodeus and Michael, forced to flee to Spain with my daughter to seek refuge in the shadow of my sister's court.
Lilith grew into a lovely, educated, and charming young woman. She sang and danced to perfection and possessed a generous heart—though obedience was never her strong suit. She was a stubborn girl, a trait undoubtedly inherited from my side of the family. She constantly dreamed of leaving Spain to explore the world, and despite my strict prohibitions, she slipped away at eighteen aboard a French merchant vessel.
That was where she met Lucifer.
His father was one of France's premier merchants, taking young Lucifer on countless trading expeditions to teach him the family business. When I first met him, I found him silly and hopelessly idealistic—hardly a suitable match for my daughter. But Lilith swore he was clever, brave, and kind, promising to show her the world. She had fallen deeply in love, and I could never bring myself to deny her happiness.
They married, and despite my fierce protests, chose to make their home in Cap-Haïtien. Lucifer spoke of it as a paradise—a lush, tropical landscape of dramatic mountains, vibrant flora, and exotic wildlife. As a boy, it had been his favorite port of call; he fondly recalled swimming in the sea, exploring the streets with local children, and chasing birds, frogs, and butterflies (the birds, I suspect, were always his true passion). He spoke of eternal sunshine and warmth, claiming he had never wanted to leave.
I begged them to stay. I told them Haiti was a God-forsaken land of suffocating heat, biting insects, mindless savages, and violent unrest. In truth, I simply could not bear the thought of them moving so far across the ocean. Yet my warnings fell on deaf ears.
However, as much as I despised that distant shore, not even the Devil himself could have kept me away once my grandchildren were born.
First came Peter. He was the spitting image of Lucifer, but in temperament, he was my dear brother Asmodeus reborn. So sweet and endlessly playful, he captured my heart. I spent countless hours in the nursery with him, spinning tales of the day he would become a grand king, just like his uncle.
Next was Emily. She possessed all of Lilith's elegance and intelligence, but paired with a gentle, patient nature that was exceedingly rare in our bloodline, must have gotten it from her father’s side. She loved watching me dress, wide-eyed as I put on my gowns, jewels, and rouge, begging to try them on herself. Naturally, I indulged her every whim, promising her that when she grew up, she would have a hundred suitors and marry only the handsomest, kindest prince in the world.
Finally, there was Charlotte—a perfect tapestry of our entire family. She inherited her father's boundless energy, idealism, and courage; her mother's grace, musicality, and penchant for mischief; her grandfather Michael's kindness and honesty; and the fierce loyalty of her aunt and uncle. We spent hours singing, dancing, and playing music together. She endlessly begged for stories of France and Spain, desperate to know what her cousins were like and pleading to come away with me to see the world. But she was still too young.
Thanks to my brother-in-law's position as ambassador, I frequently arranged for my sister's family to visit Haiti. They all adored Charlotte, but she formed an immediate, unbreakable bond with my youngest niece, Vaggie.
I still remember the last time we were all together. It was Peter's eighteenth birthday—the milestone marking the age he was to return to France with me to begin his royal training for the throne.
A magnificent ball was thrown in his honor, and the entire island seemed to attend: family, friends, neighbors, and dignitaries alike.
The grand ballroom of the Morningstar estate was a triumph of French opulence draped in tropical grandeur. Giant crystal chandeliers, imported directly from Paris, hung low from high mahogany ceilings, casting a warm, flickering candlelight across polished marble floors that mirrored the dancers above. Tall arched French doors were thrown wide open to the courtyard, letting the balmy Caribbean breeze sweep through, carrying the rich scent of blooming night-jasmine and sea salt to mingle with the heavy perfumes of European aristocracy.
Every corner of the room radiated life, color, and wealth. A live chamber orchestra played near the grand staircase, their violins swelling into lively waltzes that filled the air. Ladies whirled past in cascading gowns of silk and velvet, their powdered hair catching the light of a hundred candles, while diplomats and plantation lords clinked crystal flutes of imported champagne. Outside on the verandas, servants worked tirelessly to keep silver platters brimming with delicacies, ensuring the glass of every guest remained full.
At the heart of it all stood the family, surrounded by those they loved most. Peter, dressed in a sharp velvet coat, was the undisputed man of the hour, laughing heartily as his father Lucifer toasted to his coming ascension to the French court. Lilith looked every bit the queenly mother, her grace unmatched as she glided through the crowd alongside Carmilla and her husband Zestial. Nearby, sixteen year old Emily blushed as a dozen handsome suitors queued for a dance, while little Charlotte and Vaggie giggled together in a corner, whispering secrets and twirling through their own private choreography.
"Charlotte, you're doing it all wrong," Vaggie grinned.
"No, I'm not!"
"Yes, you are. That's not how you waltz."
"It is our waltz," Charlotte insisted, giggling as she spun around. "The Waltz of the Bird and the Butterfly. You're the butterfly, and I'm the bird."
She spread her arms wide, fluttering them like wings before twirling in a circle.
"And we flap our wings," she declared, "and twirl!"
Vaggie let out a bright, ringing laugh, shaking her head as Charlotte twirled past her with completely uninhibited, un-courtly enthusiasm.
"That doesn't even make sense, Char! Birds don't waltz, they fly, and butterflies don't flap, they flutter!" Vaggie countered, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the ballroom as she tried—and completely failed—to maintain the rigid, proper posture her Spanish etiquette tutors had drilled into her.
"Then we shall flap and flutter together!" Charlotte declared with a triumphant grin. She grabbed Vaggie's hands, pulling her into a chaotic, breathless spin right in the center of the terrace, completely ignoring the amused glances from the passing nobility. "Look at us, Vaggie! We're flying!"
From across the floor, Lilith caught her mother's eye, shaking her head with an affectionate sigh as she watched the two girls completely dismantle centuries of royal decorum. Lucifer, holding a fresh flute of champagne, simply beamed with pride, imitating a bird's wings with his free hand to encourage his youngest daughter's ridiculous performance.
Lucifer then stepped away from the crowd and approached Charlotte with grand flourish, dropping into a dramatic, sweeping bow.
"May I have this dance, mademoiselle?"
"Oui, Papa!" Charlotte chirped, her eyes lighting up.
He scooped her up into his arms, spinning her in wide, dizzying circles that sent her skirts flying. Her melodic giggles echoed across the terrace.
"Ah, ma petite colombe," Lucifer laughed, catching his breath as he set her feet back on the marble. "You are a natural dancer, just like your mother. Not at all like me. I was hopelessly clumsy when we met—your mother had to practically drag me through the steps."
"And yet you still dance divinely, mon cher petit canard," Lilith murmured, gliding up beside them with a fond, knowing smile.
Because of Lucifer's absolute obsession with feathered creatures, Lilith had long ago taken to teasing him with the endearment mon cher petit canard—my darling duck. In turn, he affectionately called her ma jolie oie, my pretty goose.
When their children arrived, the bird-inspired pet names naturally carried on down the bloodline: Peter was their petite perruche, their little parakeet; Emily was their petit rossignol, their little nightingale; and Charlotte, gentle and bright, was forever their petite colombe—their little dove.
"Papa, when it is my birthday, I want a duck, a goose, a parakeet, a nightingale, and a dove!" Charlotte declared, counting them off proudly on her tiny fingers.
Lucifer chuckled, sweeping a hand out toward the lush estate gardens. "You already have them, ma petite colombe. They are everywhere here. I'll take you out to see them tomorrow morning."
"But I want to keep them at home with me, Papa! To be my pets."
Lucifer's smile softened into something gentler, thoughtful. "Oh no, Charlotte. I cannot allow that."
"But you let Peter and Emily have horses!" she pouted, crossing her arms with all the dramatic flair of a twelve-year-old.
"Horses are not kept in cages all day, my sweet. They are allowed to run free through the fields," Lucifer explained gently, kneeling down so he was eye-level with her. "Birds would not have that luxury. They would have to stay trapped behind iron bars, no longer allowed to fly where the sky takes them. And nothing good belongs in a cage or in chains." He booped her nose teasingly. "But... that does not mean you cannot have a pet. Perhaps a horse of your own?"
Charlotte shook her head vigorously, her blonde curls bouncing. "I don't like riding horses! I'm always afraid I'll fall off."
"A kitten, then?"
Charlotte's eyes widened to the size of saucers, all pouty reluctance vanishing instantly. "Yes, Papa! Oh, merci, Papa!" She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him with all her might.
Before Lucifer could answer his daughter's joyful squeeze, a tall, imposing figure stepped out from the shadows of the veranda.
It was Jean-Baptiste Le Beau, the household's master game hunter and butcher. Dressed in his formal servant's attire, Jean-Baptiste carried himself with a quiet, stern dignity.
Years ago, Jean-Baptiste had fallen in love with Adele, the slave of a cruel local baron. When Jean-Baptiste had “stolen” her away in the dead of night to marry, he faced severe imprisonment and a hangman's knot for theft, his life seemed forfeit—until Lucifer Morningstar intervened.
Lucifer had paid an exorbitant fortune to settle the baron's charges and buy Adele's freedom outright, allowing the pair to wed and live as free, respected members of the Morningstar household. Since then Jean-Baptiste's loyalty to Lucifer was absolute, forged in a gratitude.
Jean-Baptiste bowed deeply, his expression uncharacteristically grave.
"Forgive the interruption, Monsieur Morningstar," Jean-Baptiste said softly, his voice a low, rumbling baritone. "General Whittman has just arrived. He requests a word with you in the study immediately. He says it is a matter of urgent security."
Lucifer's eyebrows knit together slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he quickly masked it with a reassuring smile for his daughter.
"Of course, Jean-Baptiste. Thank you," Lucifer said. He set Charlotte gently back on her feet, leaning down to press a warm kiss onto her forehead. "Excuse me for a moment, princess. Go find your mother and Vaggie. Papa will be right back."
"Alright but don't forget our last dance!" Charlotte reminded him with a bright grin.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Lucifer laughed, winking as he turned and followed Jean-Baptiste through the grand French doors, his velvet coat sweeping behind him as he vanished into the estate's inner halls.