Fairy tale love is a dangerous thing. Why? Because it allows innocent hearts to be broken by the promise of unconditional love, which doesn't exist. It always starts with the handsome, self-righteous young nobleman visiting his wealthy, crotchety grandfather. The heavy wooden door is opene by the stuffy, hook-nosed butler who shows him into the gaudily decorated living room drenched in the aroma of stale potpourri. he allows the room a disgusted glace and his dull amber eyes fall upon a small sickly woman cramped into the marble fireplace, painstakingly sweeping the ash from the walls and floor. He lifts his hand and opens his mouth to order her out of the room when she lifts her blackened hand to brush a tangled lock of honey blonde hair off of her cheek, leaving a disfiguring streak of black across her petal-white skin. He watches as her small chest heaves with the effort of drawing in the tainted air. He finds himself longing to wipe the soot from her cheek, but painfully restrains himself. Instead he settles for hungrily taking in every inch of her body; from the tattered grey cloth attempting to hide her protruding ribs, to her bruised knees spread wide on the slate heath to keep her pathetic body from collapsing. He takes a hesitant step forward, inadvertantly scuffing the burgundy persian rug with the toe of his shoe. Her body goes rigid as she realises she is no longer alone, she slowly turns and her eyes lock his with a disgusted glare. She slowly stands up and he notices that she is much taller than he had expected, almost as tall as himself. Her torn excuse for a dress hung uselessly from her bony shoulders and clung mercilessly to her smooth, slim legs. He drinks up this image of her and finds thoughts running through his mind that would make the most experienced man blush.