That afternoon, years ago, I found myself playing in a corner of my father's pawn shop. I was dressing up a mannequin twice my size, having adorned it with a large black hat and some sequined clothing. The shop, with its myriad of curiosities, was my playground.

It was a period of upheaval for us. My mother had just left, leaving me and my dad to our own devices. Aunt Biddy hadn't yet moved in with her overbearing ways. How little did we know that her arrival would change everything.

"Excuse me, is anyone here?" A woman's voice disrupted my play. She stood at the counter, a vision in pink, her dress and feathered sunhat starkly contrasting with the shop's dusty ambiance. The potent aroma of her rose perfume filled the air. It was a quiet day, devoid of other customers.

My father, a middle-aged man with a kind face, emerged from the back room at the sound of the bell. "How can I help you, ma'am?" he asked, his voice gentle and accommodating.

The woman, with an air of impatience, slammed a heavy box onto the counter. "I need to get rid of this junk. This is a junk store, isn't it?" she snapped.

"We buy goods of value, if that's what you wish," my dad began, but she cut him off.

"I don't want any money for this junk. My husband's mother passed away, and he wouldn't let me throw it away. Do I look like I need the pennies this might be worth? I don't need the money, or the memories..." She sneered at the box as if it offended her.

My dad, ever the peacemaker, offered, "Would you like a donation receipt, then?"

"A what?" she scoffed.

"It's just to prove you gave it to a pawn shop and didn't just toss it away," he explained.

She waved her hand dismissively, her gold bracelets jingling. "Fine, just give me the receipt. I have better places to be." She tapped her red heels impatiently as my dad wrote up the receipt.

"Here you are, madam. One donation receipt for 'one box of goods,'" he said, handing it to her. She snatched it with her elegantly manicured fingers and strutted out. I watched her from behind the mannequin, her heels echoing on the cobblestone street long after she disappeared from sight.

"What a strange lady," my dad remarked, lifting me onto the counter.

"And in quite the hurry!" Aunt Biddy chimed in, emerging from the back room with her usual plump cheeriness.

Little did we know then, the contents of that box would introduce me to a world beyond my wildest imagination. The candelabra that lay within would become the cornerstone of my journey into magic.

***

"Yes, Papa! What kind of treasures did she leave for us?" I asked with childlike excitement.

My father, Jean-Louis, peered into the box, which seemed filled with miscellaneous household objects beneath white doilies. He began laying them out on the counter, and I leaned in eagerly over his shoulder. Beneath the doilies were some tea cups, a pot, and then, an old silver candelabra with five cups, lying horizontally. With his notebook beside him, he cataloged each item meticulously.

"Alright, calm down, Adelia!" he said, lifting me onto the side of the counter where my legs dangled freely, keeping me a safe distance from the box. "No touching yet, I need to catalog everything first!"

Despite his warning, I couldn't help but be drawn to the contents of the box. My gaze fixed on the silver candelabra. It sparkled as the light from outside illuminated its engraved floral etchings. Despite the caked red wax in its holders, remnants of long-ago burnings, it had such character. The wax dripped off the silver branches like frozen waterfalls of blood.

"This is where the little demons dance..." I whispered, utterly captivated by its beauty. My imagination ran wild with the various oddities that came into our shop. Unlike most girls my age, I was fascinated by the uncanny, such as an old doll, scratched and missing an eye. The peculiar and eerie gave me a thrill, and this candelabra was a perfect addition to my collection.

"Some of these need polishing, but they're all of good quality and condition," my father remarked, half to himself, half to me.

"Oh, Father, can I please have this one?" I asked, gripping the candelabra tightly with both hands. "How can I say no to that face?" he sighed. I was a good girl, always helping out in the store, and he often let me pick something from our inventory as a treat.

"But Adelia, this candelabra might be the most valuable thing here. If it's real silver, it could be worth quite a bit. How about I find you another one to play with?"

I pondered this for a moment. I was a practical child but also deeply sentimental. "But Papa, if you let me keep it, its value will increase in the future because it will have been loved and cherished by someone!"

My father laughed. "I don't know about that, but I suppose it's true enough. You can hold onto it until you grow bored of it, as long as you take good care of it."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. "But just so you know, I'll cherish it forever. You can sell it after that, I suppose, if you're not a skeleton by then."

My father chuckled, agreeing to my terms.

Aunt Biddi, busy arranging doilies on a shelf, chimed in. "I'm sure she'll grow bored of it eventually. Once she does, we can sell it at a good price. Silver retains its value."

"It's almost time for your lessons, Adelia," she reminded me.

"Yes, Aunt Biddi," I replied, my mind still lingering on the candelabra and the adventures we would have together.

***

Clutching the candelabra, I made my way to my room. Our family's flat, situated above the pawn shop, was a world of its own. My room, though small, was my personal haven, a cozy space filled with odds and ends from the shop below.

In this room, amidst my treasures and trinkets, I felt a sense of belonging. I didn't have any friends, no other children to share my peculiar world with. Being homeschooled by Aunt Biddi, I was cut off from the usual avenues of childhood friendships. My shyness didn't help either. The neighborhood kids, who played in the streets and alleys, seemed like creatures from another world. I watched them sometimes from my window, but the thought of approaching them filled me with an inexplicable anxiety.

So, I created my own companions in my room. Each object from the shop had its own story, its own personality. I would spend hours talking to them, weaving elaborate tales and adventures. The candelabra, now a part of this eclectic family, was set on my small wooden desk. I admired its intricate design, the way it caught the light and threw it across the walls, creating patterns that danced and flickered.

I imagined the candelabra had seen grand parties and intimate gatherings, its flames illuminating conversations and secrets. It was not just an object to me; it was a gateway to a world of stories and histories, a silent witness to moments long passed.

In this room, with my imaginary friends and the newly acquired candelabra, I was content. I didn't feel the absence of human companionship as acutely. Here, I was the mistress of my own universe, a place where my shyness couldn't reach me, and where my imagination was free to roam wild and unbound.

After my lesson with Aunt Biddi, a burst of creativity overtook me. I knew exactly what I wanted to do — it was time for a bit of unconventional dress-up, not for myself, but for the candelabra. I rummaged through the house, gathering a variety of items: some tinsel to drape over its silver arms, a bit of cooking oil from the kitchen, and a string from Auntie's sewing kit. I was determined to see how these items would interact with the flames.

Feeling like a true alchemist, I also swiped a few sheets of parchment and a box of matches from my father's cupboard. Once back in my room, I carefully arranged my gathered items around the candelabra, my heart racing with excitement.

First, I drizzled the cooking oil over the parchment, watching as it soaked up the liquid. Then, with a matchstick in hand, I set the parchment alight. It caught fire instantly, burning with a mesmerizing flame that transformed the paper into delicate ashes. The way the parchment curled and disintegrated was almost magical, captivating me entirely.

Emboldened by this initial success, my curiosity about burning other things grew. What would happen if I tried different materials? What colors would they produce, and how would the flames react? The candelabra, once a mere object of beauty, had now become an instrument of discovery in my hands.

I experimented with various items, each burn revealing new wonders and secrets. The tinsel, when lit, created a shower of sparkling embers, while the string from Auntie's sewing kit burned with a slow, steady flame. Each new material added to the candelabra's charm, transforming it from a simple household item into a source of endless fascination and mystery.

In those moments, alone with my candelabra and my experiments, I felt a surge of joy and freedom. The world outside, with its expectations and rules, faded away. Here, in the confines of my room, I was a scientist, an artist, and a magician, all rolled into one. The candelabra, my willing accomplice, stood as a testament to the boundless possibilities that lay within the simplest of things.

***

One day, I found myself standing behind the worn wooden desk of my father's pawn shop, the gloomy interior lending an air of dark mystique to the place. Boredom was a constant companion, as I tried desperately to maintain a facade of professionalism, just in case a customer—or rather, her father—were to wander in. My gaze drifted down, and I idly picked at my black-painted fingernails, a reflection of my dark and enigmatic nature. Unbeknownst to the world, a pair of glorious dusky wings graced my back, a secret I held close to my heart.

The bell above the door, ancient and weathered, suddenly came to life with a melodious chime, announcing the arrival of a visitor. My eyes, still lost in the abyss of my thoughts, slowly lifted as I continued to caress my fingers, painted like midnight itself. The newcomer, a tall, slender man adorned in a fetching suit and top hat, approached the desk with measured grace. His narrow face was etched with a serene yet enigmatic expression, and his deep, concerned brown eyes held a wisdom that hinted at secrets lurking beneath. His thin, elegant nose seemed to cut through the dim light, adding an air of refinement to his enigmatic presence. This was a man who warranted my attention, a departure from the usual casual browsers who frequented our establishment.

"Excuse me, madam," he began with polite eloquence, his words like a siren's call, beckoning me to a deeper mystery. How could I resist such intrigue?

I remained poised, my own demeanor matching the ethereal ambiance of the shop. "Yes, sir," I replied, my voice low and dripping with intrigue. "I have a request, I'm looking for a very specific object, perhaps you have seen it here. It's an old candelabra with five wicks, crafted from silver and metal, about yea high." He raised his hand, motioning a distance of roughly a foot and a half.

My heart threatened to burst from my chest as I gazed into those intense, soulful eyes. It couldn't be... How had he stumbled upon the key to my clandestine world?