The made the temperature feel slightly colder then it already was. It had stopped raining briefly, only briefly. Algernon felt relieved he thought he would drown in a flood before he made it to the theatre. His lightly tanned skin glowed a little from the phosphor street lamps. He knew he would have to make it before a long line started to form or he would never get the seat he wanted. He was going to see The Perils of Shoecaster. He had heard great things about it and could not wait to see it up-close and live.

He entered the theatre with assumed grace. The clerk had felt his lot in life lifting. He was so close the political liaisons job he could taste it. He took a seat and got ready for the curtains. He didn't know if this play would appeal to him but he sure hoped so.

The orchestra had been tuning while he entered the Aeterna Theatre, and when he sat down, there was a tap-tap-tap, the phosphor lights went dim, and the entire theatre went dark, save for the stage.

In Hessean opera, there is no introduction or fanfare; the bright, lilting music began immediately, without any introduction or pause. It was a flowing little melody, something akin to the music of lullabies and children's rhymes, but it quickly became darker and brooding as the orchestra swelled to an opening note. The curtains swung open.

On the stage, a weak-kneed little man dressed in a robe was sobbing. His bald head gave him away as a poor monk, probably from one of the border villages. A broken mirror lay at his feet. The music became quieter, and he opened his mouth to sing.

The language was in Heshath, as promised by the opera posters, so Algernon could not understand a word, but the body language and expression employed by the human singer was beyond language. He could feel the man's pain and suffering in every tortured syllable.

Around him, several Anaxi galdori seemed confused; the symbolism of a broken mirror, given to be a symbol of extremely bad luck in Hesse, was unfamiliar to most of them.

Una cursed quietly to herself as she realized the opera had already started, she let the door slide past her fingers praying it would shut without too much bother. She blamed the rain for her distress; it had once again caused her perfect curls to frizz slightly at the edges and that clocking umbrella had been no help either. It now lay broken forlorn somewhere out in the city, Una felt she was teaching it a lesson in manners.

Another issue with being late to an opera, or any show was that you couldn’t just take any seat you wanted. No, you had to shove yourself into the nearest seat, a lucky dip with who you sat next to.

Una’s eyes flicked around the packed room, at last a seat. Daintily she picked her way forward, edging toward that empty seat she had spied. Still aware of the disturbance she may or may not have caused, Una lowered herself into the seat ignoring any rude glances her way.

At last she relaxed, but only slightly as she then realized she hadn’t a clue what was unfolding on the stage, oh clock.

There is nothing so correct in all the world as a red velvet chair in an opera house. Its color, its texture, are the epitome of that gaudy opulence and barely restrained decadence in which the opera enfolds itself, as though it were a protection from the unwanted advances from other forms of art. Ensconced in one of these exemplars of the very best in baroque, almost unseemly, opulence was Shrikeweed; elaborately attired in a waistcoat of the first magnitude and a long brocaded coat of no small elegance. He would have preferred to be seated in one of the private boxes that clung, barnacle-like, to the walls of the opera house, but they were beyond his means and above his station in ways both physical and metaphorical. So, Shrikeweed contented himself with a more modest seat for the moment, and plotted in idle portions of his mind, how he might go about advancing his station in terms both practical and commercial.

Shrikeweed enjoyed the opera, and took considerable pains to attend whenever it was practicable. For the moment, the Archives were quiet and only a few of the bothersome members of the public had violated the sanctity of Shrikeweed's office to have some blasted thing looked up or a document authenticated. Where the public got the unpardonable notion that the civil service, and the Archives in particular, existed for their benefit, Shrikeweed was at a loss to explain. Still, there was no helping it; people were pray to all sorts of preposterous notions.

As the thing began, and the odd fellow dressed as a monk began to sing a song of anguish and loss (apparently over a broken mirror, of all things), Shrikeweed was keenly aware of the fact that he had forgotten his copy of the translated libretto and so would be more in the dark than he cared to be. True, he had a small synopsis provided by a portly and officious usher with preposterous whiskers, but this was hardly the sort of thing to sink one's teeth into during the long passages of repetition and recitatif that invariably occurred. As a result, he had only the vaguest idea what was really going on upon the stage. Clearly the man was anguished and filled to the brim with sorrow, but the source and it's precise nature were not apparent.

While engaged in these thoughts, some slight commotion, as of someone trying to move with purposeful silence and meeting with mixed results, assaulted the ears of the archivist. A woman had arrived late and had managed to slip past the walrus of an usher and was even now in the act of taking one of the nearby vacant seats. Delightful, perfectly marvelous. He thought with some acidity, Nothing like a spot of commotion to liven up the evening . . .

Algy watched with cumbersome eyes. Even though the opera was in Heshath, Algy still understood what was going on. He picked up a little from his butler when he lived in Hesse. It was about more then the language, though, He understood the hidden meaning of the opera. That Hesse was crumbling. The humans weren't the only ones suffering as a matter of fact, even galdori were living a less cushy life.

Algy's concentration was lost when a women sat down a few seats away from him. She was obviously late and was louder then he wanted her to be. Algy leaned over to the auburn haired man next to him. He didn't realy know if it was proper to talk to someone during the opera, let alone someone you don't know.

"I can't believe she came in so late."

And I cannot believe that you are interrupting the opera to complain about an interruption. The words flashed through Shrikeweed's mind and he was not entirely sure if he was annoyed or amused by the irony of the man's remarks. Not wishing to add further interruptions to the proceedings, he simply arched his eyebrows in ironical sympathy, and offered a kind of resigned shrug. This complete, he quickly consulted his synopsis in the vague hope of finding some explanation of this weeping over a shattered mirror. The plot was fairly well outlined to be sure, but there was no mention of the finer points of dramatic symbolism. Perhaps, he mused the mirror was an heirloom of his family, owned originally by a beloved great aunt or some such person.

Finding no help in the terse, almost nervous, language of the synopsis, Shrikeweed raised his opera glasses and returned to a minute inspection of the action on the stage.

Meanwhile, the scene had changed; the stage was suddenly flooded with a cold blue light, and the monk had disappeared via stage left to give way for a well, which emerged from the shadows and fog to reveal a young boy standing on its edge, looking down into the (apparent) darkness. He had a fuzzy head of cream-colored hair, and was clearly a real Hessean, though the monk had looked more Anaxi.

His voice was strong and loud for someone so young, and those familiar with the opera would probably recognize it as a woman's voice. His song, according to what bits and pieces could be gleaned from the flowing syllables, was about a world he imagined to be at the bottom of the well. Fog and mist flooded in around him from either curtain; Aeterna fans, no matter how upper-class, did usually appreciate the usefulness of having a few wicks backstage.

"On tåtha emil-åroñ, dreidatha-oriñ on ågenda..."

There was no denying the intricacy and wildness of Heshath; though it had long ago been abandoned for a universal language of Estuan, its curious phrasing and austere-sounding syllables were undoubtedly beautiful. The song made one feel as though one had traveled back in time to an ancient land, torn by war and doubt.

As the boy sang, an elderly crone approached, carrying with her a candle and what appeared to be a shard of the broken mirror. From her demeanor it was clear she was meant to be a witch.

Shrikeweed watched the scene unfold. The perplexing prologue had ended and gave rise some equally inexplicable scene which seemed almost wistful and nostalgic.

The boy, for from the dress the character was indeed a boy, had a powerful voice and after a moment it became clear to Shrikeweed that this singer was female, as was so often the case when an opera called for an adolescent boy. I suppose they don't have castrati or a countertenor in the company . . .So few do.

Shrikeweed let himself be carried away by the music and the excellent quality of the singing. It little mattered that he had only the vaguest notion of what was going on. In this state he carried on for some time until be became aware of the appearance of an old and hideous crone slinking across the stage in a very convincing manner. At this he nearly burst out laughing.

Well, he thought with some humor, We've got the britches already, and her comes a fine exemplar of that noble class of witches. All we need now it an insufferably stuck up countess, shrewish mother, or something else in that line and the classic mezzo-soprano triad will be complete. At this unexpected bit of levity, the archivist smiled in a surprisingly genuine fashion, sat back in his chair, and prepared to see if he could spot the almost inevitable arrival of one of the 'bitches'.

Algy watched as the new character gave his heart and soul to the performance, at least he thought it was a male. He could follow the opera even through it wasn't exactly clicking then.

Algy looked at the character on stage, he looked to be Hessean, too. Algy rarely had someone to relate to in Vienda. Sure, he made some friends in Brunnhold but they could never see eye to eye. He spent his formative years in Hesse, a nation that is seeing one of the worst economic crisis' ever and they spent their formative years in Anaxas, one of the most powerful countries in the ten kingdoms.

When Algy saw the old crone approached he realized he knew this story, his nanny told it to him when he was young. He did not realize it was an opera.

While the crone a comic character in many Anaxi plays, the tone of the woman's voice when she spoke gave her character away as deadly serious. It was a deep and throaty voice, unlike the high-pitched cackle of many a stock crone. She was singing very dramatically, and the boy looked confused, even distraught as she spoke.

Behind the characters, a shadow began to move on the painted stone wall. More shadows joined, and it became clear that it was a shadow play, meant to explain the story; perhaps the Anaxi players had decided the meaning was a little too obscure for the audience to grasp.

The shadows showed the monk from the first scene in the action of praying; he supplicated himself multiple times before a flash of light interrupted the scene. The shadow approached the light (revealing that it was probably illusion magic, as the shadow did not fade), and touched the mirror, shattering the light box into a thousand tiny shards of light. The figure of the monk seemed to tear off his robe, perhaps indicating that he had left the order of the church.

On stage, the young boy was crying into his sleeve, very convincingly; the crone did not seem very sympathetic, however, and her scolding tone rose into a high octave as she handed him the piece of the mirror. With a final shriek, she disappeared in a puff of smoke.

As he wiped the tears from his eyes, the boy held out the mirror, looking into his own reflection.

With total silence now enveloping him, he slowly opened his fingers, letting the piece of the mirror drop into the well; there was a pause, and then a distant clink as it supposedly hit the bottom. The boy's face was suddenly full of determination, and the music rose to a swell.

A very fine contralto the woman has. Shrikeweed always enjoyed the sound of a fine contralto voice, preferring the richness of that sound to the high, bird-like chirp of so many sopranos. He had always found tit difficult to take a soprano seriously as anything other than a flighty heroine or some other overly sentimental sort of character. It was a pity, he considered, that they were so popular in major roles.



Shrikeweed considered this shadowplay for some time. So the breaking of the mirror contributed to the casting out of the monk. A relic perhaps? The looking glass of some sacred personage? Or did the monk hold heretical and iconoclastic views concerning vanity and smash the mirror in a fit of religious fervor? And why did he weep? Remorse at his blasphemy? Or did he think himself guilty of some sin of vanity and smash the mirror as a kind of atonement? . . .and what does the boy have to do with this?

While the scene played on, Shrikeweed consulted his synopsis, hoping to gain some further insight into the action on the stage. The slight mystery that surrounded the whole proceeding was quite enjoyable, it was like coming across a particularly interesting puzzle while cleaning out an ancient and dust-enshrouded attic, one did not expect it and that made it all the better.

Algy examined the opera with discretion. He enjoyed how the story was developing. He finally understood what was going on, not that he didn't know what was going on before but now he understood it, more.

Algy listened to the different voice types. He always loved a good mezzo soprano voice. His voice was actually not that far off from a soprano's, He was a countertenor. He only had a trickle of formal training, when he was at Brunnhold he took two years of choir. He took a lot from that class, sadly though his voice never matured to a baritone or bass, like most of his school mates.

Knowing intermission was fast approaching, he became more alert of his surroundings. He simply loved intermission most of all. It was a chance to discuss the opera with other patrons of the arts. He found it rather exhilarating to talk to somebody ha had never met before all for a simple story.

The scene shifted once more, with a brilliant blue haze overtaking the stage and quite a lot of mist arriving from stage left. The sliding wooden scenery reflected a Hessean moor, golden and dewy in the early morning.

The child had set out across the moor, singing wistfully in a high and lonely voice. Several audience members had begun to cry; the tune was vaguely familiar in the way that suggested it had been recycled for popular lounge tunes sung by stars like Zelda DeVonne, but it sounded different here, clean and pure and strange.

This was by far the longest song, and one of the kinds that made Hessean opera so difficult for the mainstream to handle; it was full of twists and turns. The scenery reflected a change of time as well as location, as mills and houses changed into ruins, and the lighting became more grim; as mist pooled onto the stage, the actress began to change her gait and quickly switch out her clothing, showing a subtle aging.

At the end of a sprawling orchestral swell, the mist cleared and the young boy was at the edge of what was clearly meant to be a lake; fluttering ribbons portrayed the water, and rocks and cat-tails surrounded the edge. But at this point the curtain began to close, and the lights in the house came up slightly, indicating that it was time for intermission.

Una simply could not believe she had paid to sit through this nonsense; it was not logical or even interesting. The urge to have a catnap during the last few songs was almost too strong and she had to pinch herself to stay awake. As the house lights came up joy passed through her, it was almost like when one relives oneself after retaining water for a long time.

Gently easing herself up from the seat Una joined the herd of theatre goers all surging forward, all praying to be the first at the bar for the all important interval drink. She gave little shoves here and there, eyes open for a gap in the crowd. She shimmied through a gap between a rather large man and his less than desirable friend, Una reached for the bar before she was swept away. A delicate hand firmly gripped the counter.

“Give me the most exciting looking fruit juice you have” she gasped, and with a dark undertone added “I am not some sissy”

Half the play was over. Time for discussion. Whenever Algernon went to an opera, he always discussed the happenings of the first act. Dozens of people surrounded him. He pushed through past an excessively obese man. He felt it best to travel to the bar for his discussion. Most people there are drunk enough to actually care what he is talking about. Most dry patrons did not want to talk to a random stranger.

He walked up to the bar and graciously asked the bartender for a Gioran Whiskey, one of his favorite drinks. He looked over at the patrons and saw only one woman. They always were nice to Algy then male patrons. He approached he with caution though, she looked a bit disgruntled. He hoped it was because of the story and not that her fiance had left her. It had happened to him before.

"Hi." Algy said with a smile. "Good play, right? I think I saw you come in after the introduction."

It was a slightly perplexed Shrikeweed that made his way through the throng absurdly dressed opera-patrons like a badly aimed billiard ball. A number of ladies in hats of the most vulgar sort blocked his approach to the little oasis of intoxication and maneuvering around them was a delicate exercise in advanced navigation. Shrikeweed was only moderately successful in avoiding a face full of hat, but eventually he made it past these stern guardians of bad tastes with only a single waxed cherry dislodged from the hat of a singularly unpleasant and pinched-faced old harridan.

The convivial struggle was now well underway and many a desperate would-be drunk was shouting absurd orders for drinks no decent galdor should even consider imbibing. With some small difficulty Shrikeweed managed to acquire a snifter of fine pear brandy from a waiter who bore an uncanny resemblance to a goat suffering from dyspepsia. A minor rush of portly gentlemen, it seemed to be their migration season, forced the archivist against the bar and, as fate would have it, in the general vicinity of the skinny woman who had entered the theater late and the odd young man with hair like an unkempt flock of antique sheep. Shrikeweed nodded to these two in a resigned sort of way, as though this being thrown together was some kind of amusing unpleasantry that fickle fortune seemed to reserve for a certain class of playthings.

After a moment, Shrikweed spoke in a more animated version of his customary dry lilt, "At least this portion of the evening's entertainment possesses something approaching sense. Which is more than I can say for the opera going on within. Shockingly unhelpful these synopses the house so thoughtfully provided. You know? I think I am actually the more in the dark for having read the infernal thing."

Una was on the brink of lapping up her fruit juice when she was greeted by a large mat of hair and an impertinent question. All Una wanted was to be under her nice warm covers dreaming off gossip and her new best dress, not “discussing” the abomination to theatre she just had to witness.

Then again she wasn’t in the mood for trouble, this juice was too good to be thrown in someone’s face and it was purple, you simply cannot waste purple drink. With a sigh she turned on her perch to talk to the smiling mat “I personally wouldn’t call it good, so technically it’s not right, and yes I did come in after the introduction. I am personally holding the rain hostage for its delay to my evening”

She paused to take another much needed gulp of juice and to make a quick check that her hair was where she left it, in a stylish up-do that was made up of more hairpins than hair itself. As she sat for a few moments another voice chirped up, divine, another moron who was excited by this nonsense. Gritting her teeth, before she opened up a tirade of uncalled for insults Una simply replied with “I never seemed to have picked one up.”

Algernon was flabbergasted by the woman's opinion of the play. He thought the play was most excellent, it brought him joy and a little sadness, which every good opera should do. He felt she was just confused by the plot. Most Anaxi people never understood heshath opera. They were mostly about humans and wicks but Algernon still loved to see them.

When Algernon was about to try to explain the opera to the woman, a voice appeared. It was to the back of him. He turned his head slightly, all he really needed to use was his peripheral vision. He saw the man that was sitting next to him in the audience. Now he had to people to explain the opera to.

"I am sure you are not that much in the dark, sir." Algy smiled and extended out his hand. he wanted everybody to understand the bountifulness of creativity the opera had. "Hi, I am Algernon Aynesworth. It's looks like you two need a little help with understanding this show.

There was exasperation and a touch of disinterest in the woman's voice; as though she had spent her day surrounded by a veritable swarm of inquisitive idiots. Either that or she was one of those desperate bar-flies whose sole joy in life is to be found lurking at the bottom of any number of interestingly shaped bottles. Upon light reflection Shrikeweed considered that his comment, though meant in convivial confusion and good humor, might not be all that welcome. It was therefore with a modified tone of conspiratorial boredom, that Shrikeweed picked up what could charitably be called the thread of the conversation.

"I would not recommend it," he said in an offhand manner, "Who ever wrote the benighted thing seems to have been unfamiliar with this, or indeed any other opera."

Shrikeweed returned to his brandy, swirled it absently around the snifter and was about to take a long slow drink when the man with flock-of-sheep hair spoke up in what Shrikeweed could think of only as a deeply earnest tone. The air of enthusiastic enjoyment was wafting from the man as perfume from a scent-deadened old biddy. It was cloying, ill mannered, and no doubt meant to be entirely inoffensive. When the man extended a hand and offered introduction, Shrikeweed found himself confronted with the very real possibility of having to shake the hand of this fellow. The man's manner was frank and no doubt his intentions were all for the best, but the execution was bordering on the artless. Hi? Had the man truly said hi? Was he under the mistaken impression that the opera patrons were all rugged fellows of the lower classes, oyster men to take and example at random, who led a life of easy good cheer and barbarically lax social graces?

This was always the problem with meeting strangers indoors and in nominally public places; not only was one thrown together with all manner of strange characters (some who clearly could have used a few more runs through a rigorous course in etiquette) one also generally lacked a hat to tip in an agreeable manner and was therefore often forced into this more vulgar intrusive act. It was, thought Shrikeweed, chief among the arguments to be made for the allowing of a gentlemen to wear his hat at all times, should he so choose. Still, some gesture of politeness was called for and so Shrikeweed executed a species of small, swift bow along with a careless wave of the snifter.

"Mr. Aynesworth, I believe you said your name was? Yes? Mr. Aynesworth, I am afraid you are mistaken. Though no doubt the opera playing upon these noble boards is technically well done and possessed of masterful music, the content is more than a little opaque. No doubt it is all very picturesque and metaphorical, but without context it is nothing more the prettily staged nonsense."

Una watched with concealed amusement as the man almost fired himself into a full on explanation, until he was bought to an abrupt stop with an interruption. A slight tingle of envy crossed her as the fluffball smiled, oh isn’t it smashing that someone is enjoying this… this thing, so nice that they actually understand what in clocks name they are yowling about and so utterly frustrating.
Joyous enthusiasm oozed from his soul, as he offered his upbeat assistance the automatic eye brow raising reaction had to be fought back. After all she was in what appeared to be good company. However the unrequited offer of help was enough to shove the mat of hair onto the borderline of Una’s bad books, who was he to question her understanding?

The casual approach to resenting the opera displayed by the slightly older male was more to Una’s liking a girlish giggle escaped her as he remarked on the opera and the writer. She idly took another sip of the fruity concoction and took a moment to contemplate the why on earth this wasn’t quite as good as a starfly.

As Basil gave his theory on the opera, Una’s interested was piqued and a at his final remark she let out a loud enough peal of perfected laughter. The kind that screamed you are just so brilliant and I want everyone else in the room to know that I am having such a wonderful time.

With the tip of her index finger pressed to her lower lip Una spoke in a tone that was usually reserved for gossip sharing “I think Algernon, that you have been trumped by this chap here. His grasp of the opera is far more thrilling than any programme and has simply described my mutual opinion in one breath. Though I do not wish to disappoint you, I am feeling much better without an explanation. Counting the tassels on the curtains is enough amusement for my evening”

Algernon was baffled at the disregard by the two patrons near him. Yes, the writer of the opera could have had better talent, but it was about more then the writing and the actors. It was about the story. He didn't want to pester people who didn't want to be pestered though, he left it alone.

"Fine then, you can stick to your tassels." He chuckled a bit. "I'll stick to my plot and such. If you don't mind my asking then, why did you come to this specific opera?" He glanced back and forth at his fellow patrons.

Madame-come-lately's laugh was one of those carefully modulated affairs that seemed to possess all the genuine mirth of a serious minded snail somewhere halfway across a damp coaching road in the hours before the rush of traffic began to really pick up in volume. That it was beautifully crafted and executed with the consummate skill of a dinner party regular could not be denied, but there was something about it. A hint of sardonic ill will perhaps? An affectation of world-wearyness? Or possibly the effect of the brightly colored drink on the vocal chords?

To this laugh, and the remarks which followed, crafted with perhaps just a touch too much of flattery in the Shrikeweedian direction, young mister Aynesworth reacted with mild hauteur, but missed the point by a wide margin.

"I think you'll find, Mr. Aynesworth, that it is the opacity of the action upon the stage, that is to say, the plot which has put both myself and, if I am not being too presumptuous, this lady here into our current state of perplexed agitation."

Specific Opera? Specific opera my buttocks thought Una. Opera is opera and that is a fact. There wouldn't even be a difference between a troupe of yowling cats and a select cast of the best opera singers in history.

"No my little darling, I am simply here for the atmosphere and of course the odd fruit juice never hurt anyone"

She jangled the ice round the empty glass for theatrical effect. It also seemed that the wiser man was thinking along the same lines as Una. Well almost, it wasn't quite the main thing on Una's petty mind.

"Oh well said my good fellow, simply spot on. I suppose the general concept being explained to me, could be quite fun, don't you think? Though it is rather embarrassing that I couldn't figure out what is going on considering my profession!"

Una prayed that would be enough to keep them hooked on her, unaccompanied men at an opera always seemed to have a strange aura about them. But then again she supposed, she was a single woman also alone, she drained the last few drops from her glass and looked up in expectantly, pushing the thought of isolation from her mind. Any company at the moment was good company.