It was a beautiful evening in the city. Stars twinkled in the thankfully clear night sky, matched by the soft glimmer of phosphorus lamps lining the street around the grandouse Aeterna Theatre. The four story venue was awash with decorations and posters, advertising a new and magical opera.



Bastine Theraldon leaned away from the poster, dropping his reading monocle back in its pocket and making a little chuckle in the back of his throat.

"It's an adaption of that book you read last summer. Seems...interesting." He said, turning to his raven haired wife. Anisine fanned herself gently, green eyes on the other people outside of the venue. Everybody looked so wonderful in their gowns and finery, and the Theraldon Matron felt like she looked the best in her hingle lined fur coat. Even if she was dying from the muggy heat. Humming, she nodded, not even looking at her husband.

"Yes, interesting. It's a rather good book, if not a little bias towards wicks and such. Oh, look! There's the Bruthgraves." Smiling widely, she waved her arm and approached the couple as they exited the black carriage. Margol brushed a hand through his short cropped beared, adjusting his spectacles as Carmell stepped down. Her pale eyes took in the crowd with an emotionless wave, pulling her icey blue hood down from her white hair. As Anisine approached in a black gown and furred cloak, she raised an eyebrow.

"Anisine, isn't it a bit hot for fur?" Unfastening the cloak, she removed it to reveal a deep mauve gown, Bastian by the look of it, embroidered heavily with silvery thread. The raven haired woman failed to hide her envy, shooting Bastine a look that said 'how come I don't have a Bastian gown?' Turning back to Carmell, she tutted.

"A little, Carmell dear, but we all make sacrifices when it comes to fashion." The gioran blinked, before bowing slightly to Bastine.

"Lord Theraldon." She said in a simple greeting. Margol huffed and looked at Bastine.

"Good evening old chap, been a while since they've put on such a dandy event. Must say, I am rather looking foward to it." The small talk continued as other Lords and Ladies gathered around the entrance of the ampitheatre, waiting for the passive attendents to open the foyer doors. Inside, the theatre matron strode between drinks tables and attendents, straightening suits and lifting chins.

"Straight backs! Keep your arm up! Don't slouch!"

Inside the theatre, behind the stage, Basil York sat beside his counterpart Lillian Loveheart as they both had the finishing touches to their makeup applied. Occasionally, both would shoot a jealous glance at a young boy across the way having his costume adjusted.

"It should be me Lil," Basil said with contempt. The woman hummed in agreement, slapping away the hand of a passive as it touched her famous hair.

"Don't fret Basil. Young Mister Joseph Phroste is just an amature thats been given a big break. He will not outshine you. Vienda does not give its heart to the first pretty boy it hears sing." Joseph glanced at the two weathered stars, before turning back to the costumer.

"Oh Alioe, they hate me." He said under his breath, nerves turning his stomach. Closing his liquid gold eyes, the boy took a deep breath, running a hand over his copper hair.

"Don't touch, sir." The attendent said softly, worried he would marr the perfect wave combed into his shiny hair. Opening his eyes, the final form nodded, dropping his hand. What a break! Cast in the first big opera of the year whilst still attending Brunnhold. With Basil York and Lillian Loveheart!!!

------------

Outside, people mingled as time ticked by, chatting and greeting each other. Arriving presently, Mrs Pembridge and her escort, Zachariah Wentworth. The elderly candy shop owner chuckled, making his way to his daughter and her husband as they arrived. It was defenitly bustling.

Algernon slipped through the crowd. He could name almost all of the people he passed. Algernon was having a rough time saying hello to anybody he saw, though. It had been so long since he saw his schoolmates, he didn't know what to say to them.

Hello, Thomas. Oh your a historian now? Oh great. I am a clerk at the liaison's office. Plenty of great filing.

Algernon pouted. "I think I might have to talk to new people. My classmates might find my lot in life hilarious." He continued sliding through the crowd, smiling at acquaintances, waving at the odd co-worker. He just wanted to enjoy the opera and retreat back to his apartment.

Thank goodness this is an Estuan opera. I can't believe I thought I enjoyed that Heshath one. I was just lying to myself for the sake of those two.

(( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1A7U8pZJgbI&feature=related ))

The enormously gilded coach of deep mahogany and silver pulled up to the steps of the Aeterna Theatre, pulled by a grand team of twenty of the snobbiest-looking moas this side of Brunnhold, each bedecked in matching attire to that of the vehicle behind them. As the coach rolled to a stop, several of the birds collided amidst their harnesses, causing a brief but noisy ruckus as they pecked and squawked at each other like a fussy bunch of old women. But after a few moments, the creatures settled right down again upon realizing they were being watched, and they immediately put on airs as if nothing had gone wrong.

The driver, a balding human in fancy butler attire, stepped down from his thickly cushioned seat and opened the door slowly. Sedately, Regintrude Chadot stepped onto the first stair of the coach and paused for dramatic effect in the phosphorous light. She’d done this so many times before, and knew each movement, each mannerism, like the backs of her well-kept and lily-white hands, but it still gave her such a wonderful thrill each time she did it. She also knew that she was going to absolutely roast in her present attire, but it was all worth it, as usual; to get even the briefest glimpse of a jealous gleam in the eyes of the other socialites gathered here would be worth far more to Regintrude than any of the latest fashions she could buy, and she could buy quite a few.

“Thank you, Chauncey,” she murmured to the butler whose hand she grasped in order to step down. She then took her walking stick from Chauncey, lifted her chin (and one eyebrow), and strode slowly into the thick of those gathered, nonchalantly scanning the faces for an unsuspecting target.

Her opera gown was a long-sleeved, high-collar number of velvety green with marvelous black lacework down the front, around the large cuffs, and sparkling along the bottom hem; mounds of the same stuff billowed out and around her black-gloved hands, and trailed out from beneath the layered pencil skirt. Long black feathers of some exquisite bird shot out from the shoulders of the gown. The bustle wasn’t as outlandish as some worn by the more youthful socialites, but it was just enough to add some “perk” to Regintrude’s step. And the tiny black top hat pinned to her whorl of hair (with a hatpin that had cost more than the hat and dress combined) had a sprig of the same feathers fanning out from one side.

With the faint swishing of her dress to accompany her, Regintrude paused yet again to take her fan out of the small bag hanging from her wrist. It clicked almost musically as she flipped it open and began to fan herself. That’s when she saw Anisine Theraldon, locked in conversation with the ever-prim Carmell Bruthgrave. A gentle smirk crept across Regintrude’s lightly rouged lips, and she eased across the carpeted room towards them.

“Carmell, dahling. So lovely to see you, wot?”

Taken as a whole, considering this and that, weighing one thing against another, and after thoughtful and mature deliberations, Shrikeweed was forced to arrive at the inevitable conclusion that this, despite certain ill omens of the meteorological sort, was a perfectly agreeable night to go to the opera. After the disaster of the last opera, a perfectly dreadful affair with an incomprehensible plot and an audience populated by what appeared to have been the scourings of one of the more colorful madhouses, he was understandably hesitant about attending another so soon.

However, the strange and unconscionable behavior of a certain Mr. Hook of the Pendulum, an unlucky hand at cards but a perfect demon at the billiard table, had left Shrikeweed in want of evening entertainment. To be perfectly precise, it was not so much Mr. Hook's behavior that was strange and unpardonable but his very odd insistence upon having no behavior of any kind at all. For some little time this worthy fellow had not been seen at the club which had left Shrikeweed without a constant opponent of true and even dangerous skill. Gambling debts were suspected by most of the cognoscenti to lie at the bottom of this curious absence and so no more was thought upon the matter.

On this depressingly clear evening Shrikeweed arrived at the opera house only moments before a monstrous great carriage which appeared to be made entirely of gilt sugar and solidified privilege came thundering along without any regard to the numerous pedestrians milling about or to any other carriage which might wish to disgorge its passengers before the temple to musical decadence. Had it been raining, the various puddles which took up residence in the recesses in the cobbles would have been splashed about by its passage and ruined many an innocent waistcoat and fine gown. Instead, the conveyance merely attempted some casual murder and mayhem and it was mere fortune that Shrikeweed was not dashed to pieces beneath the carriage wheels. Reflecting upon this his resolution that cab men, and thus their near relatives coachmen, were a dangerous body and ought not to be permitted in public.

Negotiating a crowd was not a skill to which the archivist could lay claim. He was sent to and fro, hither and thither and he mused, while careening madly about, that though he was not to play conventional billiards this evening, it might be considered that fortune, fate, or blind universal irony would not let him wholly out of that activity and had resolved that tonight he should take the part of the ball and leave the cue work to some mysterious and far distant agent.

Carmell turned to look at Reggie with no emotion, no smile. Her face was a mix of bordem and hidden spite, her normal face. Bowing slightly, she looked the older woman over.

"Regintrude, its been a while. I see you've not spared a cent this time round. Lovely birds there, even if they do fall over each other." Turning slightly, she swept a pale arm across to the black haired Theraldon.

"Have you met Anisine Theraldon yet? She's Bastine's wife, you know, Theraldon Cognac." Anisine turned a wide smile on Reggie, fanning herself quite fast.

"I don't believe we have met before actually, thankyou Carmell. Anisine Theraldon, as the good Lady Bruthgrave already pointed out."

-----

As the patron's mingled, the plump matron clapped her hands inside the carpeted foyer, indicating the doors needed to be opened. A singular passive quickly adjusted the womans hostess suit.

"Wide and quick dears! And keep those clocking chins up!" Walking to the doors as they were pulled wide open and latched back, she smiled with a bow, raising her arms high above her red-brown updone hair.

"Welcome, welcome all! My name is Madame Fooskey, and I am your hostess. Please, come inside and have yourself something to eat and drink. Our opera tonight is the ever enchanting Lone Starwatcher, an adaption of the well loved book. We will be opening the theatre doors momentarily. Until then, make yourselves comfortable. Coats may be deposited with Martha, over by the coat room." She pointed to a young brown haired passive in a smart blue dress, who bowed quickly.

Tocks! The doors are already open! I knew I was going to be late!

Felix gulped back a reprimand toward his driver as he stepped out of his cab. Now was not the moment to be seen arguing with a human. Beside, deep inside, he knew the man had pushed the cab as fast as was reasonnable. He knew he was responsible for the greatest part of the lateness. He hadn't wanted to come!

Felix had never enjoyed opera. He liked calm. He liked intimacy. His idea of pleasing music was a few friends gathered to hear a string quarted in a small room, not a fat lady singing trebles at hear-splitting volumes, with an exagerated vibrato trying to force on you the emotion the story didn't convey.

And the social side of the opera did not appeal to him more. His idea of a good evening was a good book by a quiet fireplace.

The young healer sighed, raised his chin like he really looked forward meeting all those people, and stepped up toward the entrance. He had came for that after all. He needed some social visibility for his application as a palace healer was to be successful. The name of his father was not going to be enough, if the people who counted didn't even know he existed.

But his mother had told him he had to arrive early. Mingling in while waiting for the doors to open was a good way to make introductions. And he had missed that. Chances were he was going to have to spend the night alone, listening to dreadful music. The other option was to arrive so late that everybody noticed you disturbing the first act, but that was reserved for people of higher status. So, Felix Mauritius Livingston walked in, hoping he looked like he was enjoying himself.

Regintrude returned the expression without batting one of her half-closed eyelids, her fashionable eyebrows arched, her smirk in tact, but inwardly she was snickering. She had to give Carmell a bit of credit for putting on her best socialite face – the woman was ascending the socialite ladder quite well, according to Reggie. But really, her attempts tonight were laughable. She still had so much to learn.

“Kiss-kiss, hug-hug to you, too, dahling,” Reggie replied, leaning forward slightly with both palms up, but not actually coming close to Carmell; she nodded briefly to the woman’s husband before continuing. “Your dress is ravishing – Bastian, am I right? Of course I am, wot? Oh, the birds? Pish tosh – hardly paid a penny for the dears. A few of them – Niles and Fogurty and…oh, I’ve forgotten the other two – they’re still all legs. Chauncey puts them in the middle so they’ll learn from all the others; they really are dears, the lot of them.” That kind of talk always drives these crones mad.

She followed Carmell’s arm with her eyes and the slightest turn of her head to look over Anisine Theraldon. She’d certainly heard of the Theraldons, but she’d always made a point to not to really interact with any of the older gollies. They tended to want to just sit around and nap, or repeat the same gossip over and over because they couldn’t remember the fact they forgot in the first place. Anisine looked rather horrible at the moment – she was obviously far too warm for her own good in that dreadfully furry thing, and her face was becoming rather flushed.

“Charmed,” Reggie replied to the panting golly with all the fakest sincerity in the world. “You look…nice.” She shot Bastine a quicksilver sympathetic look as she nodded to him in acknowledgement.

The opening of the foyer doors caught Reggie’s attention before she could make anymore scathing remarks to the Theraldon woman, and she listened patiently to the rotund matron who barked out the standard welcome. Once the rest of the crowd started moving slowly through the doors, Reggie let her simpering expression grow ever so slightly as she glanced at the couples. “Time to move, wot? A bit of iced coffee might suit me well, I think, and then I’ll be off to my box – you four have a grand time, wot? So nice to have met you, Lady…em…yes, so nice. Ta, dahlings.” And she swaggered sedately away.

She was just about to pass through the doors when she spotted the young Ambrose Shrikeweed making his way across the foyer. Reggie had met the chap several times, and admired him well – socially, he was an ace, and his manipulation skills were laudable (and Reggie certainly didn’t think that of a lot of people); his father was rather stuffy, but the elder had done a splendid job with the boy. The Shrikeweeds were respectable and wealthy, two qualities Reggie sought out in anyone she considered noteworthy.

A thought crossed her mind: why not invite young Basil to her box for the opera? She’d had quite a number of socialites join her over the years, both male and female, and she knew from the gossip she frequently caught wind of that it was a coveted invitation by many. The young Shrikeweed had not yet had the pleasure of joining her, and now was the perfect time.

“I say, Master Shrikeweed,” Reggie called gently, flapping her fingers towards the young man. “So good to see you here, dahling. I was just about to get an iced coffee, but I was going to invite you to join me in my box this evening. I haven’t had the pleasure of your intelligent company for quite some time, wot?” She lifted the crook of her arm invitingly.

A passive reached out politely for Reggie’s cane, thinking to take it and store it with the coats and other paraphernalia. Reggie turned her head sharply and swatted at the passive’s hands with her folded fan, like she would swat at an irritating gnat. “Be off with you! To think of taking a woman’s cane whilst she’s still using it, hmph!” She sniffed in an irritated manner, and then turned back to Ambrose with her half-lidded, smirk-lipped expression back in place, her arm lifting once more.

Algernon followed the slow-flowing crowd through the doors. He handed his coat to the so-called Martha and aimlessly stood around in the hall. It seemed he had nothing to do until the start of the play. He found a nice, velvet bench to rest on until the start of the play. He needed more acquaintances or he needed to start courting a fine girl. He was tired of being alone all the time.

Algernon browsed the crowd; looking for potential groups to mingle into. None seemed to appeal to him until he saw the clerk pass. The clerk from the archives and the opera. Algernon liked the man, he had a dry wit, but Algernon thought he was nice. Obviously Algernon was dense.

He dragged his feet on the floor, trudging through the crowd. When he finally caught up with the clerk, he saw an older, well dressed woman was addressing him. She scolded a passive servant for a brief moment then went back to the clerk. Algernon wasn't sure if saying hello was the best thing.

He decided to approach with caution. He stood near the two, hoping to give off a vibe of friendliness and good manners. He didn't want to interrupt the older woman, so he waited until she and the clerk had exchanged pleasantries before saying anything.

The Shrikeweedian eyebrow sinister elevated slightly at the address of the late occupant of the absurd carriage. The woman was vaguely familiar in the way the way that one recalls a dim and disquieting dream, or the specifics of a breakfast eaten long ago and in mysterious circumstances. The curious sensation of near memory, like the feeling of being one of some half a hundred mice trapped in an aspic of monumental gelatinousness, seized hold of him. The more he tried to apprehend the possible memory of where and in what unknown circumstances he had met this woman the less and less sure he became as to whether he even possessed such a memory. A maddening situation to say the least.

"Do I know you madame? " He asked with as near to genuinely confused politeness as he could affect." Evidently you are aware of me, or perhaps my tailor has contrived to embroider my name into the design of this waistcoat?" He examined the above garment with a certain theatrical exactitude before returning his gaze to the elegant and unplaceable woman.

"But perhaps you are acquaint with my mother? Yes, perhaps that is it. No doubt she pointed me out to you during some desultory period of your conversation, as if to enliven the flow of soul by saying, 'Ah, there is my younger son. Just over there lurking behind the potted palm, looking perfectly dreadful in that waistcoat with the embroidered beetles,'" and as a sort of aside addressed to no one in particular, he added "My mother has no understanding of the finer points of waistcoats."

"Ah, forgive me, dear boy. I suppose we haven't officially met; could've sworn we had, wot? You're quite right - I've had tea with your mother on several occasions, and with her mentioning you so often, I suppose I felt that I've known you for some time. Regintrude Chadot, socialite extraordinaire," she added with a brief nod. She paused for a moment, eying the young man's waistcoat with undisguised approval, and then quipped, "You're right, dahling - your mother's a dear, but if she thinks such a mahvelous waistcoat (despite having insects on it) is dreadful, then she might need a bit of education in fashion; the embroidery is truly something to behold. And believe me, I know a thing or two about fashion." She flicked her eyes from side to side, and then lowered her voice in a confidential manner she rarely shared with others. "I could easily point out the fakeries and tasteless copies that are floating around in this very room..." With abrupt suddenness, she raised her voice again. "...but I wouldn't want to bore you, dear boy."

She glanced at the still moving masses, and then cocked her head slightly. "My offer of a seat in my box still stands, if you wouldn't mind joining an older lady for a night at the opera. I don't get as many intelligent guests as I'd like - having to listen to prattling biddies and empty-headed youths more often than not tends to grate on one's nerves after a time, wot?"

Knowing full well what sort of bacteria his mother cultivated at her tea table, Shrikeweed remained guarded in the presence of the absurd lady. It was not that the maternal acquaintances were a bad sort, at least not what was normally meant by that epithet; but they did tend to be overbearing, imperious, lecherous in that manner peculiar to women of a certain age, and prone to volunteer unassuming young fellows for all manner of ghastly entertainments and the like. Why his mother chose to revel in the society of these parasites was clean beyond Shrikeweed; Cordelia Shrikeweed (nee Wockett) being nearly as caustic and prickly as her son. Perhaps the contrariness which was such a family feature of both the Wocketts and the Shrikeweeds accounted for this peculiar taste in infusional companions.

Years of dealing with this class of person had, however given Shrikeweed a certain facility in avoiding their protracted society when it was not congenial; and just now the society of a bonne vivante was not quite the thing. With one fluid motion he produced his own ticket from some interior coat pocket, "As you see madame, I have procured a seat already. Still I thank you for you kind offer, but I shall be more than adequately comfortable in the stalls."

And after wishing her a good evening and making some general remarks concerning his very sincere hope that she might enjoy the opera, Shrikeweed attempted to brave the throng once again.

Seeing that the clerk had finished his conversation with the older and quite pronounced woman, he decided to make his presence known. He looked down upon the burgundy-haired man, again. He was quick, but Algernon was big. He could budge through a crowd of over six people with ease.

He tapped the man's shoulder and smiled, even though smiling was the last thing he wanted to do. He sometimes wondered why he even went out. It was all just to save face. Rub shoulders with his fathers friends, of course. Joy, happiness, they were not the reason you went out. They were the after effects.

"Hello there, sir. How have you been?" Algernon had been practicing a more Hessean accent recently. He wanted come off as more than just a Hessean that has spent most of his time in Anaxas. No, he wanted to come off as a Hessean that has just recently come to Anaxas. He wondered if the clerk would notice the change in his voice.

Felix felt more alone than he ever felt when actually alone. All those people bustling around the foyer, chatting, gossipping, giggling, introducing themselves to each other, and not a single one interested in him. Someone else might have looked for someone else his age not already engrossed in a conversation, but Felix was simply too shy to introduce himself abruptly like that. He had read his manners manual, and remembered the part that said you were supposed to be introduced by someone else, or at least wait for an invitation to do so. He tended to remember very well those kind of rules that suited his natural shyness.

After having looked around for former school-mates, and not finding any not already part of a group, he sighed and sat on a bench, totally not noticing the presence of his friend Algernon.

A young passive passed in front of him and he handed her his coat and hat with a small nod of thanks. Not that Felix was a member of the SPE or any of those people with strange ideas about race equality when the mona had so clearly marked galdori as superior. It was just that he had been raised too polite to remember when he was supposed to ignore people who paid attention to him.

The unexpected shoulder tap caused Shrikeweed to rotate rather more unsteadily upon his axis than perhaps could have been wished. A certain clumsiness overcame him in crowds Still, once the outlying regions of coat, scarf, and the accouterments of his tonsorial splendor had regained themselves his mind quickly followed. It was with only slight surprise that he recognized the honorable Mr. Sheepshead, who went about under the pseudonym of Algernon Aynesworth.

"Ah Mr. Aynesworth, and gracious good evening to you." said Shrikeweed in his best, well oiled, vocal sneer. It was a tone he often used when dealing with people about whom he was uncertain, and there was something indefinably off about the woolen-haired Mr. Aynesworth. Partly, no doubt, it was the man's infuriatingly over familiarity. Handshakes forsooth! And now shoulder tapping? Whatever next? Still, the man did have a certain respect for paperwork and its vital importance to the affairs of civilized people, so he could not be discounted as a wholly barbarous sort.

"Is there something wrong with your throat sir? You appear to be suffering from what I believe is known in vulgar parlance as 'a frog in your throat'. A socking business these maladies of the throat." Here Shrikeweed suppressed his lopsided grin, or attempted to at any rate; he could in no way be sure of his success in the endeavor.

Algernon bowed, although it was rather hard in the current area, it was still accomplished. He was rather puzzled by the clerk's comments. Did his voice sound horse? He hadn't been sick in such a long time. He was going to ask him what he meant, but then he figured it out. He was talking about his accent. The accent he had been working on. Well, it obviously wasn't working.

Algernon adjusted his voice and spoke. "Sadly, I do not have a frog in my throat, I was just speaking in a more Hessean accent." He grinned. "So, what brings you out to the opera on this fine night? I thought you might have been persuaded off operas after the last opera you saw."

Clever, clever boy…

Reggie watched the young Shrikeweed move away as she languidly fanned herself, a small but definitely amused smile on her pursed lips. He was just like his mother – so haughty. So full of himself. So well versed in the art of being so. Reggie was definitely impressed. The boy reminded her of her late husband, though Shrikeweed still needed a bit of fine tuning if he were ever to impress any society ladies of his own age and stature. Reggie would stake her knowledge of such things on it in a heartbeat. But the young man had to learn on his own.

She turned back to the milling crowds and selected an empty table for herself in order to scrutinize the menu. She had her heart set on a spot of coffee, but perhaps a morsel of something would be nice. With her eyes still on the menu, Reggie snapped her fingers at a passing passive and called, “A cup of hazelnut coffee and a thin slice of carrot cake, and be quick, mind.” She then set the menu back on the table and took in the scene around her. She hoped one of her old acquaintances would show up – though her face would never show it, Reggie was always in the mood for conversation, though she’d certainly come to miss the intelligent ones she shared with Alexander. She sighed inaudibly. I must be growing soft in my old age.

She scanned the crowds again, assuring herself that someone around here was probably looking for her and hoping to get a seat in her box. Not everyone received the pleasure of sitting in Regintrude Prunaprismia Chadot’s private box, complete with velvet chairs and opera glasses.

"Effecting a Hessian accent are you? And here I though you had contracted some new and exciting laryngeal condition. Still, one must keep in mind that such felicity is not bestowed upon all men." Recalling himself to the true nature of the man's unusual vocal performance, Shrikeweed added, "I must say you do rather look the part. What with that truly astonishing quantity of woolen hair. Do you often go about bringing confusion upon all and sundry?

As to my attendance here tonight, you are prey to a somewhat erroneous line of reasoning. It is true that my last operatic experience was less than satisfactory, but one does not give up the habit of many a long year over a single unfortunate experience. It would be rather like giving up entirely upon the notion of eating after being made to dine upon a turbot of greater maturity and pungency than is strictly considered to be correct."

Quick as a flash, the young passive boy ran to get Reggies order. In fact, there were passives moving quickly between people everywhere. Before she had time to frown, he was back, a silver tray holding a small plate and saucered cup with the woman's order.

"Your order, Miss." He said in a childs voice, bowing as he placed it on the table before her. As he left, Reggie would feel the presence of four people coming to join her at the table.

"Ah Regintrude, you found us a seat. You are a dear." Anisine said as she lowered herself beside the socialite. Around her, Bastine, Carmell and Margol sat as well. The pale Bruthgrave turned to her husband with a polite bow of the head.

"Does My Lord desire anything?" Margol waved her off, smiling at Reggie.

"Leave me woman, I'm not an invalid. Regintrude Chadot, its been years since I've seen you. How's your mother? Last time I spoke to her, you were no more than a pretty young student." The elderly galdor grinned, adjusting his monacle. An icy look swept across Carmells face, as she turned to look at Reggie.

"I didn't know you knew each other, My Lord." With a scoff, Margol nodded.

"I knew her mother, well before you were around Carmell. Good upstanding woman. Even went so far as ask if I could court the fine lady you see here, but alas, I was rebuked for being a little to old for her." The look on Carmells face was stoney. Awkwardly, Anisine cleared her throat.

"Right, well, coffee all round then?"

----

"Madame Fooskey, five minutes!" A voice hissed behind the plump matron. With a nod, the woman smiled and raised her glass to get the guests attentions.

"My Lords and Ladies, we will be entering the theatre in no less than five minutes. Please, feel free to have your food and drink brought to your opera box if you have one. The ushers will show you to your seats upon display of tickets."

(( heavens to betsy, i'm a late poster! D8 ))

Reggie was impressed with the speed of the serving boy, even if he was a passive. She certainly didn’t show this, however, and made a point to arch her eyebrows severely as her order was set carefully before her.

She had begun to sip at the coffee when the distinct aura of the two couples she had met earlier surrounded her from the back. Back for more, she thought with some sarcasm. Oh goody…



Still sipping her drink, Reggie eyed Anisine from over the rim of her cup as the woman sat down beside her. “Yes,” she replied with just enough airs, “and here I thought you four had run off.” She placed the cup back on the saucer with hardly a clink. “But here, why don’t you all join me in my private box? It’s near enough to the stage to see everything without the use of opera glasses, but don’t worry, Ainisine, I always keep some in the box just in case.” She patted the lady’s hand like she would her own grandmother’s (gods rest old Grandmum’s soul).

She smiled with demure charm at Margol Bruthgrave’s monologue. “Mar-Mar, it has been some time. I confess I didn’t even notice you earlier – my apologies. Oh, those academy days do come back to me now that we’ve begun talking.” She directed her gentle, special “I-was-there-and-you-weren’t” laugh towards the other ladies, and then nodded knowingly at Carmell. “We all called him Mar-Mar back then – the devil, he was so delightfully cheeky.” She took the tiniest bite of her cake, swallowed, and went on. “Mother is as fit as ever for a ninety-three year old, would you believe? And Papa still follows her around like a puppy, the dear. They don’t get out much anymore – keep mostly to Brunnhold these days. I will certainly give them your greetings when I return.” She could’ve crowed with delight at the look that crept over Carmell’s face.



“I daresay, Mar-Mar, I think I would’ve courted you readily, but it was mainly Papa who denied you the pleasure. Must have been the whole fatherly thing or some such silliness; Mama confided in me that she thought you were an absolute peach. Those were her very words!” She used the same laugh again, though the memory was certainly amusing to her. By far, she could’ve crowed triumphantly at the look that crept over Carmell’s face.

It was Anisine who broke the moment with her tittering cough and suggestion of the obvious. Reggie hid her eye rolling behind her cup as she sipped her drink once more before commenting, “Certainly, dahling, though I’d hate to have you in a more uncomfortably warm state than you are now. And it does tend to get stuffy in my box, what with it being so near the stage and all…” She eyed the woman's dress pointedly.

At the sound of the matron’s voice, Reggie lifted her chin. “Ah, good.” She pierced the eyes of a passing passive with her own gaze and snapped, “We are ready to be seated. My friends here are to be joining me in my private box – I’m sure their tickets will suffice in that manner. And we shall be taking coffee there as well.” She glanced back at the others. “Be sure to make your orders out on my tab – have whatever you like. I feel generous this evening.” Her smile could’ve easily melted the sugar icing on her cake.

Anisine looked at Reggies hand for a moment, with something akin to shock or fury, before a false smile crossed her face.

"Indeed, thankyou for the offer." She muttered into her coffee. As the aristocrat remembered her days as a child with the ever chuckling 'Mar-Mar' nodding and waggling his eyebrows, Carmell sat stiff backed with an icy expression.



The gioran narrowed her eyes slightly, a look easily recognizable to anyone who knew her daughter, before raising her coffee and sipping it.

"Delightful." She said frostily.



The matron nodded, gesturing to some of the passives who rushed foward to pull out their chairs and carry their coffees. A youth, possibly in his twenties led them as an usher, taking them inside the ampitheatre. It was a huge, circular interior, decorated with red velvet and gold paint, lavish mouldings on the balconettes and over the top of the red curtained stage, everything polished off by the huge and glittering gold chandilier in the center of the ceiling. Turning, the usher led them up a slight incline and into the top level. Reggies opera box was in a prime position, slightly to the right of the VIP central box. As they were seated inside, Margol sat himself beside Reggie.

"Good view here Reggie, good view. Can't say my hearing is a good as it used to be, so I do hope these actors can sing loudly." Carmell glided into the chair beside him.

"Lillian Loveheart and Basil York are in this tonight, My Lord. Even you could hear them sing. Basil has a fantastic voice." Anisine plopped herself into the chair beside Carmell, fanning herself as she did so.

"I do so hope to see Lillians latest hairstyle. I grow tired of her last, its altogether to heavy." Indeed, the raven haired woman had worn her hair twisted into a high and elaborate version of Miss Lovehearts last trend. It looked tall and uncomfortable. The pale woman raised an eyebrow, turning away from the Theraldon Matron to the theatre. Bastine moved to sit in the chair on the opposite side of Reggie, to which Anisine shot him a look of pure venom.

"I say Miss Chadot, this is quite a box! You certainly enjoy the finer things in life! Would you care for a glass of my very best Cognac?" He turned to the staff that had followed them and snapped his fingers.

"A bottle of my 2638 Vintage L34 and five glasses with ice." Turning back to Reggie and Margol he nodded.

"Been aged fifty years in one of our deepest cellars. You cannot get a smoother cognac!"

------

Backstage, Joseph stood beside the entrace to the set, nervously breathing deeply and blowing it out through his lips hard. His hands shook and his stomach turned, this was it! This was his moment! On the other side of the expanse, Lillian waited, dressed in a sparkling costume as the Guiding Star, who leads the boy back home. Beside her, the young girls who played the other worldly wicks giggled and looked up to her in awe. But the woman would have not a bar of it. Her focus was on the upstart Joseph Phroste, waiting for him to fail.

Softly, the orchestra played as the crowd continued to file in, a signal to start quieting down in cue with the lights slowly lowering. As soon as it was dark and the crowd had quietened, the stage lights came on and the curtain lifted, revealing a mystical looking ocean set, with a boat rocking on blue sparkling waves. Taking his cue, Joseph climbed up behind the waves onto the platform behind the boat. The lighting changed, a blue hue to it, making the scene appear a moonlit night.

"Ho, where am I? This is not the harbour where I did set sail. A storm, you see, a storm has taken me far from shore, into the middle of the unknown! Ho, where am I?" The youths voice was loud and clear, rich with acted fear and concern. Climbing the ladder on the mast in the center of the platform, he perched in the crows nest. Taking a deep breath, the boy began to sing, his voice taking away the breath of some of the ladies in the crowd. It was as clear as a bell and soaring as the sky, full of passion and emotion, singing about the terrible storm and the fear of the unknown. Backstage, Basil York bit his knuckle angrily, dressed in the elaborate garb of the Worried Father.

“Ah, here we are.” Reggie promenaded stately into the box, her walking stick thudding on the carpeted floor as she went. She lowered herself into her usual seat, with both Margol and Bastine flanking her – she took great satisfaction in that alone, along with the expressions the Bruthgrave and Theraldon ladies were sporting and changing like a pair of school girls changing their undergarments.



Reggie flicked out her fan once again. “Oh yes indeed, dahling, you’re in the perfect position to hear it all; the resonations are magnificent, even if the actors are a bit shy in their work. Loveheart and York are simply mahvelous, though, so it’ll be a smashing evening.”

She turned, looking down the way and her nose at Carmell, who bemoaned the fact that her current hairdo was too awkward. Reggie would’ve easily chosen a number of different, more colorful words to describe the woman’s towering mop, but instead, she purred, “Well, at least you won’t have to worry about it much longer, dahling. With the new styles coming in, you won’t be left behind as quickly this time.”



One of Reggie’s socialite talents was the fact that she could readily flutter her eyelashes, and with two sets masterfully curled and coated with makeup, she could easily tongue-tie any man of her age within two feet. “What a lovely suggestion, my lord – your sense of timing is impeccable. It will be nice to have something chilled in this sauna of a room.” She patted the man’s sleeve cuff with one gloved hand, her expression sly. “And you certainly know how to read a lady – I like a good, smooth cognac now and then. One that has a bit of a nip to it, wot?” Then she leaned over slightly towards Anisine, a tiny, amused smirk on her lips. “Where did you find him, dahling? He’s so charming!”

Just then the music rose up from the gallery, and the lights began to dim. Reggie sat back and took in the scene before her with all the loftiness of a duchess, looking a little bored and aloof, but all the while inwardly enthralled. She’d always loved coming to the theater, especially with Alexander; they would sit sipping some sort of soothing drink and sharing whispered comments or witty insults about the storyline and players. Ah, how she missed those times. It was moments like these when she missed her late husband most of all.

The voice of the boy now singing tugged at Reggie’s heart, and she wished even more that Alexander were there so she could lay her head gently on his shoulder and close her eyes to enjoy the melody. But no, she was here, alone with the Bruthgraves and Theraldons – stuffy old bags, the lot of them – and it was her duty to keep a stiff upper lip and what her late husband had referred to as her “poker face” intact. As a leading socialite, she had to.

Clocks, it’s hot in here already. She waved the fan a bit faster.

Algernon's head nodded and agreed as the man spoke. Algernon had only met this man a handful of times, but it was obvious that was a man of wit. He was a bit intimidated to reply, for fear of making himself look like a fool. He obviously wasn't as versed in the ways of conversing as the other clerk was.

Algernon would have said something about the mans critical statements about Algernon's appearance and voice, but he decided to set it aside. He was never very good at come backs anyhow.

"You are correct about not eating or dining after one horrid experience." Algernon rolled his eyes. "Here, I believe we started off on the wrong foot. Let us start over." Algernon gestured his hand out to be shook. "Hello, I am Algernon Aynesworth."

"If I might offer some slight correction to your statement? In the interests of furthering the cause of peace between our respective nations? The handshake is not generally a gesture shared by simple acquaintances. A sign of undue familiarity and all that. And besides, you haven't the faintest idea where I've been."

This Shrikeweed said with an actually genuine smile and punctuated it with what, for him, was a lightly mirthful laugh. He did not want to cause too much discomfort to the honorable Mr. Sheepshead, but at the same time, the standards of civilization had to maintained, not matter the cost. And so, Shrikeweed bowed in the ancient gesture of greeting currently in favor and simultaneously tipped his hat every so slightly.

"Now that the sign and countersign of greetings have been exchanged, allow me to re-introduce myself. My name sir, is Shrikeweed. Appended to the front of that name are the vestigial monikers Basil and Ambrose, but you would do me an inestimable favor if you quickly forgot those two names, I've never been fond of them and this fact, combined with the fact that no one has called me either in years makes them seem positively alien.

"Oh, and a word of warning to you sir, for the preservation of your continuing good health and sanity. There is, in the audience tonight a very grand looking lady of a certain age in a frivolous hat. She arrived in that ludicrous confection of a carriage some little time ago, you know the one I mean? At any rate, I advise you to stay well out of her orbit, for she has a habit of speaking saucily to young men in superior attire in that manner peculiar to older ladies. . . .Unless you are the sort who enjoys being liberally sauced by such as her; then I advise you to seek the absurd hat with all speed."

"Oh I am completely sorry, Mr. Shrikeweed." Algernon's broad sterling smile pierced the hall. "My twit of an uncle taught me that a handshake was as good as a bow. He is an archaeologist, a rather "flighty" one at that, and he probably learned of it on one of his many excursions." Algernon's face was distant, it was no longer in Vienda. "I am rather glad you corrected me on this matter, I would have never known if you hadn't." Algernon smiled again. "The only pleasant thing about him is his connections. He is, if I remember correctly, a member of the Pendulum Club. He talked of a Shrikeweed, are you of any relation? I have been told that a member can go there everyday for years and yet not know the first name of his billiards mate. My uncle is different though, he liked to make it his business to know every one's business.

"Saucy? How positively repulsive, sauciness is not attractive at all. Also, absurd hats are a travesty; so a saucy woman in an absurd hat is a completely horrendous." Algernon chuckled for a brief moment, his woolen hair bouncing as his face did.