Stage Fright
90th of Fall
19th Bell
90th of Fall
19th Bell
Madeira sat high in the crooked playhouse amphitheatre in a private little bench with a padded seat. It was one of the most expensive seats in the house, but still she fidgeted uncomfortably. The scene played out on stage was made of glitter and light, and the crowd was bathed in tiny kaleidoscopes of reflected colours as the actors and dancers moved gracefully across the stage. It was a good crowd. They made the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. The death of a character was met with an undulation of dismay, the japes with chuckles and laughter, and every eye was fixed to the stage to better soak up the wonder. All except for a young Spiritualist, who's eyes roamed the painted ceiling and dark curtained corners; who’s ears were more tuned to the cooing of doves in the alcoves than the dialogue of heroes.
When the play came to its climactic end, Madeira stood to clap a second behind everyone else. After a hearty round of applause the patrons began to file out through the exit tunnel. Madeira waited until almost everyone had left, and then made her way to the curtained stage. A man came out from behind the heavy curtain to meet her.
"Miss Craven. It's a pleasure." Fabel took her offered hand and pulled her onto stage with surprising strength. He was dressed in a dark jacket and simple linen pants, but madeira could not have rightly said if the famous actor had changed since his performance. His smile was cryptic as he looked her up and down, taking in her faded blue dress and the leather rucksack over her shoulder.
“Mr Fabel. It was a wonderful play. Please thank the boss for offering me the seat." Madeira's own smile was polite and shallow. The Playhouse had offered the Craven name a seat, not herself truth be told. The name was infamous, but the girl was unknown.
"What makes you think the Crooked Playhouse has a boss?" That smile was back, both cryptic and searching. But he didn't presume to explain himself. Instead he took her by the arm and steered her towards the dark curtain. "I can assume your family got our request, then.” The heavy velvet was pulled back, and the young Spiritualist was assaulted with colour and smell. Where the stage seemed like an island of sanity amid the chaotic playhouse, the backstage was awash in disarray. Backgrounds leaned drunkenly against the walls, depicting deep sea caves, castle balconies and fantastic beasts. Actors moved franticly among discarded props, wiping away makeup, calling out for each other. One actress squeezed by Madeira wearing nothing but blue body paint and glitter, leaving a smear of paint across the front of her dress and her face flush with embarrassment.
Madeira tried to talk over the babble. "Yes, it said you have a haunt on the stage. Multiple incidents of possession, and violent telekinesis. I didn't see anything out in the crowd, though. Does this ghost only show itself during rehearsals, or perhaps backstage?"
Fabel shook his head. "My dear Miss Craven, tell me what you hear. Or more specifically, what you don’t hear." He came to a halt in the middle of the tide of people, and put his hand to his ear in an exaggerated, almost mocking gesture. Madeira did as she was told, and listened to the madness about her. Snippets of arguments and conversation could be heard, along with the clamour of props and beads and lights being dropped, thrown and moved about. But under it all Madeira began to sense something was missing. The conversations were light, but the voices were tense, and a kind of stillness hung in the air above it all.
"You're all performers, but no one is singing", Madeira said more to herself than to him, her voice soft and confused. She suddenly realized that while there was music in the play she just watched, some light melody and a deep, bone-shaking drum, there was no singing on stage either. Not a single note.
"Very good", he patronized her with a pat on the arm. "Our ghost doesn't seem to like our singing. There have been four... incidents. Three of our number are in the care of Alvad's esteemed healers. And one is dead." His tone was nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather somewhere else. But Madeira was shocked. The letter said nothing about a death.
"When did this happen?" she asked as they started moving again. Large vanity mirrors on either side of the long room reflected the actor and his young companion infinitely, a thousand conversations on a thousand lips.
"A few days ago. Poor lass was just a cleaner. She was sweeping the stage, then suddenly she threw herself onto the gears of our mechanical stage pulley. We had to hire an extra cleaner just to wash out all the blood."
"And her death can’t be ruled a suicide?"
"Nobody sings 'little bunny Floo' if they mean to kill themselves", he laughed, naming a popular children's rhyme.
"So there has been no pattern to the songs? Or perhaps someone was present during all these incidents?"
"No, not a bit. The only constant is the singing."
"And the letter stated that nobody has actually seen this ghost, and it hasn't tried to communicate. is that still true?"
"Oh yes. Our phantom is very shy."
They had come to the end of the room, and Fabel spun Madeira around so she was facing him. His blue eyes had some secret laughter in them, and his mouth was curved into a grin. "That was our last play of the night. The next will start at the eighth bell tomorrow. Hopefully or problem will be solved by then. "Death of the Maiden" is just not the same without the fated maid’s dying song."
With a laugh Fabel spun her around again in a crazy and unexpected pirouette. By the time she righted herself, holding her dizzy head, the man was gone. And so was everyone else. The long room, covered in makeup and mirrors and paint, was completely empty. Confused, Madeira checked her dress where the woman brushed against her with her painted body. There was no stain on her clothes.
But a lifelong Alavad learns to take the strange and absurd in stride. Madeira readjusted her pack and her skirts, and made the long, empty walk back to the stage.
When the play came to its climactic end, Madeira stood to clap a second behind everyone else. After a hearty round of applause the patrons began to file out through the exit tunnel. Madeira waited until almost everyone had left, and then made her way to the curtained stage. A man came out from behind the heavy curtain to meet her.
"Miss Craven. It's a pleasure." Fabel took her offered hand and pulled her onto stage with surprising strength. He was dressed in a dark jacket and simple linen pants, but madeira could not have rightly said if the famous actor had changed since his performance. His smile was cryptic as he looked her up and down, taking in her faded blue dress and the leather rucksack over her shoulder.
“Mr Fabel. It was a wonderful play. Please thank the boss for offering me the seat." Madeira's own smile was polite and shallow. The Playhouse had offered the Craven name a seat, not herself truth be told. The name was infamous, but the girl was unknown.
"What makes you think the Crooked Playhouse has a boss?" That smile was back, both cryptic and searching. But he didn't presume to explain himself. Instead he took her by the arm and steered her towards the dark curtain. "I can assume your family got our request, then.” The heavy velvet was pulled back, and the young Spiritualist was assaulted with colour and smell. Where the stage seemed like an island of sanity amid the chaotic playhouse, the backstage was awash in disarray. Backgrounds leaned drunkenly against the walls, depicting deep sea caves, castle balconies and fantastic beasts. Actors moved franticly among discarded props, wiping away makeup, calling out for each other. One actress squeezed by Madeira wearing nothing but blue body paint and glitter, leaving a smear of paint across the front of her dress and her face flush with embarrassment.
Madeira tried to talk over the babble. "Yes, it said you have a haunt on the stage. Multiple incidents of possession, and violent telekinesis. I didn't see anything out in the crowd, though. Does this ghost only show itself during rehearsals, or perhaps backstage?"
Fabel shook his head. "My dear Miss Craven, tell me what you hear. Or more specifically, what you don’t hear." He came to a halt in the middle of the tide of people, and put his hand to his ear in an exaggerated, almost mocking gesture. Madeira did as she was told, and listened to the madness about her. Snippets of arguments and conversation could be heard, along with the clamour of props and beads and lights being dropped, thrown and moved about. But under it all Madeira began to sense something was missing. The conversations were light, but the voices were tense, and a kind of stillness hung in the air above it all.
"You're all performers, but no one is singing", Madeira said more to herself than to him, her voice soft and confused. She suddenly realized that while there was music in the play she just watched, some light melody and a deep, bone-shaking drum, there was no singing on stage either. Not a single note.
"Very good", he patronized her with a pat on the arm. "Our ghost doesn't seem to like our singing. There have been four... incidents. Three of our number are in the care of Alvad's esteemed healers. And one is dead." His tone was nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather somewhere else. But Madeira was shocked. The letter said nothing about a death.
"When did this happen?" she asked as they started moving again. Large vanity mirrors on either side of the long room reflected the actor and his young companion infinitely, a thousand conversations on a thousand lips.
"A few days ago. Poor lass was just a cleaner. She was sweeping the stage, then suddenly she threw herself onto the gears of our mechanical stage pulley. We had to hire an extra cleaner just to wash out all the blood."
"And her death can’t be ruled a suicide?"
"Nobody sings 'little bunny Floo' if they mean to kill themselves", he laughed, naming a popular children's rhyme.
"So there has been no pattern to the songs? Or perhaps someone was present during all these incidents?"
"No, not a bit. The only constant is the singing."
"And the letter stated that nobody has actually seen this ghost, and it hasn't tried to communicate. is that still true?"
"Oh yes. Our phantom is very shy."
They had come to the end of the room, and Fabel spun Madeira around so she was facing him. His blue eyes had some secret laughter in them, and his mouth was curved into a grin. "That was our last play of the night. The next will start at the eighth bell tomorrow. Hopefully or problem will be solved by then. "Death of the Maiden" is just not the same without the fated maid’s dying song."
With a laugh Fabel spun her around again in a crazy and unexpected pirouette. By the time she righted herself, holding her dizzy head, the man was gone. And so was everyone else. The long room, covered in makeup and mirrors and paint, was completely empty. Confused, Madeira checked her dress where the woman brushed against her with her painted body. There was no stain on her clothes.
But a lifelong Alavad learns to take the strange and absurd in stride. Madeira readjusted her pack and her skirts, and made the long, empty walk back to the stage.
