The Lark in the Clear Air

[Samuel Taylor]

Taylor rises, quietly and unobtrusively following Christine to her dressing room. The musicians barely register his presence as he walks, too engrossed in their own conversations.

A beautiful performance my sweet.

Arriving at her dressing room door, Taylor knocks politely.

[Christine Daye]

The door is flung open. Christine stands on the other side, eyes bright with excitement.

"Ah, Dr Taylor, so good of you to call! I hope you did not find the rehearsal tedious?"

She ushers him in politely, closing the door firmly behind them both.

[Samuel Taylor]

As the door closes, Taylor allows a smile to erupt onto his face

"You were perfect my sweet. I have not been to the Theatre since my days as a mortal, and I have never heard such a wonderful performance."

Taylor's eyes smoulder with desire.

"Now come, I will carry your bag. Alice should have the horse waiting and the sooner we get to The House the better."

Stopping to glance at the door to ensure it is closed, he steps forward and gently strokes Christine's cheek.

"Tomorrow....tomorrow we hunt together my sweet."

[Christine Daye]

She closes her eyes at his touch, sighing with pleasure. But at his words, she opens them quickly in alarm.

"But...dearest... that was just the rehearsal... I have yet to perform. Curtain up is in" she casts a look at the clock "just over an hour away. And I cannot simply leave before then! I cannot do that to Miss Delaney, or my audience! I am sorry..."

She's twisting her fingers together nervously.

[Samuel Taylor]

Taylor blinks, the nods.

"Please forgive me dearest. I took a blow to the head earlier today, I shall place myself under observation for any other symptoms of concussion. Although...whether a Kindred could get concussion is...."

His mouth slams shut.

"Of course. Shall I await you here? Or would you like me in the audience?"

[Samuel Taylor]

((Sorry folks, going to be taking this off the boards now. Have fun!))

[Christine Daye]

Whatever can be said about the soprano, Miss Christine Daye - and believe me, reader, when I tell you that much is said, by those jobbing musicians and workers behind the proscenium arch, trading horror and war stories of the tempers and tantrums of prima donnas they have experienced; by the society matrons in their salons, clucking in delighted dismay about how tragic, how terribly tragic it is, my dear, that those who are so artistic should suffer so for their art; by those in the know, who sigh and roll their eyes in private, yet do everything in their power to ensure that the show goes on - whatever is said about the soprano, Miss Christine Daye, none can say that she is not talented.

In fact, to say such faint praise would be tantamount to confessing a complete tin ear when it comes to music. And as for those musicians who she has performed with - well, they learn quickly that even if she is a complete, histrionic wreck at rehearsal, weeping and tearing at her hair, screaming and throwing her music around - even at her very, very worst, as soon as the curtain goes up, she is calm, focused and completely, exquisitely perfect in her performance.

There were those in the orchestra taking bets down the pub before the performance that, because the rehearsal had ended so quickly and the latter half had gone so smooth, that she would fall apart on stage. They were sorely disappointed.

This night, she was more than perfect. She was transcendent, her voice soaring effortlessly through the high lyrical passages, before diving low into the rich, melancholy melodies of her music. She made her harp sing, weaving her own voice through the sound of the strings, thrilling and heart breaking and exhilarating.

She held her sparse audience tight, wrapped and cocooned in the threads of her voice. They smiled, they wept, they sighed, and they loved her.

And if the love that she poured out into her music was not for them, well, it is no matter. Her audience did not care.

And if those next to her on the stage noted that she trembled more than usual, or that her gaze was solely cast to the empty seats in the audience, then they paid it no mind either, caught and carried as they were in her voice.

Besides, everyone knew she was mad. Singing for someone who was not there - it was nothing in comparison to some of her previous behaviours.

The performance was astonishing - marked by those lucky enough to attend and spoken of later in hushed, reverent tones. But all too soon it came to an end.

Miss Daye took her bows quickly, her body vibrating with suppressed excitement. Bowing her own acknowledgment to the conductor and her orchestra, she calmly left the stage.

As soon as she was out of sight in the wings, she picked up her skirts and fairly ran back to her dressing room, smiling and giggling like a girl.