The Lark in the Clear Air

[Christine Daye]

Christine wakes as the sun sets, awareness coming back to her slowly. She groans, and goes to pull the blankets back over her head with one gloved hand, but then she remembers and sits bolt upright in the bed, a smile on her lips.

Moving with an alacrity that would surprise Maestra, she pads barefoot around the room, gathering items and placing them on the bed. She sits in front of the mirror, humming happily as she runs her brush through her long red hair.

"You truly believe he will come for you? You stupid, deluded child!"

The voice is dry and dead, but no less sharp for it, and she flinches, dropping her brush. As she reaches down to pick it up, the voice continues:

"He does not love you. He only wants to use you - to tear you away from Maestra, who has loved and cherished you all these years. Ungrateful child - you would be long dead but for her!"

Christine wheels, hairbrush raised in anger.

"Maestra has left me! She lied to me! She does not want me anymore! She is gone and I will not be alone!"

"You will never be alone, daughter," the dry voice is smug, satisfied, "for I will always be with you..."

"Go away, Papa," Christine says weakly. "I won't listen to you. He will come for me. He promised."

His answer is mocking laughter.

Humming loudly to drown out his laughter, she pins up her hair, dresses, gathers her things. Spare gloves, a change of gown, the accoutrements needed for a stay away for a few days. She packs them in a bag, stows it safely under her bed, and leaves her bedroom.

"Maestra? Maestra? Are you there?"

Her voice is half hopeful, half worried.

The parlour is empty, silent. She looks around, then quickly pens a note, addresses it to Maestra and leaves it propped up in a prominent location on the parlour mantelpiece. Retrieving her overnight bag from her room, she leaves the parlour quickly.

She walks quickly through the theatre, to her dressing room, the bag veiled by her side. She hides the bag under the chaise, then gathers her music.

For a moment she stops, humming happily and hugs herself, crushing the sheet music to herself. Then, still humming, she heads for the stage, ready to rehearse.

[Samuel Taylor]

After his last visit to the Theatre, Taylor had decided on a different tactic. Dressed in the fine clothing he normally reserved for the night of Elysium, he approached the open stage door with a calm and confident air around him.

The door was bustling just as Christine had said it would be. Stepping back as a young man manouvered some large piece of set or some such through the door he pitched his voice to be that of a clam and confident young man.

"Excuse me sir, would you be able to direct me to the rehearsals?"

At that moment music reached his ears and he raised his finger

"In fact, don't trouble yourself. I'll find it. Thank you for your assistance."

Leaving the slightly baffled young man in his wake Taylor sidestepped a pair of young women emerging from the door and stepped through to find the area quite busy.

Too many people to veil myself. And this is above board, you don't have anything to worry about.

Taylor began picking his way through the crowd, his demeaner of confidence assured that his presence was not questioned as he made his way towards the source of the music.

[Erika Leroux]

Erika returned to the theatre and slipped through the somewhat lately diminished bustle, heavily veiled, to the rooms set aside for her and Christine. Slipping out of her cloak and veil, she looked around the room. Christine had been here, that was obvious from the disarray.

Then she saw the note. Wasting no time in ripping it open, she scanned through the message, anger's fire flaring in her eyes as Christine's words sank in. The virulent little cur had sunk his fangs in deeper than she'd expected.

"Oh Christine, Christine." she murmured. "I thought you'd have more sense than that. Very well. You have made your intentions clear. Now it is time to make mine equally clear."

My Dearest Christine,

I have never wanted anything more than your happiness and for you to perform as you desire. I am afraid that I was caught up in untoward business whilst searching for a new place for us to dwell in more luxury in between theatre work. I had hoped that it would meet with your approval and was desiring your delicate and tasteful touch in decorating our new rooms. However, I now fear that prudence drives my hand, for I fear what might happen should I stay here, with untoward and armed visitors trying the door and threatening me.

It is a shame, for I was so looking forward to having arranged another meeting between you and Miss Corrigan. I fear that I must now postpone this due to your arrangements. Needs must that I postpone the performances that I had scheduled for you over the next week or so, as plans have become so unravelled.

I will wait patiently for your return,
Your dearest Maestra

Satisfied with the note, she slipped it into Christine's travelling bag, and sat back in the shadows, hidden from prying eyes, while working out all manners of inconveniences to one desperate to sing.

[Christine Daye]

The rehearsal was not going well.

First, Christine's harp was in the wrong position, and the clumsy stage hands bashed against it with a heavy, musical clang, while repositioning it. She screamed at them to be careful, and they fled, bitter experience having taught them that to linger was unpleasant.

She fussed over the harp, tuning and retuning, demanding and receiving silence in the theatre, though it required her yelling at an unfortunate usher, who opened the door to one of the boxes at the wrong moment.

Her gloves lay unattended on the floor.

"He will come," she whispered to herself as she tuned. "He promised..."

Finally, satisfied, she acknowledged the conductor.

"When you are ready, sir."

The conductor raised his baton, and the orchestra surged into life.

The flautist missed his cue, squawking in nerves. Christine's fingers tightened on her harp strings. They began again.

"No! No! No!" she called, irritated. "The first desk of the second violins is flat!"

She gritted her teeth as the offending musician retuned.

"Maestra," she whispered to herself. "Why are you not here!"

Again, and this time they made it through the first half of the first movement before the young flautist, overcome by nerves, fluffed his note for a second time.

Christine rose from her stool, walked to the edge of the stage and called down to the conductor, her voice icily polite.

"Maestro, I feel a new flautist is required. Immediately."

She looked on, humming to herself as the young man gathered his music and fled.

"Let us move to the songs," she ordered, moving to stand before the music stand containing the sheet music for her vocal pieces.

She reached out to arrange her music and saw her ungloved hands. Panic rose in her like a wave.

"My gloves! Where are my gloves?!"

[Samuel Taylor]

The stopping and starting of the music was somewhat disconcerting, a small part of Taylor's hindbrain had kicked his fight or flight instincts into gear when he had entered the theatre and it was only via conscious mental control he had not lashed out at any one of the stage hands and other staff moving in front of him.

With time, he found his way to the rehearsal. Taking a seat in the centre of the middle row of seats he removed his hat and sat. The music was warm and pleasent, at least for awhile. The first time the flautist hit the wrong note Taylor thought nothing of it. His eyes taking in the red haired woman at the center of the orchestra. The second time Taylor blinked slowly. The one tiny indicater of his displeasure with the musician.

Seeing Christine rise to sing, Taylir relaxed. Here was where he could sit and really enjoy the music, when he could hear Christine. Seeing her panic, Taylor almost surged to his feet, but a calmer part of his mind steadied him. He would not interfere....yet.....

[Christine Daye]

A stagehand, well versed in what was needful during Christine's rehearsals, ran forward with her gloves. For several long moments, her entire attention was focused on covering her hands. Once that was done, she relaxed somewhat, though she was still swaying and twitching slightly.

She scanned the seats, looking for any sign of him, or of Maestra.

"It is still early," she told herself. "He will come... he promised."

And then she saw him, and a delighted smile came to her face.

Taking a breath, resisting the temptation to run to him, she found the appropriate piece of sheet music.

"Maestro, the Lark in the Clear Air, if you please."

The conductor raised his baton, and the orchestra swelled with the introduction. She took a deep breath, and prepared to sing.

[Samuel Taylor]

Had she seen him.

For a moment it seemed Christine's eyes had looked at him before returning to her music. Taylor shifted in his seat, a faint bruise on his face ached from where a drunken patient had turned violent and he had been forced to step in.

He thought to where his horse was going to be ready to be saddled and waiting for he and Christine to travel to The House. Alice would have to be bought along to ensure the horse was taken back to the city afterwards. As for at The House, the worst of his experiments would have to be kept away from Christine. She was too gentle to understand the need and methods he must use. For the good of all Kindred.

[Christine Daye]

Christine opens her mouth and her voice spills out of her, perfect and transcendent, full of emotion, pure and clear.

"Dear thoughts are in my mind and my soul it soars enchanted
As I hear the sweet lark sing in the clear air of the day
For a tender beaming smile to my hope has been granted
And tomorrow he shall hear all my fond heart longs to say

I will tell him all my love, all my soul's pure adoration
And I know he will hear my voice and he will not answer me nay
It is this that gives my soul all it's joyous elation
As I hear the sweet lark sing in the clear air of the day"

She sings for him, putting every shred of her feelings into the song. And when the last note fades away, she looks at him, catching his eye and smiling.

[Samuel Taylor]

Taylor can feel it, he can feel every fibre of his being telling him to go down the stairs and take that woman in his arms. But no, in this environment he is not free to do as he would in an ideal world. As the last note fades, Taylor wipes a fractional amount of blood from his eye where it had gathered.

As Christine does smile at him, he meets her gaze and smiles in return. Bowing his head to her in silent applause.

One day....one day.....

[Christine Daye]

The rest of the rehearsal goes smoothly. Christine is jittering with suppressed excitement, but determined to put herself in the best possible light. She is no less demanding of her musicians, but is note perfect in her own performance, wasting no time on histrionics.

The rehearsal wraps up early, Christine even going as far to thank the orchestra. The musicians slope off down the pub for a quick drink before curtain up, muttering about how strange it is that she's in such a pleasant mood.

She catches his eye as she gathers her music, inclines her head, nodding towards her dressing room, backstage. Then she leaves the stage, looking behind her to see if he is following.