To lay a ghost to rest

[Erika Leroux]

It's quiet in the theatre now. Everyone has retired to taverns, their beds, others' beds. Erika moves stealthily through the theatre, determined, a phantom-like presence. She carries a candle with her, carefully guarding its flame from wayward draughts that might cause it to flicker, to gutter and die.

She wears the face and demeanor of the young Etienne, but the eyes betray the burden of her older self.

If any were to witness her this night, they would see the faint glistening of those eyes caught in the light. But none are, and that is why she has chosen such a time. She reaches the stage, places the candle at the front of the stage, murmuring a few words as she does so.

And then she sings. She sings the old songs, the ones she learned in Venice, her aged repertoire returning to her with only a few faltering moments.

She sings all the old songs that he might have heard.No, not sings. She performs them. And though her performance is cracked in places, is rusted and rough in comparison to Christine, this is a special performance. One filled with emotions from a long time gone

This is for her nameless spirit. The one who had listened to her so many times, the one who had thought of her as his songbird, his nightingale.

The one who had never gained the courage to speak to her.

[Christine Daye]

Later, when Erika returns to their rooms, Christine is waiting for her, dressed in a green silk dressing gown, perusing a score. The Malkavian turns her face to her Maestra, and smiles in that way she has, fae and childlike and pure.

"Will you come to bed, Maestra? I have missed you terribly."

The smile turns impish as Christine puts the score down, rises, and offers Erika her green-gloved hand.

"...we have not sung together in too long... let us remedy this..."