Locked in

[Christine Daye]

** Trigger warning: mental breakdown, self harm and parental mental abuse **

Christine stared in disbelief at her bedroom door for a moment. Had she really heard the key turn in the lock? Had Maestra really locked her in?

She grabbed for the door handle, turning it. Locked. She rattled the handle again, harder. Still locked. In a rising panic she shook the door, pulling at the handle, hammering on it with her fists.

"Maestra! Maestra!" she called, repeatedly, frantically. "Let me out! Please! Let me out!! I'm sorry Maestra, I'm sorry! Please please please please please let me out! Are you there? Maestra please! Don't leave me! Don't leave me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry so sorry so sorry so please don't leave me not here not alone please please please let me out sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry..."

Her words faded into incoherence as she wept blood tears, her voice raised in a wordless song of fear, loss and despair as she beat out the rhythm on the door with her fists.

The door remaining stubbornly locked, she turned away from it and roamed the room, rattling the window, searching fruitlessly for any way out. She pushed and pulled at the furniture, shoved the trunks aside, searching, all the while weeping and singing snatches of song:

"...lero lero, Lilli Bulero..."

"...when you wake you will have all the pretty little horses..."

"...comfort ye my people..."

She pulled at her hair, tearing handfuls out, dropping them carelessly on the floor, on her fine new gowns that cost Maestra so much money. The red strands lay across the green fabrics in a glorious contrast, just as had been intended.

"...when you are king dilly dilly I will be queen..."

"...she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair..."

"...Lilli Bulero bullen a la..."

She scratched at her face, her neck, tearing at her flesh, leaving red and angry marks, though her gloves prevented her from breaking the skin.

"...all the pretty little horses..."

"...lavender's blue dilly dilly..."

"...but I was young and foolish..."

She stood in the centre of the room, eyes closed, swaying, singing, clawing, pulling, weeping. Songs spilling out of her in a fragmented torrent of fear and grief and pain. And then she heard something, some noise at the faintest edge of her hearing. And she threw herself at the door, calling out:

"Maestra, are you there? Please let me out? Please?"

But it was not Erika who responded. A whisper of a voice, dry and dead and cold as the tomb replied:

"Willful, stubborn child. See now, the price of your disobedience?"

Christine looked around the room in dismay.

"Papa?"

"You disobey your mentor, like you disobeyed me. And now you pay the price. Have you learned nothing, Christine?"

"Papa, why must you torment me so? Is it not enough that Maestra hates me, that she has trapped me here alone to die? Why must you come back from the grave to heap scorn upon my misery?!"

"Because you do not learn. And you do not learn because you do not listen. You will not focus. You disobey. You would rather spend your time laughing and dancing and making friends, than practicing your music. You would cast aside the gifts the Lord God gave you in favour of moments of gaiety, of frivolity. For fripperies and trinkets!"

Christine turned her back to the door and slid down it, so that she sat in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"No, Papa, no!! I would never do such..."

The ghostly voice cut across her.

"I saw you at the ball, Christine. I saw how you delighted in dancing with that gentleman. I saw how you smiled at him. I saw how you held hands with that girl."

"... but but but..." Christine protested weakly.

"I saw how your insistence on dancing, on conversation, caused you to lose focus. You made so many mistakes in your performance! And the audience could hear it too. That is why the applause was so weak. You failed, Christine. You failed yourself, you disappointed your mentor. And you disappointed me."

"...no, Papa, no... no no no no no..."

"And you are surprised that your mentor locks you away? You cannot be trusted, Christine! You are wilful, and disobedient. Your behaviour at the ball was intolerable. You made a fool of yourself, bouncing on the squeaking floorboard. You disgraced yourself by weeping in front of that gentleman. You upset the manager of your theatre by your inability to control yourself. Strangers had to speak soothingly to you because you could not keep your emotions in check!"

Her voice faded to a whisper, a thread of a hum weaving through the room.

"...sorry sorry sorry sorry... when you are king.... sorry sorry... lavender's green... sorry..."

"You wasted your energies flapping and fluttering and chattering like a little bird, when you should have been husbanding them for your performance. Your mentor warned you, did she not? But you ignored her."

"....but but but... I was nervous... I was..."

"You are a disgrace! You forgot your place, your purpose. You are nothing, Christine. Nothing but a vessel for the music. And a flawed one at that."

"...sorry Papa sorry Maestra sorry sorry sorry..."

"What are you, Christine?"

".... nothing, Papa... I am nothing..."

"And what must you do?"

"...I must focus...and practice... until I am perfect... no distractions... no distractions... sorry Papa sorry sorry sorry sorry..."

The ghostly voice sounded satisfied.

"You are a stubborn and willful and disobedient child. But you will learn."

"...yes Papa..." Christine whispered, staring at her gloved hands, twisting her fingers together.

"Now pull yourself together, tidy up this mess, and practice until your mentor returns. And then you will apologise to her and thank her for all the efforts she puts in on your behalf. You need her to look after you, Christine. You cannot survive by yourself. You are too weak."

"... yes Papa... yes yes yes yes yes... I am weak... weak... weak... foolish... disobedient... nothing... nothing... nothing... nothing..."

"Yes, Christine. All these things and more. Now, get to work. And do not stop until you are perfect."

Slowly, Christine pushed herself up from the floor. Slowly she moved around the room, setting it to rights, packing away her beautiful expensive new gowns. Gowns that she had taken such delight in. She looked in the mirror, repaired her hair, washed the dried blood tears from her face. And then, when all was put away and packed, she stood in the centre of the room and practiced her songs from memory, striving for perfection.

[Erika Leroux]

Time passed. It was hard to judge how long, for what can feel but a moment to one can equal a century to another less fortunate. For Christine, it had felt like a century. For Erika? It had felt like both a moment and a century.

Erika flung her cloak and veil haphazardly over the back of a chair, as she limped as speedily as she could towards the bedroom door. Half-falling against it, letting her stick drop to the floor, she fumbled around in her pocket, withdrawing the key and making great pains to fumble it around in the lock.

“My sweet, my poor poor girl!” She rattled at the lock for a few moments longer, swearing in her native tongue, as she did so. “One moment, my darling, I’ve nearly got it…there, almost…”

And then she turned the key, and half fell into the bedroom, before dragging herself pathetically towards her ward, her face a picture of agony.

“I am so sorry my dearest, so very sorry. I do not know what happened, the lock must have been faulty.” She gazed up at Christine, blood tinged tears rolling down her cheeks. “I couldn’t open it, I had to leave you to find another key…Oh my dearest, dearest…you must have been so frightened…”

Erika buried her head in her hands, weeping audibly then, her shoulder shaking, a perfect image of remorse. A convincing image of remose.

The performance was everything.

[Christine Daye]

Christine didn't even look as Erika burst into the room. Eyes closed, hands clenched into fists, her entire body trembling with exhaustion and control, she sang Handel's "Art thou troubled", her voice trilling up and down the registers. Only after the final note of the song had died away, did she open her eyes, to look upon her mentor.

"Maestra," she said, her voice toneless, empty, like someone reciting something learned by rote. "I am most deeply sorry for my terrible, willful, disobedient behaviour. I beg you to forgive me for my flightiness and childishness at the ball, and for my lack of diligence and focus in the nights since then. I am sorry for disobeying you. I am sorry for my disregard of your advice. I am profoundly grateful to you for your care and guidance, for without you I would have nothing. I would be nothing. I am nothing."

She blinked, and only then appeared to see and hear Erika standing in front of her weeping. Her face crumpled, and she collapsed to the floor, reaching out to her mentor for comfort.

"Oh, Maestra," she cried, weeping. "I though you had left me forever! Left me alone to die! Do not leave me again! Promise me you will not do such a thing again!"

[Erika Leroux]

Erika studied Christine for a moment, her expression still remorseful, yet tinted with relief, before pulling her ward into her arms and holding her tightly. Her control was impeccable. If anyone had been watching, they'd have seen no smile of triumph, no glittering of eyes. All that was outwardly visible was a pathetic, sorrowful and loving creature.

In Venice, she had always prided herself on her characterisation being believable.

"My sweet, I am sorry, so sorry that this happened. I would never leave you. How could I? You are the reason I keep going, the only purpose to my otherwise miserable life." She caressed Christine's cheek, before gently raising her ward's face up to meet her own. "Oh Christine, I promise I will never leave you. I promise you with all of my heart. Nothing but nothing will ever take me away from you. I would sooner be staked, cast into the light of the sun and become ashes than lose the one creature who means more than life to me." She clasped the girl to her once more. "Now. Forget those wide eyed fears. I'm here. Nothing can harm you."