The Diva's Performance

Fiction about Ravenloft or Gothic Earth
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Strahdsbuddy
Evil Genius
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The Diva's Performance

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Phaedra Boulanjair paced in her apartment, nervous and uneasy, feeling like she could either run through a wall or empty her stomach. She kept looking out the window, not knowing what she hoped to see. She could make out Ste Mere de Larmes looming on the hill through the mists, its steeples visible over the shoulder of Le Nouvel Opera. She had made her living in that theatre, and ironically it had been where her life had fallen apart just last night. She looked over at the vase on her boudoir, the ominous bloom staring back at her with feigned innocence. Its arrival had changed everything, and now she had to make changes if she was going to protect anyone she cared about. Or protect herself.
The first knock on her door froze her, but it was quickly followed in the playful rhythm of the crescendo from the aria she had sung when they first met, and she knew it would be Mortimer. She took a deep breath, and knew there was still time to tell him the truth. He would protect her, to the best of his ability anyway. And he’d fail and most likely die before her eyes. She wouldn’t stand for it. She had no choice; the only option was to do what she did best: perform.
“Bonsoir, professeur,” she smiled slightly, not welcomingly, as she cracked the door.
“Mon ami!” The slight man pushed the door open and entered with a slight flourish, but a sincere bow. His green eyes beamed at her behind his spectacles, his brown hair fell wild as he removed his cap and he smiled wide behind his finely manicured beard. It was trimmed short, not waxed to a point like most of the gentry. Like him. Mortimer Wachter, professor of history and lover of opera, determined suitor and the man she truly loved, was no social climbing shark. He was exactly what he presented himself to be: a bookish man of gentle manner, son of fishermen who was too smart for the nets of his family. They had sent him here to be educated, and he had not disappointed them. She loved how he would wax on and on regarding nations and far-flung realms. He would bring her to the library at the University and he would gush over old maps he would find, always couched with the promise of taking her with him to see these amazing places in person.
Let’s go, she thought for a moment. We could leave and never return, live in one of your quiet realms where no one would ever find us. She dismissed the fantasy immediately. They would be found, and likely before they even left Dementlieu. And he’d be killed. “You are still wearing your uniform.” She pulled slightly at the sleeve of his brightly dyed robe. She frowned a bit, as that meant he had not returned to his own home and seen the “warning” that had been left there for him. It was all up to her.
“I could hardly wait to see you, darling. I thought we could take a carriage to Café Davide. The city is fairly buzzing with activity today, I had to fight throngs of people just to get to you now. Besides, isn’t it better to be seen with someone that is obviously employed?” He grinned at his own joke and stretched his arms out, letting the wide sleeves of his robes droop down like a bat’s wings. She could not help but laugh a bit, his naïve optimism was more dangerous to him than he knew.
“The University spent so much on your robes, they barely left enough in your salary to take yourself to Café Davide.” She sneered a bit as she delivered the line, particularly hovering over the word salary.
“Ah, but mon ami, what better place to sip spirits and breathe in the river air while I tell you about the man I met today. He is from a particularly rustic corner of our world, and he told me they choose their leaders through a singing competition! Can you imagine? Verily, you would be their queen inside a week!”
“And you would most likely be banished! You sing like a crow.”
He still was not taking the bait. “I would whistle my way into their hearts, though. And speak only in whispers, regardless, for your ears are the only I care to communicate with.”
“Mortimer, I won’t go with you.”
“No surely not before the theatre season closes. Your talents are necessary to keep this city from falling into open revolt.”
“I won’t go to Café Davide with you. I will go nowhere with you.”
He looked sideways at her. “Phae?”
She took a deep, rehearsed breath. “Mort, surely you see that our careers are taking us in opposite directions?”
He cleared his throat a bit. “No, Phae, I’m not sure I see that at all. We are both performing, albeit to different kinds of audiences. I am gaining quite a bit of renown at the University, and I do not think it shall be long before they offer me a permanent position.”
“You’re a fool,” she delivered the insult with confidence, even though her soul fairly leapt from her body at the lie. “It has been entertaining enough visiting dingy cafes together, and sneaking into the museum after hours, but you must have known it would not last. An opera diva will have suitors from the royal houses, have her pick of what mansion she wants to wile her days away in.”
He stiffened. “Mon ami, I’m afraid I absolutely do not see it that way. We are artists, we belong together. I will write you an opera that shall make us both famous, and it will be the royal houses that are begging us for our time. Despair not of my teaching, it is only a means to an end.” He reached out to take her pale hand.
“A fantasy end, Mortimer.” She pulled her hand away. She took deliberate steps toward her boudoir, she needed him to notice the prop, to understand how much danger he was in. “You will be gray and old by the time you finish writing such an opera. You haven’t the skill to write music, just your droning lectures about places no one has ever heard of, and the lists of dead people who can no longer affect our world.” She spared herself a look in the mirror as she walked its length. Her straight red hair fell past her shoulders and her brown eyes were sad, sadder than she needed them to be. Mortimer would surely pick up on the lie in her eyes if she didn’t do something about that. She furrowed her brow, giving her face a more serious look. There would be time for tears once this ugly deed was complete.
Mortimer watched her carefully. He saw her every step as she moved around the room, finally revealing the vase as she moved, like the moon finishing an eclipse of a small floral sun. “I see,” he whispered. “These suitors are not merely hypothetical, then? A violet rose does not exactly grow in a Rue de Soleil windowbox. He must be very rich.”
“Draw your own conclusion, professuer.” She spat the words, but secretly prayed that he would understand exactly what that particular flower meant. Unfortunately, anger was ruling him.
“You may think I am just a foolish historian, but that knowledge has told me about the warrior’s blood that flows through my veins!” He had pulled his dagger from his belt and was waving it about a bit too theatrically. “Point him out to me! My family took Castle Ravenloft four centuries ago! I will surely fight for what I love, and I daresay I’d surprise your fop with the toughness of the Balinoks!”
She shook her head dismissively “Yes your shepherd’s blood has been whitewashed by a Mordent finishing school and here you stand making an ass of yourself now. Crawl back to that Barovian pigsty your grandparents were smart enough to leave if you want, and rule your mountain barony. Here in civilized lands it is as important to know who you can afford to duel, and who would just have you assassinated the night before.” She shook off that frighteningly true statement. She could not warn him, or their enemy would know the truth. “But it would be for not. I think I would be quite happy with my suitor, given time. You should retire to Mordent and cool your temper. You’ve been here too long if you think your honor has more meaning than your life.”
He turned his palms up, “So that’s it? Your love is so easily bought? I would pluck a rose from every nation in the Core and present you a bouquet made of love and toil, yet could not win you away from your rich man?”
“Perhaps you’re not a fool after all.”
“Phae,” he spoke kindly now, “do not give up! Our love has been one for the ages. Indeed, it would make a fine opera!”
“I do not love you!” she exclaimed, and could not hold her tears back any longer. She stiffened her jaw and tried to remember she was delivering a scene. But it was no use; that was no actor across from her, but a man who had yet to say anything untrue to her. His love was real, and she needed to save him. “Go, Mortimer. Take a last walk around this city, and know you can go nowhere that does not remind you of me. You will not stay long, I wager.”
“A wager you would win, mon ami.” He sighed, defeated. Although he was crumbling before her, he would still suffer one last barb: “But I shall not bet with you, for all the money you are sure to enjoy now that you’ve got a rich man, my pittance would hardly be noticed once it is paid. So this is it, you invite me to leave not only your heart, but also Port-a-Lucine? My home, the place where I make my livelihood? The paved streets cannot hold us both? Or is it you who will be reminded of our carriage rides through Quatrier Savant? Or the musty old library where we first kissed? Be haunted by my ghost no longer, Mademoiselle Boulanjair. I release you from the wretched spell I cast that made you lower yourself to think to love a simple academic. Forgive my presumption. Adieu.”
She watched him leave. Waited at the window until she saw his robes exit her building. He crossed the street, paused for a moment. She was afraid he would come back, but he did not even turn to look at her window. That was better, she figured. Soon he would be at his own apartment and see the damage that had been done. She was exhausted after turning his effects out of their drawers and tipping over his furniture. She had been careful not to damage his manuscripts or maps, just the furnishings, which he wouldn’t be taking with him anyway. She whispered a prayer to the Guardian that he would quickly put together the source of the flower, see his room ransacked, and realize just how much danger he would be in if he stayed.
She finally allowed her character to break and cried as herself. That act had nearly rent her soul from within her, and she hated lying to Mortimer. It was necessary. Her plan had been put together so hastily, she wasn’t sure it would work until she had finally broken his heart. It was a fine performance, and devilishly effective. It was important, she thought, that she was capable of such acting, because her next performance would last longer than an afternoon.
The previous night had been a hasty blur. Of course she had sung beautifully, she always performed with her entire being. Now she wished she had known of the wolf lurking in the audience, perhaps she’d have missed a note on purpose, smeared her makeup, done something to deflect his attention. Or maybe there was no hope, perhaps he had made his mind up before she even took the stage. It could have been the painting of her on the marquee posters that had attracted his lust, for he surely had not spent any time with her to know if she had a personality behind the singing voice. No he loved the way she looked, he didn’t know anything else about her. He didn’t know that she was actually fascinated by maps and old tales of distant realms. Fascinated by Mortimer.
Nonetheless, after the show, she returned to her dressing room to find a man waiting for her. Not uncommon, her fame had been growing and she had just been asked to perform at the much more prestigious Grand Opera Nationale, at a show rumored to be attended by the Lord-Governor himself. This man had a long package with him, and his fine clothes were matched with a syrupy introduction as the representative of an admiring party. Again, not uncommon.
She still didn’t think much of it once she opened the package in her dressing room. A beautiful rose, the deep purple color of a violet. The thorns had been carefully pruned off, and the bloom was the size of a fist. It was her makeup woman, Yvonne, that shuddered when she saw it in the vase Phaedra had found for it. She explained that such a flower had not been given to a diva in years, but they grew at an estate west of Perrault Bay. It was a tremendous show of favor, but the patron was a jealous man and he was not just being polite. He had claimed Phaedra as his own.
Phaedra did not need Yvonne to say the name. Everyone knew who lived west of Perrault Bay. Yvonne hinted that there could be a way to escape Port-a-Lucine and his attentions, but it would not be good for the people she left behind, her mother, for instance, would be questioned as to Phaedra’s whereabouts incessantly. And Mortimer would be dealt with as well. No, Phaedra decided she must deal with her patron herself. It was the only way to be sure her loved ones would be safe.
She had finished crying and put herself back together: a fresh coat of makeup, her hair done up. She chose a high collared dress; perhaps acting chaste would throw him off. She finished it with a false mole applied to her left cheek. She considered them ridiculous, and hoped she was not alone. Alas, he would probably find it adorable.
The knock came promptly at seven-thirty. Not the playful rap from several hours prior, but a more purposeful thump. She opened her door and saw the same man from the previous night at her dressing room.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle. I hope you were not waiting long. We have a carriage waiting downstairs.”
“Merci.” She had heard the conveyance from her third floor window, drawn by four horses and taking up the majority of the street. A tad ostentatious, like its owner. She followed the servant to the street, and he helped her into the carriage. It was not a long ride, and she was glad to know she could walk back to her apartment if she decided to be dramatic. She decided that would probably be her last defiant act. Still, the Chez Lionne was the finest restaurant in the neighborhood. It figures he would host her here.
She was led into the well-lit dining room, past several tables. She was recognized by several diners, which comforted her. At least there would be witnesses if she was never seen again. She smiled at them, but did not wave. She followed the maître d around the maze of tables finally to a deep red curtain. He pulled it back for her, and she could not help but gasp even though she knew who would be sitting there. She slowly crouched under the curtain rod to avoid rubbing her high hair on it and walked as elegantly as her quaking knees would allow toward the table.
Her patron stood and bowed. His hair was gray by the ears, perfectly symmetrical portions of gray, a calculated illusion since the remainder of his receding hair was dyed jet black. His thin beard gathered at the chin and was waxed to a point—of course it was. His fine shirt could not hide the slight paunch above his belt, and the buckles of his shoes gleamed and caught each individual candle in their reflection. “I am so pleased you could join me,” he said. His voice was like silk and he did not break eye contact with her as he pulled out her chair. The maître d had closed the curtain and they were alone.
She sat, anxious about turning her back to him. “It is quite generous of you to invite me, Lord d’Honaire.”
He chortled a bit at her formality. He seated himself, not quite directly across from her, encroaching to her right side. “Mon cher, s'il vous plait!” He fixed her with dark eyes and smiled invitingly. “Call me Dominic.”
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Strahdsbuddy
Evil Genius
Evil Genius
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Re: The Diva's Performance

Post by Strahdsbuddy »

A bit of backstory for my own DM-PC, but inspired to write the part of Phaedra by DeepShadow. Once I saw it today, I thought how silly that he and I were the only ones to see it. Enjoy.
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