OPENING NIGHT

Opening Night

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

No one disturbs the prima donna when she's warming up. No one except Mlle D'Armilly.
For the ladiesbingo prompt 'Artist'

It would have been an impressive bouquet, by ordinary standards; but far lovelier, grander ones had already been ignored, dismissed to the chorus' dressing room, and Henri was losing patience.
'Alas, monsieur, it is impossible to disturb her. She will see nobody before a performance. The artistic temperament, you know.' And even if it were possible, it would call for rather more than what had been pressed into his hand. A reputation as a reliable doorkeeper must be sold more dearly than that.
'Then will you at least see that these are brought to her dressing room?' The man thrust the flowers at him.
Henri examined the bouquet carefully. Not lilies, which made the great lady sneeze, and not freesias, which gave Mlle Louise a headache. And there was something clinking gently in the man's hand. He relented. 'I'll see what I can do, monsieur. Georges,' he called, 'would you mind watching the door?'

There was, as it happened, not much to be done. The door to the prima donna's dressing room was locked, or, at least, her dresser swore it was. Victorine had a chair backed up against it, and she was knitting. 'Madame is warming up.'
'Is that really so?' Henri liked Victorine. He thought Victorine might like him, and he didn't want to push his luck. Still, he had taken the man's money and he felt vaguely that he should earn it.
Victorine scowled and cocked her head at the closed door. 'Don't you hear her?' And indeed the tinkle of a piano was audible, and the closed-lipped drone that was Madame exploring her lower notes.
'What should I do with this?' he asked.
Victorine looked down at the three other bouquets at her feet. 'Leave it, if you must. Or I dare say the ballet would appreciate it.'
Somewhat against his better judgement, Henri left it. Victorine returned to her knitting.

The acoustic in here was flattering. Louise thought this an accident, but Eugénie affected to believe that one of her predecessors had had it made so deliberately. She prided herself on the lack of any similar impulse. If anything, she had told Louise, it irritated her; she felt impelled to compensate. Out on the stage there would be no such comfort, and she needed no flattery now.
'Play me the entry in the second act,' Eugénie commanded Louise, authoritative even in her chemise and corset. 'From Margaux's lead – and then hold the C major chord.'
The score lay closed on the stand. Louise did not need to open it; she had played this section often enough over the past weeks.
Eugénie sang the entry; then, as Louise depressed the pedal, she hung on the top G, coaxing it from piano to forte and back again, then introducing a little shake, and smoothing it out again.
She nodded, and Louise let go of the chord. Eugénie ran up and down the scale one last time, two octaves. Louise, free now to listen, thought it good. The low notes were secure, the top notes placed beautifully, the whole tone rich and open.
Eugénie smiled, cautiously satisfied. 'Now,' she said.
Louise's breath caught in her throat. She tipped her head back to look at Eugénie, who came behind her, and, putting one bare arm either side of her, gently closed the lid of the piano over the keys. Then, taking Louise's waist between her two hands, she pulled her up to stand. Louise twisted around to face her, leaning one knee on the piano stool. Eugénie tightened her embrace and kissed Louise fiercely.
'Are you certain...?' Louise murmured, knowing the answer. This was how it always began, every opening night: the notes once being in place, Eugénie's abrupt change of interest, her own token demurral, and then -
'Yes.' Eugénie pulled her closer, dragging her upwards so that she knelt on the piano stool. 'Come...' One arm around Louise's back, the other behind her knees. Louise, knowing what was coming, looped her arms around Eugénie's neck and let her carry her to the chaise-longue at the other end of the dressing room. She gazed up into dark, intent eyes, and shivered with anticipation.
Eugénie could be gentle when she chose. She was gentle now, laying Louise down and arranging a cushion under her head, drawing her skirts up and kissing along her thighs, further, further -
Always it was like this, had been ever since Eugénie had attained the right to a dressing room of her own: the bustle of the opera house locked outside the door, Louise stretched on the chaise-longue as if she herself were the prima donna whose every whim must be indulged, and Eugénie's dark head among her skirts.
Once or twice she had tried to reciprocate, but every time Eugénie had caught her wrists and pinned them down, making it clear that in this moment they must not confuse artist and audience. Eugénie needed nothing but Louise's undivided attention. And Louise, contented, captive, did not scruple to give it her, then or now.
The combination of past memory and present sensation brought her to the edge, and past it, and she cried out. Flushed, triumphant, Eugénie straightened up, then dropped to her knees to kiss Louise. 'Well?' she murmured.
'I'm yours. You know it.' Louise's breath was quick, her heart racing.
'Dearest Louise,' Eugénie murmured, with uncharacteristic tenderness. 'You're so patient with me.'
Louise let herself smile up at her for a second – two seconds – leant up impulsively and kissed her – then stood up and smoothed her skirts down. 'Shall I call Victorine?'
Eugénie nodded. 'Thank you,' she said.
Louise crossed the room quietly and turned the door handle. Victorine had already wound her knitting around the needles. Now she was gathering up the collection of flowers from the floor.
Louise did not speak, contenting herself with a conspiratorial smile at Victorine and a glance backwards at Eugénie. Already she seemed taller and more remote, her being concentrated in that glorious voice. Every time, Louise thought, as she slipped through the door that led to the auditorium, every time I lose her. No. She lost nothing, nothing that she would not be repaid with interest when the curtain came up, and – Louise smiled – again when it came down. Every time I give her... give her what? I give her to them. I give her to herself.
Her breath still coming a little quickly, she settled herself in the red velvet seat and waited for the curtain to rise.

ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

If Louise can't sing, and Eugénie won't sing, the future looks bleak for the two runaways.
For the ladiesbingo prompt "The Theatre"

Eugénie pulled the flimsy curtain back from the window, and Louise, blinking, saw the dust motes toiling in the sunbeams. She was conscious of a vague sense of shame connected with the state of the room, though she supposed that the doctor had seen worse in his time. He was a tall, wavering figure, dark against the sunlight, looming over her bed. He seemed somewhat nonplussed; perhaps Eugenie's lordly tones had deceived him into thinking that he was summoned to some grand house.
'This is the patient?' he was saying. 'Very good, very good. Let me see. Tell me, when did this begin?'
Louise tried to say, ten years ago, but her throat was raw and her lungs empty. Had she been able to speak this morning, she would have stopped Eugénie going for the doctor. She thought of the ever-dwindling pile of coins in Eugénie's trunk. How many would the doctor carry away with him? How few could they give Madame Fournier before she threw them out into the street? And if she could not sing, and Eugénie would not, then the pile would never be replenished.
For Eugénie would not sing – at least, not on any terms except her own, and those were such that it was unlikely that any impresario would accept them. She demanded parts to match her vocal ability, wilfully uncomprehending of the fact that she had not the theatrical experience that would justify her so doing, and that, perhaps most damningly of all, she had no patron to persuade the management of her assets on her behalf.
Louise, who had feared that this might be the case, produced the Count of Monte Cristo's letter of recommendation and took the modest part offered her, a temple priestess who stepped out from a trio for a few bars of solo recitative. In vain did she attempt to persuade Eugénie that it was better to sing 'Third Lady' and live than to starve to death because she could not be prima donna. In vain did she show her the calculations of their meagre income and inevitable outgoings.
Eugénie announced her intention of turning to literature. 'Words,' she said, 'can be had for nothing.' But, for all that, there seemed to be precious few of them coaxed from Eugénie's pen, and those words could hardly pay for bread without assuming a more solid form. Louise sought occupation during the hours of daylight as a piano teacher, but found that the respectable mamas, those who would have paid a rate that was not an insult, were chary of a woman from the stage. She sighed, and went off every evening to sing, and tried not to notice that every performance left her more and more weary, her lungs aching, her throat raw.
And Eugénie sulked and wept and cursed, writing ten or twelve words in a day, and declining to leave the house. Their cramped little room seemed to shrink; Louise was grateful to leave it each night as twilight fell, to escape Eugénie's directionless, sullen disappointment. She could feel the weight of Eugénie's envy on her shoulders, knew that Eugénie envied her being on the stage even in such a lowly part, never forgot herself so far as to reproach her, either for turning down the opportunity in the first place, or for regretting it now. Louise kept silence at home, and sang for their bread in the theatre, and prayed for some resolution to the impasse to manifest itself swiftly, before -
The day came sooner than she had expected. She remembered little of it. A cracked G sharp. A coughing fit that would not stop. Blood. The footlights flaring and whirling in front of her dizzy eyes. An interminable journey home, jolting, jolting, wrapped in Simone's cloak, propped between Madame Leclos and little Jean-Marc. And then flying – no, she was carried in Eugénie's arms – and some hoarse, angry sobbing, and then nothing.
And now this.
The doctor poked and prodded, and had Louise open her mouth and blow against a feather. 'She sings, you say?' he asked, and looked grave when Eugénie nodded. 'I will prescribe a mixture that will help, and I will return in three days. In the meantime, she must use her voice as little as possible.'

Eugénie insisted that Louise must not overtax herself, and Louise felt guiltily grateful for the extended period of rest. Had it not been for the prospect of a penniless future glowering over them, she would almost have welcomed her enforced unemployment. 'Don't worry, dear heart,' Eugénie said, and indeed it was true that Madame Fournier had not yet evicted them. Louise supposed that Eugénie had sold some of the few treasures she had brought away with her.
Louise's voice returned, whisper by whisper, murmur by murmur. Eugénie was comically strict, insisting that she take the treacly concoction regularly and insisting that she communicate by writing in a little memorandum book.
The doctor returned. He was unequivocal. 'She must not sing again, particularly not on the stage. Another attack might well be fatal. It would be as well to avoid all forms of vocal strain.'
'Well,' said Eugénie, when she had paid the doctor and sent him on his way. 'What have you to say to that?'
Louise laughed grimly. 'I am forbidden to say anything,' she muttered. 'I know what Eugénie Danglars would say.'
'She would say that she would be lost without her Louise; that a song is precious but lasts but a breath, and that none will hear you in the grave: therefore heed what you have been told.'
'That,' said Louise, 'was not quite what I meant. Had the doctor said to Eugénie Danglars, that she must cease to sing or she must die, I do not think that he would have heard that same answer – would he?'
'No -' Eugénie exclaimed, and fell silent.
'She would say,' Louise pressed on, ruthlessly, 'ars longa, vita brevis, that a single day in the courts of the muse were better than a thousand years among mortals, and that, must she keep silence or die, she would gladly die and sing.' Louise smiled in spite of herself.
'Oh! beloved, don't tease me so! Yes, it's true, but I've never come to that pass. It's you we speak of.'
'And my art is worth sacrificing, where yours is not?'
Eugénie buried her head in her hands. 'How can you bear to laugh about this?'
'Because,' said Louise, 'I am so very afraid that I cannot find it in myself to speak soberly. My voice is, if not precisely my life, then at least my living; I know not if I can afford to pay our rent on what I could make from pianoforte lessons alone; and -'
'Yes?' Eugénie was glowering.
'Could I live with you, and not sing with you? Would you not tire of me, did we not share that?'
'So! You doubt my fidelity; and you tire of supporting the pair of us.'
'There will come a time,' Louise said steadily, 'when I will no longer be capable of doing so; and the more I sing, the faster it must come.'
'I will never leave you,' Eugénie promised grandly. 'You might do me the same courtesy.'
'Very well,' said Louise. 'I prefer living, myself.' And, she did not say, she had spent enough years making her living by her art not to feel sentimental. Moreover, she knew that Eugénie's was the greater talent.

Even without the doctor's dire verdict, Louise would have known that she was gravely unwell. She found herself faint and dizzy after crossing from one side of the room to the other, and she slept longer and more frequently than she had ever believed permissible or possible, at any hour of the night or day.
She was woken by the click of the doorknob at about noon the next day. Eugénie was unwinding a shawl from about her head.
'You've been out?' Louise croaked.
Eugénie sat down on the edge of the bed. 'I went to your theatre. I demanded to see the chorus master. I explained to him that you were still unwell and that I was prepared to sing in your place.'
'Goodness,' Louise said faintly; M. Lebrun was a Tatar. 'What did he say to that?'
'That I am too tall to replace you in his formations; but that if he can see a way to persuading M. Pinault that Zélie Ferrand is up to singing your part permanently, then he can use me in the chorus of peasants.'
'And what did you say to that?' For the peasants had less to do even than the priestesses, and the pay was proportionately diminished.
Eugénie assumed an expression of martyred pride. 'If the muse wishes me to be a peasant, then a peasant I shall be. Besides, if there is any justice I shan't remain one long.'

The next night, when Eugénie had departed for the theatre, Louise crept out of bed and, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, scrabbled in the trunk to find pen and paper. She found to her dismay that she had underestimated the effort it required, and had to retreat, breathing fast, between the sheets, but she put the writing materials just under the bed, where she could reach them.
Weeks passed. Eugénie was promoted from the chorus of peasants to Second Lady, and also understudied the High Priestess, which meant less singing and better pay. The run ended, and M. Pinault cast her as Emilia in Otello. She complained occasionally to Louise that Lebrun had no musical sensitivity, or that Signor Andretti's voice put her in mind of a cup of cold coffee, but she was, Simone reported, as good as gold in rehearsals. The muse was smiling upon her at last, and Eugénie returned the compliment.
And Louise wrote. Every night, when the door had shut behind Eugénie, she brought out her own work. At first she was able to write only for a few minutes at a time, but as she grew stronger those minutes stretched to half an hour, then an hour, then two. Louise was careful, but all the same, it was inevitable that Eugénie would catch her eventually. Knowing this, she became careless, and let herself write for as long as the candle burned and her strength allowed and inspiration flowed. And, one night, all were generous, and Otello was over and Eugénie home while Louise was yet sitting up in bed with paper strewn across the blankets and an aria half-written.
'Louise! What are you doing? You mustn't tire yourself!' Her face was streaked with greasepaint, her expression indignant; it was an oddly endearing combination.
'When I'm tired,' Louise said defiantly, 'I sleep. At the moment I'm perfectly awake.' It was true: though her eyelids had been drooping, Eugénie's sudden entrance had roused her to a feverish alertness. 'See what I've been doing, all these evenings.' Though she affected calmness, her fingers trembled as she handed the stack of manuscript to Eugénie.
'The Death of Sappho: an opera in four acts by L. d'Armilly.' Eugénie turned over the pages, politely at first, and then with what seemed to be genuine and urgent interest. 'Louise: this is good.'
'You mean that.' There was no need to pretend disbelief, not for Eugénie, who would never pretend admiration. 'I thought I might write to the Count of Monte Cristo, to see if he might use his influence in our favour again.'
'He must, if he sees this. Fame will be mine, but you shall have immortality.' Her eyes glowed.
'You too,' said Louise, 'for much of the libretto is yours – your poems, which you wrote in Paris.'
'Oh,' Eugénie said, pleased, 'but they won't remember the librettist. Only the name of d'Armilly will go down in history.'
'Perhaps not on account of this opera,' Louise said, 'for the more I write, the more conscious am I of my deficiencies. Besides, Pinault wouldn't look at it twice if he knew that I was the composer.'
'Your useful brother Leon might make another appearance,' Eugénie suggested. 'I believe you had that idea in mind all along.'
Louise laughed and did not deny it. 'All the same, the name of Eugénie Danglars shall appear on the playbill in larger letters, for she shall sing Sappho.'
'M. le directeur won't have that, not while Célestine's in his bed.'
'I've written an aria for Cleïs that she won't be able to resist. And if he makes me rewrite that for Sappho then you shall be Phaon.'
'You know my fondness for the trouser roles. But, my heart, if it will only make them produce your opera, I'll gladly be the call boy. All the same,' switching suddenly from the artist to the nurse, 'you're working too hard, and you ought to be in bed.'
Louise smiled. 'I am in bed, and so should you be.' She took her manuscript back and laid the stack of paper on the floor: there was no need to hide it any more.
Eugénie took her shawl off and spread it over the bed. She unbuttoned her dress deftly and let it fall to the floor, and clambered into bed in her chemise. 'You're quite right. I admit the superiority of your argument.' Her face flickered into a sudden grin, and at last Louise knew the certain hope that their own story was not, after all, to be a tragedy. She blew out the candle.

A PRACTICAL METHOD OF ITALIAN SINGING

A Practical Method of Italian Singing

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

Scenes from the illustrious careers of Mlles Louise d'Armilly and Eugénie Danglars, set to music by Nicola Vaccaj.

Notes:

Nicola Vaccai wrote his 'Metodo Pratico de Canto Italiano de Camera' in 1832, setting words by the poet Pietro Metastasio. In this story, each section is headed by one of Vaccai's exercises. I've done my best to provide a rough translation within the narrative.
This is a Yuletide treat - hope you enjoy it! I am extremely fond of Eugénie and Louise.

Lesson I
The Scale
Manca sollecita
più dell'usato,
anchorche s'agiti
conlieve fiato,
face che palpita
presso al morir
1836
'What's this?' Eugénie asked. 'A new way of singing scales?'
'More or less,' Louise said. 'M. Neuchâtel sent it to me.' She showed Eugénie the cover.
'Metodo pratico di canto italiano per camera,' Eugénie read. “'A Practical Method of Italian Singing for the Chamber'.” She flicked through the book. 'It's rather below your level, surely?'
'Certainly. But if for any reason I'm unsuccessful on the stage, I could teach singing – as a profession, I mean, rather than simply for your amusement. It would come in useful as a textbook.'
'Indeed, if you are teaching rich young ladies with no aspirations towards serious singing.'
'It's rather below your level, too,' Louise said sweetly. 'If we'd had it when you first started learning to sing it would have been very useful, but you have long passed that stage. Still, it couldn't hurt to go through it – for after all, you are still a rich young lady.'
'Oh, Louise, if you knew how I long to -'
'To what?'
'To be like you. To live for nothing but my art, to leave this wearying round of men and money! Indeed, I had much rather teach rich young ladies than be one! At least I should then feel that I was contributing something to my muse.'
Louise smiled. 'Very few artists – Mozart excepted; one must always except Mozart – had contributed much by the age of fifteen.'
Eugénie was not to be placated. 'I see my life stretched out before me – an interminable scale, one dull note after another. First the suitors, then the marriage, then the children - and all punctuated by dull women discussing their dull lives!'
'One has to sing scales,' Louise said, feebly.
'Signor Vaccaj seems to think not,' Eugénie said, indicating the Practical Method. 'See this - why, it was years before you let me attempt an acciacatura! And here he introduces it in lesson eight.'
'Why, you said yourself - this method is not for those who wish to be serious singers, but only those who wish to make a charming noise in the drawing room.'
'That's true,' Eugénie said, mollified by the implication. She looked more closely at the first exercise. 'How would you translate this, do you think?'
'Italian is not my strong point, as well you know,' Louise said. 'I know enough for music, and my pronunciation is acceptable, but I am not sure that I could produce a respectable translation. However, since you insist, something like this: a candle flame, beginning to flicker even more than usual, is restored by the action of a light breath, though it was close to dying.'
'That's close,' Eugénie said. 'Close, but not exactly right. I think you have the opposite sense from what the poet intended. He is saying that a light breath makes the flame flicker. But then you are an optimist.'
'Am I?' Louise murmured. 'Am I indeed?'
'Say, for example,' Eugénie said, 'that the poet, Signor Metastasio, speaks not of a literal candle flame, but of the fire that burns within the heart...'
'What then?'
'Well, in my translation, a tiny setback, a doubt or a fear, is enough to extinguish that flame. In yours, the lover is not daunted by that doubt, but loves the more fervently. I believe -'
'Yes?'
'I believe,' Eugénie said, 'that I prefer yours.' And she bent and kissed Louise on the lips.


Intervals of Thirds
Semplicetta tortorella,
che non vede il suo periglio,
per fuggir da crudo artiglio
vola in grembo al cacciator.
1838
Eugénie lowered the blinds but, even though she could no longer see, she still could hear, and the sound of sniggering reached her.
'Oh, why is the world not a desert?' she exclaimed, throwing herself into Louise's arms.
As the barouche rolled away from the Bell and Bottle, Louise did her best to keep from laughing, but at length the desire overwhelmed her. Eugénie sprang away from her, hurt.
'Louise, you too? Isn't it bad enough that those peasants outside are laughing at me? Must you join them?'
'My love, I'm not laughing at you. It was - Cavalcanti's face! Do you know, I believe that up until he saw us he really thought that you would be pleased to have him - and now he understands that you despise him.' She buried her face in her hands, once again overcome with mirth, and then added, 'And do you remember that song we used to sing? Signor Vaccaj's intervals of thirds?'
'Which was that?' Eugénie asked, distracted momentarily from her insult. She hummed a third, and said, 'Ah, yes. The turtledove.'
'The foolish turtledove, fleeing from the falcon, that finds itself into the hunter's snare. That was us - almost.'
'Ah, but the hunter was himself hunted,' Eugénie said, smiling. 'Well, my turtledove, since you contrive to laugh about it, I shall do my best to see the funny side myself. And after all, we are still heading in the right direction - away from Paris, and towards our freedom.'
'You will have to change your clothes again,' Louise said after a little while. 'While my passport looks well enough made out to Léon d'Armilly travelling with his sister, I fear I'm not so good a forger that I can change that to Léonie without arousing suspicion when we come to the border.' She paused, a little afraid that Eugénie would not care to risk a double unmasking. 'Nor do I make nearly such a convincing Léon.'
'Very well,' Eugénie said, and she almost laughed.
The carriage bumped over the cobbles. They would be in Belgium by nightfall.

Lesson II
Intervals of Fourths
Lascia il lido e il mare infido
a solcar torna il nocchiero,
e pur sa che menzognero
altre volte l'inganno
1839
'Well, tesorina?' Eugénie asked the moment Louise returned from her audition. 'What did they say?'
Louise sank into a chair. 'The usual sort of thing. That I have an exceptional talent, but that there are two or three others who might suit as well or better, and if I perhaps display some special advantages – ugh.'
Eugénie's eyes flamed. 'How dare they!'
'I shall have to go back,' Louise said. 'Or, if not back, to another such. We can live perhaps three, four, years on the money we brought away with us, but what then? We cannot continue to live without work, without money. And I would rather earn my living singing than skivvying.'
'Where you would be equally likely to be molested. Men!' Eugénie said, with inexpressible contempt.
'What else is there to do? Lascia il lido... The sailor returns to the sea, though he knows it betrays him.'
'How I wish...' Eugénie began, and then, 'Yes! Louise, you shall go back once more and audition for Signor Colorni, and you will leave the rest of it to me.'

Intervals of Fifths
Avvezzo a vivere
senza conforto,
ancor nel porto
paventi il mar.
'I fear I have changed my mind,' Louise said. 'My resolve has deserted me.'
'With your protector at your side?' Eugénie said. 'Shame!' Once again she had cropped her hair short and donned a suit of men's clothes.
'Ah, but you won't be at my side – you'll be outside. And you know how it is: even when one is accustomed to hardship, it is difficult to leave the harbour and face the open sea.'
'Why such a change, chicken-heart?'
'Yesterday,' Louise said, 'I didn't believe that you would do this. Today – you seem bent upon it.'
Eugénie laughed. 'It's like this: whether this sailor of yours fears the sea or not, he still has to go out upon it. You and I, we must earn our living, and this is the only way to stop this nonsense. Therefore – onwards!'

Lesson III
Intervals of Sixths
Bella prova è d'alma forte
l'esser placida e serena
nel soffrir l'inguista pena
d'una colpa che non ha.
She sang Come dolce all'alma mia, and she knew that she had not sung it well. In order to keep her composure, her mind had clung to a much simpler piece: Vaccaj's exercise featuring intervals of sixths. 'It is a beautiful proof of a strong soul,' she murmured to herself, 'to be placid and serene, suffering the unjust pain of a guilt one does not have.'
For Colorni was smiling, an oily smile that assumed things about Louise that were not true. 'As I said last week, Signorina d'Armilly, you have a substantial talent, one that I would be delighted to cultivate, subject to our coming to a... mutually satisfying agreement.'
Inwardly, Louise shuddered, but her countenance remained calm as she said, 'What kind of agreement were you thinking of, Signor Colorni?'
One must, after all, give him enough rope to hang himself.
'Come, come, my dear, you must know that very few auditions are concluded without... well, that is to say, our artistes must not only be mere singers, but must be actors, too, capable of great passion...'
'I've heard enough,' Louise said. She rose to leave and coughed twice. That was the signal.
'Oh, Signorina d'Armilly, be reasonable!'
At that moment the door burst open and Eugénie, looking every inch the furious young gentleman, dashed into the room.
'Sir, you have insulted my sister!' she exclaimed. 'I demand satisfaction!'
And indeed, Eugénie had in her hand a small pistol, that appeared to be none the less deadly for that.
Colorni turned white, but managed to say, 'I wonder that you are her brother, for I never saw two siblings look less alike.'
'And that's twice!' Eugénie exclaimed. 'She's my step-sister. What's that to you?'
'Well, I...'
'Pistols?' Eugénie said. 'Or do you prefer the sword?'
'Neither! That is, either... but really, my good boy, you can't be of age; it would be most dishonourable of me to fight you.'
Eugénie smiled as if she had not heard him, and looked thoughtfully at the pistol. All the while, Colorni grew whiter.
At last, Louise said, 'Come, Léon. I believe there's little use in our staying here.'
'Very well,' Eugénie said, though proving her own acting talent with a convincing show of reluctance, and followed Louise to the door. Then she turned and said, 'But remember, Signor, it was not I who refused to fight...'

Lesson IV
Intervals of Sevenths
Fra l'ombre un lampo solo
basta al nocchier sagace,
che gia ritrova il polo
gia riconcosce il mar.
'Now what do we do?' Louise asked.
A smile had been playing round Eugénie's lips since they had left Colorni. Now it grew broader. 'Now, cucciola mia,' she said, 'we go to the Teatro Fenice.'
A single light is enough to show the sailor the true direction, and he sees his way across the sea he traverses.
**
'Colorni refused to fight?' said Vincenzi, manager of the Fenice. 'Oh, that's priceless!' He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
'We thought that you might find that amusing,' Eugénie said, 'and so, before we told anyone else, we came to you. After all, it would be quite a coup for you, wouldn't it, to engage the woman that your great rival was afraid to fight?'
'Forgive me, signorina – I was under the impression that the other lady was the singer?'
'Mlle de Servieux,' (for Eugénie had appropriated her mother's maiden name) 'was my pupil,' Louise explained. 'She is a singer of great talent and character. And indeed, you might see your way to engaging the pair of us. You would not regret it.'
'I will not do anything of the sort -' Vincenzi said – 'without first hearing you sing. But, as it happens, I am looking to revive Tancredi within the next few months. That scheme of yours, Signorina de Servieux, was worthy of that noble gentleman; Signorina d'Armilly, you could make an adorable Amenaide. And,' he twinkled, 'as you say, it would be one in the eye for Colorni.'

Intervals of Octaves
Quell'onda che ruina
balza, si frange e mormora,
ma limpida si fa.
And so began the operatic career of Signorina Louise D'Armilly and Signorina Eugénie de Servieux. Tancredi (in the version with the happy ending) was a roaring success: the singing was magnificent, the love scenes touching, and the general spectacle divine. The two ladies, already known throughout Naples for being both eccentric and (what is essential if one chooses to be eccentric) rich, now became famous throughout Italy.
(History does not record whether or not Baron Danglars, now settled in obscurity in Rome, ever learned of his daughter's success, or, rather, that it was his daughter who was so successful.)
Eugénie took lessons in both fencing and in the use of firearms 'for,' she said, 'one never knows when Colorni may think better of turning down my offer to fight. And the fencing at least proves useful on the stage.' She was a great sensation, lauded particularly for her interpretation of Bellini's Romeo, Handel's Julius Caesar, and Rossini's Falliero, besides, of course, his Tancredi.
Louise, more reclusive than her dear friend, became none the less fêted in the world of the opera. Unlike Eugénie, she rarely sang en travesti, but excelled as the high soprano heroine. Much to her delight, she was also able to take on a couple of pupils at the same time, and contribute to the development of a new generation of singers.
The mountain stream tumbles down the Alpine heights, falling, falling, with a noise of thunder, but underneath it flows in a clear current. So it was with Eugénie and Louise, whose lives, on the surface a confection of operatic tinsel, were grounded in a love that was deep and enduring.

COLD COMES AND GOES, LOVE REMAINS

Cold comes and goes, love remains

avaloncat555

Summary:

Magic always leaves trace. Magic of immortal things from before time doubly so. Gerda cannot forget and Kai can’t help but remember.

Together, they make it work.

Notes:

Story set after Snow Queen, detailing Gerda and Kai adjusting to their world. This is first chapter, harsh (nonetheless) spring.

Magic always leaves trace. Magic of immortal things from before time doubly so. Gerda cannot forget and Kai can’t help but remember.

Together, they make it work.

---

They never tell you what happens after. After the tale. After the villain is defeated and you are back home. After the friend is saved.

---

Sometimes, Gerda wonders if that is her mistake. Should she have walked in while Snow Queen sat on her throne, engaged her in duel, killed her? Her stomach turns at thought of killing a living being, of taking another’s life.

But Snow Queen isn’t human. Gerda isn’t even sure she can be counted as alive. And what use is there for world of somebody that steals children and buries people under ice and snow?

‘’ No,’’ says Kai. ‘’ You did everything great. Without you, I’d never be free. And you wouldn’t kill her. You shouldn’t stain your hands with blood.’’

He doesn’t lie, as Snow Queen didn’t ( couldn’t), but like her leaves piece of truth hidden. He doesn’t say that otherwise Gerda would have fallen, one more victim of frostbite. He doesn’t say that you can’t kill blizzard, can’t harm winter, can’t make cold of vast space bleed. You can only prepare shelters, wrap yourself in fur and wool, and wait for it to pass.

He doesn’t say that army of angels was needed to fight against horde of snowflakes, that even Michael, he who leads God’s armies, would have failed against Queen there, in heart of her power.

He doesn’t say that Queen deserves no punishment, that she did nothing wrong. Winter gale doesn’t choose which way it blows, doesn’t seek to end lives. How can something without conscience, without morality, be called evil?

---

At first, everything is same as before. They are at home, living with grandmothers, playing on roofs and planting roses. They forget for a while.

It is small things at first. Seeing herself in windows and mirrors, all tall and grown up. Meeting old friends and not recognizing them. Reminders of years missed that slip from grandmother’s mouth. Finding job.

Whispers of roses. Chatter of birds. Kai’s hair, long and white as freshly fallen snow. His dark skin, once warm and rich as fertile earth, now pale as frozen ground of taiga.

Gerda closes her eyes and pretends not to hear.

---

‘’ It is so hot.’’ Gerda’s granny says.

‘’ I don’t remember summer this dry and warm.’’ Answers Kai’s.

‘’  I don’t think  I could stand a day more of this heat.’’ Lies Kai. It is easier to pretend then admit that neither heat or cold bother him anymore ( Gerda restored his memory and took him home, but Queen kissed him, and he isn’t sure if she made him immune or fire and ice don’t dare harm him, but since that day he could go nude in blizzard and wrap himself in furs and walk through desert and not feel anything).

‘’ Rain will soon fall.’’ It comes out of her mouth without thinking. They turn, blink, and grandmothers ask  ( how do you know, why are you sure, did somebody tell you).

Words stop in her mouth. How does she explain, sparrows gossiping about faraway storm, soon to come. How does she explain about roses knowing, feeling it’s arrival, starving for water that shall descend from sky.

‘’ I just know.’’  It is enough for now.

---

She sets up flower shop.  Of course she does. What else could she have done?

Many things. She could have opened a bakery, or served in an inn as a barmaid, or became a teacher. She could have become a nurse tending to the sick, or started selling clothes she made, or cared for children of not so rich families. And she is the princess’s friend. She could have had anything. She really shouldn’t treat it as such mundane thing, even if it maybe is. Because even princesses have friends but who would have thought that she, Gerda, would be one to befriend the princess. She has spent years on journey, planning, hoping, fighting to survive. Childhood friends are nothing but blur in her mind. Princess is one of few people in world she can call friend anymore.

Princess in name only, she should add, for her friend has reigned over their land since she was fifteen, first aided by regent and advisors then alone, guided by her own wisdom. Year still needs to pass for her to ascend to mantle of monarch formally, which is stupid tradition in Gerda’s opinion, but the Princess is content with waiting- rules are to be followed, and Gerda doesn’t begrudge her that, as long as none suffer under them.

But thing is, she could have had any job she wanted. Anything that didn’t involve flowers and plants and hearing voices nobody else does, understanding their songs and stories. She didn’t have to do that.

But she likes gardening. She has always loved it, since she can remember planting and tending seeds, nurturing and guiding young green things to their first bloom, caring for them through year until cruel frost steals their life, as winter always does.

And she will be damned if she lets magic or bad memories take that away from her

---

She is successful.  Beyond that even. She nourishes her plants, like mother caring for children, and they drive. Years of experience and hard work and knowledge she gained make sure none can match her.

Her flowers don’t speak, which surprises and relaxes her (but doesn’t disappoint, of course not). Flowers of old woman who enchanted her could speak like men, though they knew only to tell one story and to argue. Her roses, red and white, could muster words, not sentences but still expressions that she could understand.

Flowers she grows just murmur, too low for her to understand, and sing their wordless tunes. Still, she feels, and can imagine what story they would tell, if nourished by old woman’s magic.

 Lily who drowns with despair, rolling off it like dew would be about girl who lost too much and walked into lake on her own. 

Wildflowers that chime like jingle bells would be about three girls running under summer sun in green meadow. 

Carnation with anger and pride as bright as fire would be about woman who knows what she desires, and dance laughing at those who try to stop her, for sooner will world burn than she will bow.

That is what attracts her customers, she muses. Somehow, she coaxes out those stories from flowers into hearts, and people know that her boquets mean more than any else. They come to her with wishes, flowers for first dates, flowers for marriage, flowers for separation, for funeral, for spite, for apology. She cares not for so called flower language or even colors clashing in some cases-she gives grieving mother sunflowers that scream with rage and loss, violets that soothe and give strength to move on, pink roses that fondly sing of loved ones long gone by. 

Her competition laughs at first, but then they smell her work, or walk in rooms containing her pots, and their hearts are overcome with emotion, and they know she is right.

Gerda laughs. Perhaps it isn’t so bad. People are happy and she brings many coin home.

---

Grandma is waiting for her home, with magnificent red dress. It is woolen, and bright, and beautifully embroidered. Grandma cannot stop talking about it.

‘‘-and then I said, of course I can’t take it Martha, it is too good for us, I cannot believe ho well you sew, and that color is so vibrant,  but she said nonsense after all times she spent in my house she is like my own daughter, and she needs some reward for all her hard work, and she and Kai were always such good friends with Brigitta, she was one who embroidered those stars, said she can’t wait to reconnect, and I said oh really, thank you so much Martha, these new shops are run by idiots who refuse to make more than five dresses for girls that aren’t thin like sprigs, but don’t think you won’t be getting three new shawls and-’‘ Grandma stops, looking at Gerda’s lost, stricken face.

‘‘Gerda, sweetie, what happened? Are you sick? Was there problem at work? Do you-’‘

‘‘Grandma,’‘ Gerda says, voice shaking ‘’ those people-Martha, Brigitte, I…I don’t remember who they are.’‘ 

‘‘Oh.’‘ Grandma says, patting Gerda’s hair as woman collapses in her arms, sobbing.

---

She always goes to church now. She did before too, but she now refuses to miss a single gathering. When she comes down with flu, grandmothers have to restrain her from getting up.

They don’t understand. She saw God answer her prayer, saw her breath form in army of angels, bright guardians with wings of flame and bodies of jewels and too many eyes of thunder, saw them fight demonic forces that kept her from Kai.

God has shown her mercy. Answered her prayer out of so many. Absolute loyalty is least she owes Him. He created her, Kai, her world and everything she holds dear. He sent His son to die for their sins, and He gave Heaven to virtuous. 

And she needs to pay her sins. She hears voices of beasts, can command them, birds and bugs and cats and dogs, and she knows that is magic, and she saw witches and demons, was bewitched herself and escaped, saved her enthralled friend with His aid.

Magic is work of devil, and devil tempts and tricks, clothed in bright golden light, and his gifts lie and beguil, masked as blessing, and like gambling and wine magic is addictive and ruins people and…

She doesn’t want to be witch. She doesn’t want to be evil. She doesn’t want to harm people. To go to Hell. To become wicked and cruel like Snow Queen.  To betray Him.

She cries and prays.

---

‘‘I don’t think she was a demon. Or witch. Or anything like that.’‘ Kai admits once. It is beginning of autumn, but night cold and yet Kai isn’t.

(It is not quite the truth, but he doesn’t want Gerda to worry, not after everything she has done for him, not after what bastard he had been. Better to say, he is always cold, but it doesn’t grieve him. He’s got the winter in his bones, and he will live with that for rest of his days, and honestly, he likes it).

Gerda looks at him, shocked and alarmed and bundled in jackets, and she doesn’t know what to say because Kai never confided in her what his time at palace was like but now he says this and she fears he is tempted again and she wants them all to heal, and you must talk if you want to achieve that, but she wants to forget and leave everything behind.

But Kai can’t. He wants to heal too, but he doesn’t know where to start, and sometimes he thinks healing requires thinking and accepting and letting what happened become part of their lives forever, and sometimes he isn’t sure if he wants to forget, but he knows that he can’t, for he went with Snow Queen and she kissed him and he lived in her realm growing without need to eat or sleep or drink and now there is winter in his bones, cold in his blood and frost under his skin, and he knows piece of her rests within him and  he knows that wherever he goes he will carry snow within himself and he can’t pretend so long.

‘‘Kai…’‘ Gerda begins ‘‘She…. did something happen, Did you… Did she return?’‘‘

‘‘I saw nothing of her this day, or yesterday, or any other day since you saved me.’‘ He says gently. He doesn’t say that he didn’t need to see her-wherever there is cold she has reach, even at height of summer, and her power flows through universe itself, and she rests within him, bound together by winter as mother and son are by blood, or bond even stronger than that.

‘‘I just… I was thinking about what you said. I think angels came because of you, not her. Your prayer and your heart, that is your strength, like Bae said. he gave it to you, because you got it.’‘ Kai smiles, slow and sweet, and Gerda doesn’t look at his teeth, white and shining like fresh snow on morning sun ‘‘ I don’t make sense do I? I think… He helped you because you helped yourself first.’

But that doesn’t really have much to do with her, you know? I don’t think she serves God, but I don’t think she is against him. She is out of it all, like wind or snow. I asked her once, you know, how can you tell between good and evil.’’

‘‘And what did she say?’‘ Gerda doesn’t know what to expect. Demon would likely give some answer that seemed innocent but advised human to be selfish.

‘‘She looked at me, puzzled-I think that was only time I saw her confused, maybe first time she was ever confused- and asked me what those words mean. I don’t remember what I said, but she didn’t understand. 

And once she talked to me about angels and demons, said that they are God’s servants, extensions of his will. But demons wanted to control world, to enslave other creatures and take what was not theirs  and rebelled against him. She said that like all people and beings that are his they have soul. And…’‘

‘‘I know that Kai. Did she tell anything more.’‘ She didn’t want to believe that, but demon wouldn’t have admitted they were evil. But neither were humans demons and there were many evil ones.

‘‘She told me once that she doesn’t have one. Soul that is. And she doesn’t lie Gerda Believe me, I know she can’t, just as I know to calculate or to breathe. She isn’t  human, but she isn’t demon either.’‘

‘‘But what could she be otherwise?’‘ Kai looks through window into deep blackness between stars, there where cold is strongest. he thinks he can imagine cold, sharp yet soft hand stroking his back, fondling his hair, can imagine laugh and wail in hush of wind.

‘‘She is… she is old, and cold and alone, and that is all.’‘

---

They say that women who talk with animals are witches, that beasts are demons in disguise and their familiars, and perhaps Gerda should stop feeding every animal she encounters and unlike some cynics she isn’t quite so ready to believe that world is full of demons.

Kai’s words were strange, but she trusts him like brother, and chooses to believe. Because at end of day, faith is what she must have, and she is sure God would have given her sign otherwise.

Besides, most beasts are quite dumb, even pretty white doves she fattens, thinking only of food and mates. Not like Bae, or Mr. and Mrs. Raven.

And such thinking is insulting to them, she considers. If normal animals are demons because she can understand them, then what of ones that speak and think like humans? What of the princess, whose dreams dance? Or of two wise women who helped her, kind leaders of their villages? Would somebody name her friends, who helped her so much demons or witches for that?

Perhaps it is not magic at all, but simply gift to understand others-she understood different tongues as if they were her own, now that she thinks of it. Perhaps she just listens better than most people. And she doubts that demons would give her such gift, or that angels would fight for sake of a wicked creature (they were angels, she knows, true and through, she could feel their holiness, their goodness in depths of her soul, and it was greatest thing she ever felt, no demon could fake that).

So with a smile, she resumes feeding her white doves.

---

There are many distasteful men in world, Gerda is aware. Men with no manners nor respect, who, utterly entitled, treat women and children and seniors as things. She would have to be raised under the rock, or in that land of Greek women warriors Kai told her about, not to know about them. Single reason why she is surprised when older customer gropes her is that shop is full of people.

He is surprised when she slaps him, so she can forgive herself for that. He shouts, more from surprise than pain-she didn’t smack him as hard as she could or should, have had- for he is too much used for this. Too many girls are afraid, knowing that few will help them, and those men take silence for yes.

‘‘Dear God, what has gotten in you, lass?’‘

‘‘What has gotten in me? How dare you?’‘ Grandma always said that Gerda had more bravery than self-preservation, but Gerda reckons if she could go over half world as child then she can shout at this man when she is a woman .’‘ You, sir, have honor of being most rude and shameful customer I had displeasure of serving. How dare you act so toward young woman, nay any woman at all! I hope you haven’t been bothering any other girl here other wise..’‘ 

He is angry, and red, and raises his hand. Several customers ran to Gerda’s side, fastest being sixty-year-old widow with steely hair buying flowers for cheap funeral and fourteen-year-old boy taking single flower for each of his eight siblings; man’s hand falls down.

But window is thrown open, and golden October sunlight pours inside as half dozen white doves descend, pecking at his bald head. Man lets her go as he tries to fend them off. Gerda stares in awe, then rises cross around her  neck and whispers her thanks.

‘‘Miss Gerda, are you alright?’‘ The boy asks, having run to her side. Widow watches with stern, steely gaze, her angry eyes like embers as she shouts to two strong men standing near her to take ‘‘gentleman’‘ outside, using names and words that would make sailors red as strawberries. Two men comply, their necks as flushed as Gerda at widow’s words.

‘‘I am well, thank you.’‘ She says to everybody inside.’‘ Promise me you will never be like that man when you grow up.’‘ She whispers to him, and he nods, face determined and hard. She doesn’t doubt it. His mother is honest woman of strong hand, if little easy to set off, and his father is nice man who is always kind to all even if they don’t have much. And boy himself is, as far as she knows from seeing him around neighbour, just as kind and honest.

‘‘ I will keep flowers, mister, but you can have your money back once you learn to behave properly.’‘ She says and takes three coins off counter, giving them to boy and widow as shop laughs.

‘‘Thank you.’‘ She whispers to doves. they stare at her with their red eyes before cooing back.

‘‘Feed us. Nice girl. All people love you. Man bad, man harm. Cannot allow that.’‘ Gerda laughs and thanks again. Amount of birdseed increases, and so does amount of feathery flyers keeping watch over her.

She doesn’t have such incidents ever regain.

---

In November, they attend her friend’s coronation. She gets invitation, personally signed by future Queen herself. She is allowed to bring guests. Nobody from house says anything, but news spread and soon Gerda is given as much as attention as mayor himself. Still nobody is surprised when she brings both grandmothers and Kai.

They are given great chambers, and coronation is magnificent, her wise friend ascending to her rightful throne, dressed in royal regalia. They dance (Gerda is astonished to see grandmas pick up fast, complicated dance with each other) and laugh and eat and everything is beautiful. And then Kai and the prince meet.

There is no fight, no problem at all. Not even teasing or bantering. But once they meet Gerda realizes how much things have changed.

She once confused him for Kai. It was easy to mistake them in dark for each other while prince was sleeping-but once his face was revealed she saw her mistake immediately. Head was right size, neck long enough and forehead just as wide, with thin eyebrow and upright jaw and pointy chin. But his eyes were bigger than Kai’s, his ears shorter and rounder, nose not as prominent and lips much plumper, teeth not as small and cheekbones not as sharp.

Still, they could have been cousins. Or even brothers. Both knew nothing of their parents, and were right age to maybe be fraternal twins- prince grew up in orphanage and Kai was found abandoned on street by his grandmother (in the snow, but this she never told anybody). Only problem was that they grew up in towns on opposite sides of the country. Still she joked about confusing them again once they met each other.

And they did, and Gerda could no longer deny how much Kai changed. Both were tall and strong and slim, but Kai seemed tall and robust and thin like a frozen mountain, or frost covered pine tree. 

Their skin was dark as earth, but Kai’s was harsh and frigid like dead, frozen taiga where nothing could grow. Prince’s hair was just as long and fair as her friend’s once was, but now it was pale and white like pure snow and bleached bones.  

Their teeth were healthy and clean, but Kai’s were blinding white and seemed pointy at times.  Prince’s hands were warm, while Kai’s felt like sticking hand in mountain river. Prince’s eyes were sparkling, so were Kai’s, but whereas eyes of prince shone with joy and mischief, Kai’s reflected still light of aurora.

And only there, in room full of people, hundreds of them, instead of apartment filled with four, did she notice how off Kai felt.  How hairs on her neck rose, as something deep in her bones remembered and said: odd, inhuman, wrong, eldritch, other, run, beware, don’t trust, hide, too powerful.

But she ignored it. Kai was her friend, and some stupid voice in her head didn’t know him better than she.

---

Only when they went to coronation, did he truly notice how small and weak and not right everything looks.

He sees the castle, gold and marble and brilliant, and thinks of a palace rising from ground unto sky, made of snow that will never melt and with doors of wind that will never stop. And he knows how fast and how easily this so called castle will crumble.

He walks halls, small finite halls in which people are pushing and hitting each other and having problem keeping distance and thinks of endless labyrinths that could contain whole world and still not lose one percent of space yet were always empty.

Decorations are wrought, and ugly, imperfect things not wrought by will. They cannot change shape or rise to defend castle and he knows that if he compared candles and statues he would find that they aren’t perfectly same. He sees candles and thinks of pale northern lights adorning walls and roof, part of castle, contained in floor and pillars and freely travelling through air.

He sees throne, ugly, red and gold thing, and thinks of pale mirror, frozen bottomless lake of reason containing world and answers to all questions and then some, watches tables and portraits and thinks of ice pieces that made such perfect puzzles.

And he sees Gerda’s friend the queen, and his very mind screams and recoils upon thinking of calling her so. He almost cries when he says ‘’glory to the queen’’, his bones breaking. 

For in place of this mortal creature, being of flesh and blood and bone, being that can be killed and thorn apart and shattered and rebelled against by any he sees a goddess, gigantic and beyond measure and of power deep beyond comprehension, woman with body of glaciers and restless soulless eyes of stars and hair of northern light and clothes of snow and voice of sharp winter wind, being that stands against vulcanoes and turns magma to stone, who can take away life with touch and turn land harsh and barren, woman older than very time, who rules vast expanses of empty space and brought winter in existence and who will one day bury entire universe in cold and ice when time is right for her to do so (she doesn’t hate other elements and seasons, no matter what anybody says. World has time and place for all, and when it is time for fire and heat to devour all she will accept and burn and wait for flames to die out just as they will wait for her hold to shatter, and so on and on).

He doesn’t hate Gerda’s friend-could never hate her, nor her husband, she is so wise and smart and ambitious and cunning and caring and will make a great leader, but part of his very soul shivers and shrivels and dies whenever he thinks of her as a queen- none of them humans realize, he understands, what true monarch says.

‘‘Isn’t she true queen?’‘ Gerda asks, smile as bright as the Sun, and for her sake he will lie even as his tongue blackens and rots.

‘‘Yes, she is.’‘ He says and quickly coughs up blood that spills from his mouth.

---

Fate snatched them, and changed what they were in something else, but just because they are something else now doesn’t they will stop being friends.

They will endure, that is what they do. 

CONFESSION OF A BANDIT QUEEN

CONFESSION OF A BANDIT QUEEN
By Erin Robinson

She was an ugly
girl, my wicked
child, with savage
teeth that tore
her will into my ears. See
their pretty rage?
She crunched
their bones then gnashed
new curls. But feel
how soft, like antler
skin, my coddled
ears' wild 
velvet scars.

Or? 
Keep your hands
in their muff cuff.
Finery couldn’t swaddle 
my rogues into sheep. Christened
by cold, our nicked
names sear: Hacked 
Toe, Thumb
Splinter. Pull
up a rug—the straw
won’t scratch—and I’ll whisper
mine in your ear’s raw 
pearl. No?

After my brat left,
I raked my scalp to comb back
russet—rusted—locks.
I wagged the rags, stabbed
the scabs, and ripped
open what was closing
over. My men, 
seeing the raging 
wounds my mongrel
mauled, settled 
by their spits
and didn’t club 
her doves. Days dripped
into weeks. I snapped
my comb’s bone teeth and ran
the men at every carriage. How
my bad child would have capered
to pluck those popinjays and tickle
pilgrims till their devils kicked
free. And those two blind
fathers…
         what sights
I carved from their curdled
eyes. She ne’er saw

the living jig such a reel
as when I shoved
them loose. And still
their wrenching
retched no rumour,
not a gossip’s gasp
of my strayed cub.
Until a black yarn
noose snagged a crow
crone on the nail that fixed
this shutter closed.

I clapped the dogs
from her balding
crown and braced
her lean to the board.
Plumes broke. My pulse
pumped her starveling’s
heart as my knife slithered
up the sill. She flinched—
              a beat
quicker to life 
than the dead
quail my owlet wailed
over once. Her pest 
birds massed among
the rafters. Rapier 
beaks, stiletto
claws—you can’t 
be fooled by fluff.
Yet one flutter 
of that cold crow 
would have flown
my chick to her.
So I chopped

and cleaved her thread.
Sprawled across my palms, 
she told me of her untamed
mate. Forever winging
o’er the wilderness,
he’d travelled too far.
She had to fetch him.
Had I heard of Orphan Us
harping for his Idiocy?
This forest seemed
an underworld.
I hadn’t, by chance,
seen him?

Had she seen a nasty
girl? A wolf-toothed,
ox-broad, crow-eyed
girl, keen on knives
to ease an itch
and somersaults that climbed
the sky? Wildcat-mountain
goat, she’d nibbled
close, yet left me 
ear enough to hear
that crow squawk 
her answer 
to my nursed,
cursed questions.

         She had seen a stopped
fop pepper kisses as he plucked
his rings. All he cast
to a highway
girl posed by an ash
a coffin’s length
away. The crow capped
her in scarlet silk,
mounted her astride
a hack, and pinned
her with two pistols.

I tugged the yarn
scrap down to choke
gall from her gullet.
Not mine; my child.

But the crow had recognized 
the horse without its carriage. 
Her mistress gifted 
the ungelded 
beast to a questing 
maid, and I remembered—
my kit cozied to a plump
princess, a-blubbering
in her cauldron
coach. She caterwauled
while we cartwheeled,
until my nit nipped
her for a pet and drove
her north. Somewhere

on the snow
plains an ice-
bitten boy curled
by a sculpted
lady with a fractured
face, so smooth he ne’er felt
the chinks. But
he wasn’t hers.
She’d ne’er whelped
a natural child. 

Nor stretched
her skin like dough
as fires swelled,
nor split her self
to push life out, to let
it suck her bloodless
breast. To slurp
her beard, to gnaw
her ears, to strike
out at parts unknown.

No, this barren queen
kissed other mothers’
sons. She lumped
their sweet-fed
love as though one more crystal
pound might shatter the mirror
lake frozen beneath
her throne.

          I released
the spluttering crow.
She hobbled off, crying
pities I could not. That night
around bonfires crackling,
while men whooped
and whirled, I wheeled
and drank and spun
the glimpse I couldn’t tear
away. Tamed?
My cub caged
in a wide world
where she trimmed
her claws, dined
with fatted lambs
and didn’t gouge the glitter
from their eyes? Had I
bound her, collared
her with a copper
ring, barred the hole
from which she flew,

my daughter,
by these flames,
would we be dancing?