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Post by Carlos Castro on May 15, 2008 17:13:37 GMT -5
*Carlos hated himself for the warmth the maestro's words gave him; who was this unseen, ugly nobody to praise his singing? He had commanded audiences the world over!
He moved inexorably to his bedside table, however, and picked up the box. He had received gifts before, of course, but few had confused him as the accumulation in recent days. What did the man want, really?
The card was ominously blank.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 15, 2008 19:30:49 GMT -5
"I have not noticed you wearing the lapel pin. Did you not care for it? Ah--the card. Should you run into any...trouble, you have only to write the name and leave it, as before."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 15, 2008 20:53:45 GMT -5
*The cat, lying next to the other box, winked up at him.*
"I have been nowhere since receiving it," *Carlos said absently, fingering it.* "Nowhere important, that is. I did not wish to wear it on my errand to procure disposal of your other... gift."
*The queasy feeling had dissipated. It was an odd patron, to threaten, and an odd madman, to pay him as if he were a kept boy. He knew so little, but he did know enough to be afraid. The man killed without remorse, gave generously, and had some strange power over music to make it do its bidding.
The man was dangerous.*
"I'll wear it now, if you like."
*He fixed the little cat to his jacket.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 15, 2008 20:58:37 GMT -5
"Ah..." The voice moved around the room until it centered in one dark corner, where the man's shape seemed to gather. Or perhaps that was Carlos' imagination?
"It looks quite fine on you."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 15, 2008 21:02:28 GMT -5
*Carlos squinted at the corner where the voice coalesced. Now he was imagining things.
Perhaps it was he who was mad. The stones in the cat's eyes pressed sharply into his palm.*
"Thank you," *he said quietly.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 15, 2008 21:03:48 GMT -5
"Is there anything else you desire?"
It said eagerly.
"Perhaps another song?"
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 15, 2008 21:07:17 GMT -5
*Something in him told him he wasn't being himself. That he should throw this man out of his rooms--this was a violation, this was madness. Or Sparta.
He told himself it was fear that kept him somewhat humble; who knew what this armed man might do if he stood against him? But he couldn't swear to it.*
"One of yours?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 15, 2008 21:09:21 GMT -5
"If you like. Or anything you can name."
The violin was taken up again, a quick scale hummed out through the strings, seemingly bringing everything in the room closer together.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 15, 2008 21:11:01 GMT -5
*Carlos blinked. Definitely something terribly wrong here. Something he should stop. Tomorrow, perhaps.*
"I'd like to hear something of yours," *he repeated.* "Isn't that what all composers desire?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 15, 2008 21:21:07 GMT -5
"Arrogantly, I suppose." He said, vaguely, and pulled a tune from the strings, shifting phrases as if thinking of what to settle on, before giving a faint "ah".
The violin drew the air out of the room, ringing out in mournful peals.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 16, 2008 10:37:05 GMT -5
Keep him appeased. Even arrogantly.
*Carlos sank to the bed as the oxygen seemed to be replaced with the most perfect sorrow he had ever felt. Was this music, or magic? It wrapped him in strangely warm tendrils, the kind of sadness one savors. He had been expecting something technical and overly proficient, but he should have known; this maestro dealt in emotion.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 16, 2008 11:49:44 GMT -5
After several minutes of this mournful pushing and pulling of sound, the violin's voice shifted into something a little softer, sunk just below the level of the composer's voice as he spoke, singsong, with the new phrase.
"Now you should rest, little senor. Sleep. Maestro has work to do--oh, but you won't be alone, your teacher will be watching over you."
Perhaps the words had been more a threat, but the enchantment of the strings transformed them into a sort of soft promise, a comfort.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 16, 2008 15:41:07 GMT -5
*Carlos blinked sleepily, wondering where this lassitude had come from. The Maestro's words draped over him like a heavy blanket, thick enough that he couldn't really make out the words. He was suddenly in a prone position on the bed, feeling... safe. Though something tickled at the back of his mind that all was not well, and that he should wake up. It was too tempting, however, just to let the voice lull him to sleep.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 16, 2008 15:47:43 GMT -5
Destler grinned once the young man slept, and took his leave, invigorated.
While his student dreamed of saphire-eyed cats, the teacher took pains to secure three perfect skins, three heavy purses (two silk top hats), and a new pot of paint which was promised not to crack so badly under the heat of gaslights.
This wasn't to say he was careless. Not a trace of him could be found near the bodies, no pattern of assault, no center of work. Three flayed corpses would be found in random locations the following day.
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Post by Erik Destler on May 19, 2008 12:49:30 GMT -5
****LATER****
Several hours after his fit of rage, he waited again in the tenor's rooms, silent, seething, to demand an explaination to his poor performance and to find out just who it was had distracted him in the pit.
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