#is it obvious that i'm better at writing cadenza than i am at garderobe

[batbobsession]

Please expand on the younger Garderenza prequel story from your last fic!! I love it so much!! Please write more of that! (If you have time of course)

I’ve been meaning to do this anyway.  Developing their probably forever-someodd-year-old romance is a joy and a pleasure.

Tagging some people who I think might enjoy this: @lumiereswig @naturepointstheway @ginnyweatherby @tinydooms @sweetfayetanner 

-=-=-=-=-=-

A Rare Gift Indeed

“Il mio lungo dolore cadrà, vinto da te…”

Allegra beams as the curtains close on the first act.  Even as the actors flit about, preparing the next scene, she can still smell the spray of the sea and the olives in the air.  She has never been to Ancient Greece, but the stage is her world, and nowhere is out of reach.

“Well done.”  A stagehand lays a hand on her shoulder and ushers her back toward the wings.  “Now, make sure that the costume is wrapped.”

She pouts a little as her daydream wisps away but obediently trudges toward the curtains. She should be grateful, after all. Although she is not one of the main acts this time, she has become part of the chorus.  Perhaps the conductor thought to give her a chance, perhaps she was merely lucky.  Either way, her dream is closer now than it ever had been.

Allegra stops.  Her eyes shoot toward the edge of the stage. She had heard something in the midst of the orchestra, a whimsical trill of strings, a familiar feeling.  She saunters toward the curtain.

“What are you doing?” snaps the stagehand.  “The curtain is to remain closed during the intermission.”

“I know,” says Allegra, rolling her eyes.  “But I heard something.”

“Just the orchestra finishing.  Come, now.”

“You didn’t hear the strings?” Allegra asks.  “They sounded beautiful.”

“…Ah.” The grip on Allegra’s shoulder lessens.  “The harpsichord.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she replies.  “It wasn’t part of the musical score—”

“Well, do you not expect an improvement from a prodigy?” The stagehand’s voice has changed now, from strictness into something like respect.  “He’s performed with us before, and we’re honored to have him back in the orchestra, though it doesn’t suit his style.”

Wait… Allegra grasps the curtain and shifts it to one side, creating an opening no sider than a sliver, and gasps in recognition.  There, seated just in her line of sight, was the same boy she met months ago.  He is still dressed in concert black, with a bow to hold back his brown hair.  One hand dances around the keys while the other flips through the scorebook.

But that is all she is able to see before the stagehand firmly pulls her back.

“A prodigy?” she asks. “I just thought he was skilled.”

“Away with you, now,” he frets; he isn’t listening.  “Only ten minutes ‘til curtain, and you must be in your place before then.”

Allegra scoffs, but he’s right.  The stage is calling her once again.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The curtains close a second time, and conversations fill the air as the audience filters out, one by one.  It’s only the beginning of summer, but the nights are still chilly enough for a third of the ladies to wear a shawl, Allegra included.  After all, organizing the costumes isn’t hard and only takes fifteen minutes if you’ve done it a million times before.

She usually uses the backstage exit, but this time she descends through the winding staircase and into the orchestra.  All around her, musicians are putting away their instruments and discussing tone, pitch, and slight errors that they managed to cover up.  

The boy is the farthest away, cleaning off the keys of his instrument with a black cloth.  The scorebook lies on the bench next to him and his eyes are dark and focused.  

She would have been nervous to approach him if he was a stranger, she admits.  But she remembers him.  Will he remember her?

“Me scusi…”

“Si?” He acknowledges but does not look up.

“I don’t know if you remember me.  We met a few months ago, at the performance of “L'incoronazione di Poppea.”

Now he looks up. Something within his gaze lights up in recognition.  “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Allegra responds.  “And you?”

He tilts his head, half a shrug.  “Not much to say.”

Allegra glances at the audience.  “They’ll be gone in ten minutes at most.  It’s getting colder.  At this hour, people are anxious to get home.”

His head tilts in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll wait,” Allegra says matter-of-factly.  “After all, you never told me you were a prodigy.”

“Prodigy?” A corner of his mouth tilts upward.  “Who told you that?”

Allegra looks back to the stage.  The curtains are closed, cutting her off from the organized chaos of an opera’s aftermath. “Just a stagehand.”

“If that’s what my family is telling people, then I suppose it must be true.”

He says that, but Allegra notices his averted eyes, his still hands.  She leans forward, placing a hand on the harpsichord for balance.  He catches the movement immediately, and for a second, she thinks he might react, but he says nothing.

“Ten minutes,” she repeats. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll wait.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

She meets him when most of the candles have been snuffed out; all of the important faces have gone home. He hasn’t moved from the bench, but the arpeggios he practices still hang in the air around him.  He stops when he sees her.

“Signora.”

She smiles.  “Signor Genio.”

He scoffs.  “I’m not, really.”

“Then why do people talk about you like you are?” Of course, she only has the word of one person, but from the sound of it, people must know who he is.  “I remember when you played for me. It was improvised and it was beautiful.”

He bows his head.  “Well. As a fellow musician, perhaps you would understand it.  I may perform well enough, and people enjoy me, but no matter what I play, I feel like there’s something missing.”

Allegra notices his eyes again; they’re staring at the keys.  “Is this the first time you’ve told someone that?”

“You are perceptive.”

“Why tell me of all people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you tell someone else?  I bet you speak with tons of other instrumentalists.”

“I…. it’s different. Most instrumentalists would converse with each other, but they live elsewhere and are far older.  I told you I’m self-taught, so I don’t converse with others as much as I probably should.”

Allegra shrugs.  “I think I understand. About how something might be missing.  A lonely feeling.  Sometimes the stage does feel empty, but the other feelings are overpowering.  I keep coming back because it’s what makes me smile.”

He shakes his head.  “You do understand…you do and you don’t.”

“Every person is different,” she replies.  “The same feeling can be felt in so many ways because there are so many different people in the world.  I know there are people that come here to see a drama, but they leave thinking it was dramatic, or sad, or lonely.  It’s all the same emotion; people just experience it in various ways.”

“That’s…unexpectedly wise.” He nods.  “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Unexpected?” Allegra blinks, confused.  “Why?”

His eyes go wide.  “Well, ah…I’m surprised, is all.  You sing and dance on a stage; you are not in and among the people.”

“Neither are you,” she retorts.  “Aren’t you a soloist most of the time?”

“That’s—” He stops, probably not expecting that answer.  “That’s not what I mean.  Most of the performers I’ve seen only come for themselves.”

“Well… the stage is my home, but it’s my home because I climbed onto it myself. I used to be in the audience; I would sneak in here sometimes when I was little and watch the performances.  I understand the emotions the audiences go through more than anything, because I experience them myself.  Even when I’m performing, I’m one of them.  The story makes me laugh and cry, so I show them that I know and understand.”

His eyebrows crease and his expression is one Allegra cannot read. “That is a rare gift indeed.”

Allegra’s eyes leave his and travel upward. There is still one chandelier lit; someone has noticed that the hall is not yet empty and is waiting for them to leave. But still, the Ducal’s golden brilliance never fails to mesmerize her.  The epitome of luxury.

“I don’t have much.  I’m paid to help the seamstresses here, and that’s all.  Sometimes the directors hear what I can do, and they ask me to sing or play small roles.  Every time I’m drawn out of the people to stand on a stage and play my role, I am in luxury.  It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.”  She points to the stage.  Just a few days ago, a woman sang a solo there. Every night since, she has run the words over in her head, anxious to memorize it.  “I live there.  That’s the only place I can be alive.”

Nothing in his expression changes.  He still sits, one hand on his chin and the other on the keys.  She could have said nothing at all.

Allegra lets her eyes fall back to the floor.  What is she doing?  She knew the seamstress would slap her on the wrist for saying such things.  She didn’t know him.  One compliment from him might be all she’ll ever get.

“Sing.”

Her head snaps up.  “What?”

“You said you live there.” He points to the stage.  “Go, and sing.”

“I…” Try as she might, she cannot ignore the thrill of his request.  Before she can answer, she’s already climbing the steps.  If she stands at the edge, she can see him.  One musician amongst the empty chairs and ghosts of the orchestra. “Sing what?”

“Anything.”  His tone is encouraging, but his hands rest in his lap.  For once, he’s taken his attention off of his music.  He’s focused on her.

And her hands are suddenly far too clammy than before.  What to sing?  He’s probably been to countless operas, seen thousands of performances.  And here she is, a sewing girl in an apron.  What could she sing to impress him?

He said anything.  Sing anything.

A chorus of notes rise to her lips, but she surprises herself; this song is not from an opera or performance she had heard before.  This is a lullaby, something her mother used to sing to her when she was cold and afraid.  Perhaps her mother is here now, taking Allegra’s clammy hands in her cool, strong ones, and singing.

“Ninna nanna, ninna oh

Questo bimbo a chi lo do?

Se lo do alla befana

Se lo tiene una settimana

Se lo do al lupo nero

Se lo tiene un anno intero

Se lo do a lupo bianco

Se lo tiene tanto tanto

Ninna oh ninna oh

A nessuno lo daro'…”

The silence seems to swallow up the last note, so she stands there, waiting for any sign from the boy at the harpsichord.  For about a minute, there is nothing.  She looks at him, and throughout the entire performance, his expression has not changed.  He might have turned to stone.

She opens her mouth to retort, but the sound of a strong E cuts her off.  He holds the key, just to make sure she is listening, and then starts into an arpeggio of notes.

A tear slips from her cheek.  Surely, he had been holding back when he played for her the first time!  This—this music had such emotion behind it!  The notes were quick and riveting, just as he had already done, but there was movement, a person, behind the keys this time, and—oh!  The notes of her lullaby slip through here and there.  He has taken her performance and made it into something beyond what it was. A few simple minutes transformed into something being truly born, breath being drawn for the first time.  

A harpsichord is made of wood and metal strings.  But as he plays, it is a living thing, and they are having a conversation about her performance.

But then his hands are in the air and the harpsichord is silent.  His eyes are closed and his face is alight with quite possibly the biggest—and the only—smile she has ever seen from him.  His eyes rise to meet hers, and blink, startled. She must be a sobbing mess after what she’s just heard; she had no idea there could be any instrument held in higher regard than the voice itself.

“Signora?”  The smile is still frozen on his face, but his eyes betray his concern.

“Allegra,” she corrects.  Her voice cracks.

“Allegra,” he repeats, and she feels something glow inside her.  “All you alright?”

She shakes her head and furiously wipes her cheeks.  “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?”

“No!  You were holding back the last time you played for me, and I wasn’t!  That’s not fair!”

He blinks.  “Holding…back?”

“What are you, an echo? Si, holding back!  This was…this was way more beautiful than what you played for me before!”

“It was?” His eyes flicker back and forth, glancing at memories before he settles on realization.  He shakes his head, and the look he gives her then makes her heart leap.  “It was.  If only there were people to see it.”

“I saw it.” Allegra straightens.  “More importantly, I heard it.  I’ve never heard anything like that in my entire life.  Maybe you are a genius.”

That stops him for a full five seconds.  He looks down, at the keys, then at his own hands, then back up at her. “You say that?”

“I do.  Completely.”

He covers the keys and stands up.  “I am performing here in one month’s time.  There will be a recital on this stage featuring many different kinds of musicians.  Even singers.”

Allegra knew what he was talking about; the masters of the Ducal had been particularly twitchy regarding it.  Apparently, a very famous violist from France was visiting, as was a flutist from China.

“Yes,” she confirms.  “I’ll probably assist backstage.”

“The last act will be a harpsichordist.  Not me, of course, I am not experienced enough.  Even so, there will be an empty instrument sitting on this stage well after the curtain closes.”

Her lips part in surprise; she can guess where this conversation is going. “I’ll stay behind to clean it,” she offers.  “If you’d like.”

“I would.”  He looks her straight in the eyes, and she can still see a flash of ecstasy from before. Whatever happened to him when he played for her, it wasn’t something that happened often.  “Have your songs ready, belladonna.  We’ll do this again.”

Heat rushes to her cheeks as whatever she was going to say sticks in her throat.  Belladonna?  Her?

She tries to say something, but he is already walking toward the exit.  Is it her imagination, or does he have a spring in his step?  “Wait! I told you my name, what am I supposed to call you? Maestro?”

That stops him, if only for a moment.  She can hear the smile in his voice as he says “I suppose that works.” Then the door moves and he’s gone.

-=-=-=-=-=-

He closes his eyes and for an instant, he can feel her.  She stands there, grinning, as the stagehands extinguish the final chandelier.  She can’t even see the hands in front of her, but she glows.

The carriage ride back is a blur, an hour, a day.  He doesn’t care.  He has so much to practice.  So much to think about.

Once he had discovered his talents, his parents had told him something about performing: when he’s on a stage, all that matters is himself and the instrument.  There is a barrier that forms around the two of them for every performance. No one else matters.  Nothing else matters.

Looking back on it, they had probably only said that to save him from the wills of stage fright, but it was a message that he held closer to his heart than any other lesson, even in his daily life.  Until today.

This girl…he has only met her twice and yet his conscience is screaming at him that his previous beliefs are wrong.  Even when he plays with orchestras, even when he accompanies the occasional family friend, he is always put on another pedestal, his name always mentioned with a more lavish script, an emphasis.  He was made to stand alone when the audience cheered. When his hands touched the keys, the world was wiped away.  The barrier held strong.  It reminded him he was better.

It had taken him every ounce of self-control not to play with her when she sang.

It’s such a simple tune, one he has heard a thousand times himself, and yet. Somehow, she’s made it unique. Ethereal.  

The only reason he had left in the first place was that he knew there were people waiting for him.  He could have stayed and played with her for hours.  He wanted his harpsichord to sing with her.  What a breathtaking realization it is.

The harpsichord is not a stand-alone instrument, nor is he a stand-alone musician. Not anymore.

The barrier is cracking.  Light is coming in.

A month is so far away.  He needs to hear her again.