Vermilion ~ Twenty-Nine: Singer

[annarti.livejournal.com]

The singer bowed deeply to the applause he and his partner received at the end of dessert. The musician had allowed enough songs without vocals for him to rest his voice for a moment and he wasn’t hoarse at all by the end. Now, the two entertainers were allowed to move through to the afters room, to mingle with the nobility like the artists they were.

All four of the Candlewood nobility approached them first, to give them personal thanks for their performance. Vermilion lingered for a moment longer, and the singer passed him a wink and a silently mouthed, ‘Good luck.’

Vermilion smiled and returned him with a mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ then the singer watched as he offered Lady Greendale his arm. They left through the main front doors, not following the rest of the crowd to the afters room, and the singer smiled quietly after them.

When it was clear the attention of the nobility had moved away from the stage, the singer sat down on the edge of the stage and rested his arms over his knees. It had been a good evening, but there was still something he needed to attend to before following everyone into the afters room.

The musician sat down beside him, keeping a respectable distance between them. He had been listening, then.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Truly, I am. I hadn’t realised just how uncomfortable it made you.’

The singer shook his head. ‘No, you never have, but that’s surely my fault more than yours. I love you, even when I’m angry, and I hope you’ll never forget that, but in public, please.’ He frowned, struggling to put what he felt into words without sounding insensitive. ‘What Master Vermilion said, about losing yourself in each other to the exclusion of all else. I’ve never felt that. I can’t forget where I am, and if we’re in public, I just feel everyone staring.’ He shrugged. ‘I care what people think. Is that so bad?’

The musician shook his head. ‘Not at all. We’re performers, and you’re quite right, it matters what people think. I’m sorry for teasing you. I’ll keep my distance from now on.’

‘Only in public,’ the singer emphasised with a grin. ‘And… and you can still hold my hand. I think I would miss that too much.’

The musician smiled in response. The singer felt his fingers lightly touch his own, and he reached out to take hold of his partner’s hand. The warmth and love he found in the gesture was everything to him. He wasn’t at all embarrassed to show that much. It was a discreet gesture, as outwardly innocent as a child holding her mother’s hand in the markets, a gesture of safety and friendship as much as the intimate warmth he felt.

They stayed there on the edge of the stage, watching the servants and wait staff as they collected the last of the empty plates and bowls from the tables. The singer felt nervous seeing so many crystal glasses being balanced onto one tray, but the waiter carrying them walked with the sure step that told he had been doing this for years. The staff talked and giggled in hushed tones as they worked.

A procession of wait staff, each carrying a silver tray of delicate, bite-sized pastries, marched through to the afters room.

‘Coming?’ one of the waitresses asked. ‘These little fig ones are the best, trust me.’

The singer laughed at her pronouncement, then turned to his partner. ‘Shall we, then?’ he asked.

The musician climbed to his feet with a grunt, then pulled the singer up after him. He only released his hold to pick up his violin, then clasped the singer’s hand once again. ‘On Vermilion’s song,’ he said as they crossed the room. ‘I had a thought, keeping in theme with this whole festival idea he has, what do you think of Red Heart Autumn Leaf?’

The singer smiled. ‘I had been trying to think of something all evening. That would be perfect. I do hope it works out for him.’

‘She looked keen enough when they left,’ the musician replied cheekily. ‘I think she has a fair idea of what he’s wanting to ask her. If neither of them are in the afters room, then I think that bodes particularly well.’

They strode hand-in-hand into the afters room, crowded now with around half the guests, the rest having retired to their chambers. The warm murmur of voices and the tinkle of glasses provided a comfortable ambiance to the room.

‘Oh, I had hoped you would be moving through with us!’ One of the younger ladies descended on the pair, a snifter of some fortified beverage in her glass. ‘Will you be gracing us with another melody or two?’

‘Perhaps,’ the singer replied with a shrug, ‘if enough people ask it of us.’

‘Oh, doubtless they will. You have quite a unique sound, the two of you. Most duos have the voice take the centre stage every song, and never allow the instruments their due. You often use the voice as your backing harmony, don’t you?’

The singer smiled to see she had recognised this. ‘Of course. It takes far more skill, I think, to play an instrument than to sing, and he does it so beautifully that the violin—or clarinet, or guitar—more than deserves its place.’

‘Sadly,’ the musician added, ‘not many pieces have been written with this in mind, so most of what you’ve heard this evening have been our own compositions.’

‘Now that is commendable,’ the lady praised, holding her free hand over her heart. ‘Would Aspen Grove be too far out of your way to perform? My mother has a significant birthday in a few months, and I think your presence would truly delight her. You have a beautiful voice.’

The singer blushed and ducked his head at the compliment, but the musician picked up the offer right away.

‘It’s not too far at all,’ he replied, giving the singer’s hand a light squeeze. ‘We’d love to travel a little, anyway, see more of our beautiful kingdom. We’d be glad to.’

‘Fabulous,’ the young lady of Aspen Grove cried with as broad a grin as protocol would allow, then she glanced over her shoulder to look through the room. ‘You’re locals, yes? I don’t suppose you know where Master Candlewood has disappeared to?’

The singer made a show of standing on his toes to cast his own, confused gaze over the room. ‘He’s not here?’ he asked. ‘I’d hoped to speak with him myself. Perhaps he’s checking on Mistress Dunfuin. I know he was quite concerned with her wellbeing earlier.’

‘That must be it,’ the young lady agreed, her face troubled. ‘I do hope she’s well. I’ve never heard of such an allergy. How dreadful.’ She forced her face to brighten. ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you again for your performance, and I do hope we’ll be hearing from you again this evening.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ the singer said with a bow.

The two performers moved to the servery where two of the wait staff were pouring golden alcoholic beverages.

‘Aspen Grove in winter, hmm?’ the singer mused, making certain none of the castle’s nobility were within earshot. ‘What a dreary place for a party.’

‘Oh, it will be winter by then, won’t it?’ the musician realised. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed so hastily.’

The singer smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I think that’s quite the right move. The more castles we can play for, the better, though those further downstream would be better.’

‘Closer to the capital, you mean?’ the musician said with a grin. ‘It would be wonderful, to have such a level of fame that the king and queen would ask for us, or the Cherry Wood gardens in spring. Instead we have Aspen Grove in winter.’

The singer giggled, and released his hold on the musician’s hand to accept his glass of fortified wine. He didn’t need to hear the flowery description of what he was drinking. He knew the beverages as well as he knew the woman who fortified them.

‘We can only make the best of it, you and I.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know that I could ever be a travelling performer, though. I like it here. A journey away every now and then is nice just for a change of scenery, but I couldn’t live without a home.’

‘No, neither could I,’ the musician agreed. ‘One journey a year, perhaps? It would be a source of inspiration, for certain. Think of all the cold and dramatic tunes that would come out of the mountains. Stark bare branches against the clouds.’

The singer grinned and picked up the thread. ‘Frozen lakes and hills white with snow.’

‘I don’t know that it gets that cold, does it?’

The singer shrugged. ‘Poetic licence. We’ll see what comes of it.’

The musician accepted his glass from the waiter and raised it in a toast. ‘What are we drinking to?’ he asked.

‘To red, heart-shaped autumn leaves,’ the singer decided.

His partner grinned his acknowledgement. ‘To the autumn leaves,’ he announced as the glasses rang together. ‘May they glow forever on.’

Comments

[ladylight.livejournal.com]

And so we come to the moment of truth! Will she or won't she?

I shall move on and save final comment (since you've made me hungry and I need my dinner soon now too) ...

[annarti.livejournal.com]

I always forget how far behind Perth is in summer XD;