Chapter Text
Kazuma Asogi has a problem.
A problem he’s had for the better part of the year thus far passed, landing him at the end of April in 1897, six months after his father’s actual fate had been revealed in a court of law. Six months after Barok van Zieks had been proven innocent by Ryunosuke Naruhodo, his best friend and―
He grips the quill in his gloved hand tighter, staring unseeing at the legal document on the table before him.
And what? The question none too irregularly plagues him, keeping him guessing. It is undeniable that since the moment the two of them had met, they’d become inseparable, forged together like the soft and hard steel of a soshu kitae style katana, as unbreakable and legendary as Masamune’s creations. And still… it is just as undeniable that they had been torn apart, by either fate or simple happenstance, only to meet again on foreign soil as not quite foes.
Since then, things have been different, but as to how Kazuma is yet to figure out.
He presses his quill down, using too much force in his preoccupied state of mind, and blinks as a black blot of ink spreads all over the words already written.
Following Ryunosuke’s decision to stay in London despite Professor Mikotoba’s request, Kazuma has slowly but rather surely begun to view them as something more than what they had been. As something more than friends .
There were many reasons for the development. The first being the way Ryunosuke, upon being pressed for a reason for staying, had simply said there remained something he must do. It is not exactly an excuse, but with how well Kazuma knows his partner ― pretty damn well, despite everything ― he could also tell it isn’t the whole truth.
And that ― that got him thinking, something he is still in the midst of now, half a year later, nearing the moment his heart is finally ready to burst.
However―
Ignoring the mess made of his paperwork as well as the wild beating in his chest, he suppresses a sigh and looks up, glancing back over his shoulder at the other desk in the office ― at the man seated behind it, his brows pressed down in a deeply thoughtful frown. His own face scrunches up, though from what emotion, he isn’t entirely certain.
The nature of his and Ryunosuke’s relationship has not been the only thing keeping him awake at night, for he likewise often ponders much the same about himself and his mentor. Six months have done wonders for their relationship, working and otherwise, leaving them not as polar opposites as they’d first stood, but as something complimentary… and much more complicated.
Why does my heartbeat sound even louder when I look at you?
Van Zieks stirs, sensing his stare though hopefully not hearing his thoughts, and lifts his eyes from his reading, their clear and frigid blue thawing as it meets his already molten auburn. He lifts a brow, elegant and effortlessly sardonic, the scar at the bridge of his nose pulled taut.
“Is there something―” he starts to ask, but whatever question he means to spring on him, one Kazuma undoubtedly has no desire to answer, is cut off by a knock and the sound of the door being pushed inwards.
In steps none other than the very man he’d just been thinking about, burnt chestnut gaze blown wide as he notices both him and van Zieks regarding his entrance keenly.
“Oh, uh, good afternoon!” Ryunosuke greets in his endearing, slightly nervous style, bowing a little despite having now stayed in the country for over a year and knowing full well such gestures were not the norm. “I hope I’m not disturbing you two.”
He appears, now that Kazuma looks at him, somewhat… frazzled .
“What’s happened to you, then?”
Ryunosuke, bless his heart, jumps to attention. “You noticed immediately, huh?” he asks, and Kazuma glares. As if I wouldn’t when you’re being so glaringly obvious, partner.
“You are not a particularly complex book to read, Mr Naruhodo,” says van Zieks, rephrasing Kazuma’s thoughts out loud. His lips tug up in a subtle, wry smile, and interest flashes in his gaze. “Pray, what sort of trouble has found you this time?”
“No trouble!” Ryunosuke hurries to deny. It is very much a futile attempt, especially as he then mutters, “Well, it didn’t find me …”
Kazuma does not say anything, merely narrows his glare further.
“I was just walking down the road, coming over here to ask you if you’d like to join us for Friday night dinner at Baker Street, and suddenly I heard a scream from down an alley. Of course, I had to rush over to see what was happening, and there was this lady being held at knifepoint by some city thugs, and I― I didn’t really think, I just stepped in!”
“Wait― you stepped in front of armed men?” he interrupts Ryunosuke’s rapidly spiralling account. “Without a weapon of your own?”
Ryunosuke blinks. “I… I suppose?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
Kazuma bristles. “You suppose?!”
He’s about ready to teach him a lesson himself, no street ruffians needed.
Van Zieks shakes his head. “Your foolhardy bravery aside, what happened next?”
“Well, they… laughed in my face, but then a bobby showed up, so it all worked out fine, in the end!” He sounds far too confident for a man who had narrowly avoided ending up dead in a ditch. “And as a thank you for helping her, the lady gave me some tickets to the theatre, so… how would you like to go with me?”
The question comes like a bolt out of the blue, startling both Kazuma and van Zieks equally.
Ryunosuke grins. “Tomorrow, on May Day.”
Kazuma looks to van Zieks, and van Zieks looks at him. He swallows.
“Well, it’s not like we’re working,” he says.
The older prosecutor hums in confirmation and turns back towards Ryunosuke. “In celebration of your continued presence here with us, then,” he says, the words warmly mocking ― a far too courteous reprimand considering his reckless behaviour, but then again van Zieks has an undeniable soft spot for him. “At what hour does the play begin?”
Ryunosuke flushes pink. “Six o’clock,” he replies. “Though the lady mentioned we should come at least an hour before.”
Van Zieks nods. “In that case, we’ll come pick you up at half past four,” he says and begins to pile the papers strewn across his desk. “Now, I believe you mentioned something about dinner?”
Kazuma glances at the inkstained page of his report and decides that he’ll have to finish re-writing it on Monday.
Ryunosuke’s grin grows all that more wider, whereas van Zieks’s responding one shows less on his lips and more in his eyes. Kazuma’s heart abruptly picks up its earlier pace, skipping a beat as the two turn to regard him. Strangely, he gets the inexplicable sense that this, whatever it is, is bound to lead him down a road he never knew he would walk.
In for a penny, in for a pound , he thinks and then he, too, smiles.
***
It is precisely half past four, when Ryunosuke jumps to attention from the window and rushes downstairs. The coach draws to a halt just as he throws the front door open and by the time he’s reached it someone from inside opens its door for him to climb in. Which he does as quickly as he can, but not before greeting van Zieks’s coachman, an older fellow who Ryunosuke finds himself quite liking despite the few words they’ve exchanged.
“Good day!” he calls with a wide smile, stepping into the coach, and then falters.
“Good day, Mr Naruhodo,” greets van Zieks in turn, sitting on the bench facing forward. He is clad in a fitted black tailcoat Ryunosuke has seen him wear a few times before at very official functions, which, as before, looks very good on him. “You’re remarkably punctual today.”
“Were you staring out the window waiting for us?” asks Kazuma, who sits on the bench across. He is also wearing a stylish tailcoat Ryunosuke has never seen on him, which somehow compliments his features almost as well as his court outfit does.
But the main issue isn’t that both of them look nearly too good for Ryunosuke to handle. No, the main issue is that, sitting on opposite sides of the coach, he doesn’t actually know whom he should sit next to.
Well, perhaps that isn’t as much an issue, seeing as Kazuma is sitting right in the middle of his bench ― and with his legs spread out for good measure ― so there isn’t actually room next to him. However, looking at the space next to van Zieks, Ryunosuke isn’t sure there’s enough room there either. Not unless he sits very… very close.
“Come on then,” Kazuma’s voice snaps him out of it, and he turns to see him scoot over on his bench. He pats the place next to him. “Sit down so we can get going.”
“Right, yes,” Ryunosuke says with a smile, relief washing over him, and does. His heart skips a beat when Kazuma reaches over, but he simply knocks on the window to the driver’s perch.
“I’ve not seen you in western clothes before,” he says, settling back against the bench as the coach lurches into motion. He grins. “You look good.”
“Oh, this is… nothing really,” Ryunosuke says, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the day fussing over his choice of dress. In the end he’d settled on a simple black suit he’d purchased after he’d decided to stay in London, though in the company he is now, he feels like he looks terribly cheap. His cheeks burning he continues, “You’re the ones who look good.”
“Courtesy of my gracious patron ,” Kazuma says, his eyes shifting over to the other side of the coach.
Ryunosuke’s own gaze flicks over to catch the glower van Zieks throws at him. “I can’t have my apprentice appear in public dressed in rags, now can I? It would ruin my reputation more than it would yours.” He huffs out a small breath and turns to look at Ryunosuke, who surely imagines the way his expression softens. “Might I enquire what play it is we are going to see?”
Lost in van Zieks’s pale blue eyes, it takes Ryunosuke a moment to register the question and a moment more to realise he doesn’t know the answer.
“Um,” he says.
Kazuma shifts next to him. “You don’t know? Did you not ask the lady?”
“I mean, I think she mentioned it,” Ryunosuke says, shrinking under both their incredulous eyes. “But she mentioned a lot of other things too, and I was still a little frazzled from the whole thing so I didn’t really… understand a lot of what she said.” He pulls at his fingers and wishes he was wearing his armguard to fidget with. “She did mention she was playing a goddess, I think?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, perhaps?” suggests van Zieks. “Shakespeare is always popular.”
Ryunosuke shrugs, and with nothing else to go off of, they settle on waiting until they arrive at the theatre. The trip isn’t particularly long, after all, and is easily filled with casual pleasantries and talk of work. There always seems to be talk of work with these two.
The Newmore Theatre is located in what Ryunosuke has learned to be the better part of town, though admittedly on the edges of it. The front of the building is weather-worn and perhaps in need of some small touch-ups, but the lights and the atmosphere are more than welcoming. Several posters hang on the walls, declaring the name of the play to be “Floralia”.
“Not Shakespeare, then,” Ryunosuke says, and steps up to the ticket booth. He barely has the time to give his name when the ticket agent recognises him and ushers them inside. They are asked to wait in the lobby, and soon after Miss Stella Donna is rushing over.
She is already in costume, wearing a flowy, toga-like dress. Her straw-coloured hair is pulled up in an elaborate do of braids and her round, friendly face has been painted to exaggerate her features. Her blue eyes sparkle as her lips pull up into a wide smile.
“There’s my saviour!” she cheers, and Ryunosuke flushes all over again. She grabs his hands and shakes them enthusiastically. “I am ever so glad you could make it, Mr Naruhodo.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing your show,” he says. Just like the day before, he is quite impressed by her pronunciation of his name; it is much better than most Londoners. “Thank you again for the invitation, Miss Donna.”
“Please, just Stella is fine,” she assures and turns her brightly smiling face to his companions. “Do introduce me to your friends!”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his heart beating weirdly in his chest at the word friends . “This is Kazuma Asogi, my… compatriot from Japan.” Kazuma nods his head. “And, um, Lord van Zieks, a―”
“Oh!” she exclaims, her hand flying to her mouth. Ryunosuke blinks at her.
“I see my reputation still precedes me,” van Zieks says, bowing cordially.
A definite blush rises on Stella’s cheeks. “I, well. I don’t know if there’s a person in London who doesn’t know the name. My apologies.”
“No need to apologise, Miss Donna,” he says and nothing more. The silence is tense for a few seconds, before she breaks it almost effortlessly.
“Well I am very glad you arrived so early,” she says and shakes Ryunosuke’s hand again before letting go. He hadn’t even realised they were still holding hands. “I wanted to show you around backstage!”
“That sounds exciting!” he says, a smile spreading on his face too, and turns to look at the other two. Neither of them seem to have objections, so Stella guides them through the lobby and further into the building.
Ryunosuke has never been to a theatre backstage before, so he listens intently as she gushes about the production. In passing she introduces stage hands and assistants, rushing about with the final preparations. It’s apparently the opening night of “Floralia”, which they learn is an adaptation of an ancient Roman myth ― explains the togas ― and she is very excited because she got the main female role.
“Well, aside from Flora,” she says and scrunches up her button nose. “But I’m not sure that one counts.”
Ryunosuke is just about to ask for clarification, when her eyes focus on something further off, and her face lights up with a beautiful smile again.
“Darling!” she calls, waving her hand, and two people at the end of the corridor turn towards them.
A man and a woman, older than Stella, though the man is wearing his years better than the woman is. Both are in their own Roman inspired costumes.
Ryunosuke has just enough time to see the tail end of a frown smooth away from the man’s perfectly proportionate face when he spots Stella.
“There you are, my little Starlet,” he says, throwing his hands wide, and the woman by his side rolls her eyes. “I was wondering where you went.”
“I just had to pop by the lobby to greet my guests,” Stella says, leading them down the corridor. She gestures at Ryunosuke. “You remember, the one I told you about yesterday.”
The man’s eyes hone in on him, and a shiver runs down his spine. Then they crease at the corners with his almost too bright smile.
“You’re the one who saved my fiancée, are you?” he asks, grabbing Ryunosuke’s hand in a grip that nearly crushes his fingers. “I owe you a great deal, my good man.”
“It’s… fine, sir,” Ryunosuke tries, prying his hand free after a few shakes. “I just did what anyone would do.”
The woman makes a noise that sounds slightly like a snort, but Stella speaks over her.
“These are Mr Naruhodo’s friends, Mr Asogi and Lord van Zieks,” she says, and that definitely garners a reaction from the two.
Both their attentions flick to van Zieks, but whereas the man’s eyes fill with the kind of surprised unease even Ryunosuke has gotten used to seeing from people around van Zieks, the woman’s, curiously, get much keener. Eager, almost. Ryunosuke isn’t sure if van Zieks notices it too, but if he does, he doesn’t make a comment.
“And I’m sure that they need no introduction,” Stella continues, oblivious to the passing tension, “but these are our production’s headliners, Mr Brandon Denis and Miss Medea Price.”
“How do you do,” says Mr Denis, flashing an award winning smile, directed mainly towards van Zieks. To his clear dismay though, van Zieks merely nods before directing all his attention to Miss Price.
“A pleasure to see you back in the spotlight, Miss Price,” he says, and her lips pull up into a tight smile. “The stages of our great capital have sorely missed your talent.”
“I must say,” she starts, pressing a hand to her chest, “it’s good to know some people still appreciate talent.” She tosses her curls behind her shoulder and gives a curtsy. It does not feel polite. “I hope you enjoy the show tonight. It is… simply to die for.”
With that she glides past them and down the hall from where they came. Denis seems particularly startled by that ― no doubt they had been in the middle of a conversation when they had been interrupted ― but he quickly schools his face back into a charming smile.
“Don’t mind her,” he says. “You know how it is with spinsters her age.”
He laughs. Next to him Stella giggles, a feigned edge to the sound. Kazuma lets out a strained chuckle, but neither van Zieks nor Ryunosuke say anything at all.
“Speaking of marriage,” Ryunosuke says after a moment, “did you say that you two were engaged?”
“Quite so,” says Denis, slipping his arm around Stella’s shoulder and pulling her close to his side. She tenses momentarily when he touches her, perhaps surprised, but just as quickly eases into it, her smile not once leaving her face. “We’re to be wed this coming Tuesday.”
“Would you like to join us for the festivities?” Stella asks quite suddenly. She steps away from him and grabs Ryunosuke’s hands again, squeezing them nearly as tightly as her husband-to-be had. “It would be an honour to have you. All three of you!”
“Oh, I… we couldn’t possibly…” Ryunosuke tries, unsure of what to do with the invite or the dainty hands crushing his fingers. He turns to Kazuma and van Zieks for help, but the two look just as taken aback.
“It’s no problem at all, is it, darling?” she asks, turning to give a bright smile to Denis, who both startles and composes himself in half a second.
“Who am I to say no to your wishes,” he says with a fond shake of his head. He claps a hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder, his piercing blue eyes looking directly through him. “Without you there might not even be a wedding. Surely you must grace us with your presence.”
“W-well… if I must ,” Ryunosuke relents, at which the couple thankfully backs away.
“I need to take my leave now, I’m afraid. I still have some preparations before the show starts,” says Denis then. He boops Stella on the nose, and she giggles again. “You should make sure you’re ready as well, Starlet.”
“I am ready,” she says demurely, and with another smile and a wave he, too, parts from their company. Once he’s gone, she turns back to them. “I want to introduce you to the rest of the cast, so we should hurry along.”
Down the hall, a flight of stairs, and another hall, they find two more members of the cast by the dressing rooms, engrossed in a conversation that by the sounds of it was teetering dangerously close to an argument.
“Miss Heidi Kuntz,” Stella introduces the woman, blonde and square-jawed, in full battle armour unlike Stella and Miss Price, “and Mr Burak Pa…”
She hesitates.
“Pahlevanyan,” he supplies, in the tone of voice that one who constantly has to correct people gets. He is clearly from somewhere else, his skin tanned, his luscious hair black and shiny, and his facial features quite unlike those of most British men. He shakes his head. “But just Burak is fine.”
“Actually,” Ryunosuke’s mouth says, the words bubbling up from a part of his soul that rings with recognition, “could I hear that one more time, please?”
It is his turn to hesitate, his eyes widening slightly as they catch Ryunosuke’s, giving him a calculating once-over.
“Pah-le-van-yan,” he repeats, slower and more pronounced, and Ryunosuke repeats the syllables after him. By his side, he hears Kazuma do the same under his breath.
“Well, Mr Pahlevanyan,” he says and though he doesn’t quite nail the first syllable, he can see appreciation spread onto the man’s handsome face. “I will certainly call you whatever name you wish, but… I do understand the frustration.”
“Thank you, Mr Naruhodo.” He doesn’t quite nail it either, but Ryunosuke finds that he doesn’t really mind. “Just Burak is fine.”
He smiles. “Then, Burak.”
His heart skips a beat as the name tumbles from his mouth. Because saying it out loud it really strikes him how similar it is… to another name . One whose pronunciation he has been practising in secret, whispering it to himself over and over in the privacy of his room during nights which don’t seem quite so lonely with the syllables suspended in the air around him.
One he still couldn’t bring himself to say, not even while introducing the man earlier.
Miss Kuntz lets out a small exclamation, which luckily snaps him out of his thoughts before he gets too flustered.
“Stella, dear, have you seen Medea?” she asks the younger actress, a hint of a German accent to her words. “There is something I need to discuss with her before the show.”
“We did see her just now, in the cross over,” Stella says, gesturing vaguely towards the direction they’d come from. “But she left, and I’m afraid I don’t know where.”
“Ach, well. I’ll go see if I can’t find her anyway. Enjoy the show.”
“Before you go,” she stops Miss Kuntz as she goes to stride past them. “Do you know where Dee is?”
She shrugs, and instead Burak speaks up. “He is still in the dressing room. He was struggling with his makeup.”
“Oh dear,” Stella sighs. “Thank you. We’ll drop by real quick to greet him and I suppose I shall have to help him with it afterwards. This way, gentlemen.”
A sweep of her hand and she’s on the move again, continuing down the hall, barely waiting for her guests to keep up.
“Do actors never pause to breathe?” Kazuma comments in Japanese, nudging Ryunosuke with his elbow, and Ryunosuke stifles his chuckle behind his hand.
They stop by a door, which Stella gives three sharp knocks before calling out, “Dee? I’d like you to meet some people, is this a good time?”
“S-stella?” comes the surprised voice of someone from inside. “I, uh, I suppose. As good a time as any, so close to curtains. Come on in.”
She pushes the door open and they step inside. Dee, as she has been calling him, sits awkwardly in front of a large, well lit mirror, wearing… not Roman inspired clothes but rather a heavy dressing gown. The tabletop in front of him is filled with a variety of makeup items, half of his face covered in the paints. It is very obviously a work in progress.
“You’re not even in costume yet!” Stella exclaims as soon as she sees him. He shrugs, and she sighs. “Oh, but introductions first. Dee, you remember I told you about my horrible experience yesterday. This,” she gestures to Ryunosuke, “is my saviour, Mr Naruhodo. And these are his friends, Mr Asogi and Lord van Zieks.”
“Ah,” says Dee, shrinking a little into himself when she mentions van Zieks, but recovers quickly. “Ni-nice to meet you. My name is… Adam Newmore.”
“It is very nice to meet you too, Mr Newmore,” Ryunosuke says, about to say something further, when the actor grimaces.
“Please, mister Newmore is my father,” he says and hides the discomfort behind a clearly practised smile. “You can just call me Dee, like everyone else.”
Ryunosuke nods. He can definitely understand the feeling of living under the shadow of your father’s name.
“Newmore like the theatre?” asks Kazuma, either not noticing or not caring about the tenseness in the air.
“Yes, my family owns the establishment,” Dee replies. “Which, I suppose, is why I’ve been given the opportunity of playing this role.”
“Burak said you were struggling with your make-up,” Stella says, worry creasing her forehead. “Would you like for me to help?”
“Oh, well…” Dee mutters, glancing away, a soft red hue creeping up his neck. “I wouldn’t say no to that, if you have the time.”
He looks back up, his eyes creased at the corners with his small but genuine smile, and Ryunosuke can’t help but feel bad for him. Because that is the face of someone so undeniably and irrevocably in love… and she is about to marry someone else in just three days.
How… unfortunate.
“Of course,” she says and smiles. “I’ll take my guests back up to the lobby and then I’ll help you get ready for the grand spotlight!”
“Good luck,” says Ryunosuke, not entirely sure himself what he’s wishing it for, and then they’re led out of the dressing room.
***
Squished snugly between Asogi and Naruhodo, Barok can’t help but feel more than a little out of place in the audience. The seats Miss Donna had reserved for them turned out to be in the front row; excellent for them, but not as much for the poor spectators sitting behind his tall and broad frame. No matter how impressed he’d been upon learning the play would feature Miss Price as one of its stars, he now somewhat regrets ever agreeing to Naruhodo’s impromptu invitation, especially so because the quality of the velvet lining his chair is abysmal enough to make his skin crawl.
He shifts for the seventh time, no more successful in finding a comfortable position, and resigns to his fate with a slight frown.
By his left Naruhodo makes an inquisitive noise, and he turns to see the man regarding him with contained worry. “Is something the matter, Lord van Zieks? You seem… fidgety.”
With the pause and the grimace that momentarily shows on his face following his statement, it sounds like he had meant to come up with another, perhaps more tactful, descriptor, but in the end couldn’t.
A faintly fond breath falls past Barok’s lips. “Not at all, Mr Naruhodo,” he lies, or at the very least attempts to, though from the way Naruhodo purses his own lips together in displeasure he is clearly very much unsuccessful.
“Are the seats not up to your standards, My Lord?” comes a sarcastic quip from his other side, and he slowly turns to grant Asogi half a glare. He has a gift, truly, for slicing straight to the heart of the matter, always able to get under his skin in record time. “Though, I suppose,” he continues, shifting in his chair like Barok had done earlier, brows burrowing slightly. “They are not the best, I’ll give you that.”
Barok bites back a snort, turning instead to stare ahead at the heavy red curtains. Asogi has, in the time since the trial and starting perhaps prior to that, back when he was still his nameless apprentice, developed a taste for the kind of luxuries money and station afforded one with. Appreciation for finer arts, cuisine, and more has, Barok muses, been one of the things bringing them together, bridging the gap of unfounded resentment between them.
Just a month before they’d seen “La Sylphide” together, enjoying the masterful performance from the comfort of a reserved theatre box. He rather wishes he could be doing so now, too, but alas it is not a possibility. The Newmore Theatre is not especially renowned for the quality of its productions, and reflecting the lack of popularity there are less than a hundred seats on the parquet and only a few dozen more in the circle surrounding it, no private boxes in sight.
Then again, Barok thinks, and his cheeks heat in a rush, he isn’t sure it would be… wise, being stuffed into a cramped, shadowy space, no one there to witness them. Not when just being this close to the two men on his either side in public view is making his head spin with something dangerous.
He swallows, his throat dry all of a sudden, and focuses all his concentration on counting the folds of the drapes afront.
The task is cut short when, following the third call, the lights soon dim down, and a hush falls in the audience, the curtains parting. The scene set before their eyes is that of Ancient Rome and a single character stands centre stage ― the titular Flora.
A soft gasp sounds from his left.
Well , Barok thinks, eyes glued onto the unexpected figure of Adam Newmore, this certainly explains the makeup.
Far from the nervous and shy man they’d met backstage, Newmore now looks flawless in the spotlight. Her flowing Roman robes are white and green in colour, contrasting her skin in the most complimentary manner, and all sorts of fabric flowers, carefully crafted, are tied into the wig atop her head. No matter his previous words of reservation regarding the reasons why he’d been chosen for the role, as she speaks and moves before them she absolutely is the Goddess Flora come to life.
Barok settles against the backrest, utterly enthralled, and lets himself forget all else.
From Flora’s introduction of the myth the play quickly moves along, bringing to the stage Miss Price as Metis and Mr Denis as Jupiter, the most seasoned actors as well as the participants in the key conflict. Jupiter, ever the unfaithful, attempts to fruitlessly seduce Metis, only to resort to force when she isn’t swayed. Flora, who never left the stage, witnesses the tragedy without a comment, swaying in a swing from side to side, the movement capricious like the scales of judgement.
The next scene involves Miss Donna as Juno, learning of her husband’s infidelity. She reacts with rage, her emotions flaring bright and hard, uncaring of whom they might burn on accident. When she falls sobbing to the ground, Flora finally rises from her seat to comfort her scene partner. Together they devise a plan of revenge, and full of renewed vigour Juno takes her exit, Flora finding her seat at the swing once more.
At that point, Barok is fully ready to admit that the quality of the production so far exceeds his expectations. Beside him both Asogi and Naruhodo seem equally gripped by the story, totally caught up in its events.
Metis and Jupiter enter once more, and in a shocking twist the former confronts the latter. She is pregnant, forced to bear his child against her will. At the news Jupiter becomes enraged, a prophecy stating that his child will be the one to kill him. Mr Denis delivers the God’s anger most convincingly, and Miss Price likewise misses no beat in her heartfelt delivery.
With the conflict too raw to be resolved with words, Jupiter chases Metis, the hunt accompanied with sufficiently devastating musical accoutrements. Dramatically she stops, middle of the stage, and shrugs off her white robes to reveal another costume beneath, making half the people in the audience gasp. Miss Price well deserves her praise, Barok decides, proceeding to listen to her touching monologue, at the end of which, she lifts off the ground by the wires attached to her during her speech, turning into a fly as the myth states.
Except― as she reaches the peak, suddenly she drops , and something at the pit of Barok’s stomach goes cold.
Ever the picture of a perfect actress, Miss Price doesn’t scream as she falls, though at least two other women in the audience do. She doesn’t fall too far, not before the person operating the mechanism catches her ― but that is when the unthinkable happens, and the strange dread inside Barok’s body claims the win.
As the spiralling crank backstage is stilled by force, she too lurches to a stop, though only momentarily. Only for the harness responsible for her safety to tear. Before their eyes she jerks down once more, and in a cruel twist the remaining leather straps catch on her neck.
She gags, and the appalling crunch of her vertebrae snapping rings loud in the room.
No one is able to speak any more than they can think. In the still and silent shock her body hangs limp and lifeless on the makeshift noose, so very unlike the diva they had witnessed before their eyes only moments before.
A second or two pass, akin to eternity, Barok’s heartbeats loud to his own ears.
“How could this―” Naruhodo utters, unable to finish the question.
And then… chaos erupts.