Chapter Text
It's pouring when Rook first stands before the Dellamorte Family Circus' headquarters, because of course it would be. It feels like it's been raining ever since she quit her last engagement, and her sneakers are soaked from walking all the way here from the central train station. Might have been smarter to look for a bus after all, but she's just spent the better part of three hours sitting on her ass and didn't want to arrive entirely stiff and cold (not that walking through the late November rain was warm, exactly, but like any coastal city, Treviso never managed a proper winter, and her legs could use the workout).
From the outside, the building doesn't look much different from the rest of this industrial complex — a mostly uniform grey block with three rows of windows leading straight into what might as well be a large construction hall, but probably isn't. There's no big, shiny logo, no large poster or other outward decoration to indicate that there is any kind of artistry hidden inside.
But at least there's a bit of an awning over the front door, and the small sign beside the doorbell does say Dellamorte Family Circus.
No time like the present.
Rook rings the doorbell and settles in to wait, fully aware that she's breaking basically every imaginable protocol by simply showing up here without so much as a phone call, much less an appointment, but it's worked before, and while it's been only three weeks, she's already sick and tired of playing waitress at a cheap diner and could really use a break. The worst they can do is turn her away at the door, and then she'll just be right back where she started. There's always a diner out there looking for a waitress, or a convenience store or gas station seeking a cashier.
She'd really rather not go back to that though.
Then the door opens, and a slightly harried looking teen stares back at her.
"Hello? Can I help you?"
Rook puts on her most cheerful shit eating smile, silently thanking the universe for providing her with a gullible gatekeeper.
"Hi, yes, I'm here to see Caterina Dellamorte?"
The teen frowns, checks his watch, looks back at her in confusion. "Uhm. Do you have an appointment?"
"Of course! She asked me to be here by three, so she should be expecting me? I thought I'd rather err on the side of too early rather than late. I'm Rook, by the way." All lies, of course, except for her name, because a nickname is a name, too, but she's betting that the Dellamorte matriarch doesn't share the details of her calendar with the small fish.
The youth blinks. Looks behind him, but judging by the glimpse of hallway Rook can catch through the crack of the door, there's no help coming.
"Uh, sure. In that case, please follow me?"
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but like any well trained lackey, he'd rather err on the side of compliance, too. Her smile widens. "Great, thank you so much!"
And she follows, entering the lair of the dragon on squeaking sneakers, hoping her damp socks won't give her blisters.
"What's your name?" she asks when they turn a corner, intent to keep him talking. Less chance of him calling ahead if he keeps talking.
"Uh, Jacobus, ma'am."
"It's nice to meet you, Jacobus, and please don't call me ma'am, I'm really not that old."
"As you wish," he mumbles, still looking around nervously. There's probably not a whole lot of people just showing up at the doors of their headquarters; she's pretty sure that the nondescript exterior is a deliberate choice.
"Have you been here long, Jacobus?" Everyone likes to talk about themselves, and the youth — no, Jacobus — is no different; there's worse things than a pretty girl showing an interest in your life, after all. With a little bit of coaxing, he tells her all about how he and his older cousin managed to hire on as stagehands and general helpers with the Dellamorte Family Circus, and how great it's been to not have to worry about food and electrical bills and all that because while the pay isn't that great, they do get free food and housing here.
In a perfect world, kids that young shouldn't have to worry about these things at all, but Rook is unfortunately aware that the world is far from perfect. Jacobus is just recalling how one of the performers taught him how to play billiard when they round the last corner and arrive before what she assumes is Caterina Dellamorte's office (there's certainly a sign by the door that identifies it as such).
Jacobus trails off, then clears his throat and knocks.
"Yes?" a stern voice rings from inside, only a little muffled by the door.
Jacobus opens the door and stick his head inside. "I have your 3 o'clock, Mrs. Dellamorte?"
"My what?" The Dellamorte matriarch frowns, glaring over his head at Rook, who grins and waves.
"… your appointment?" She can't see Jacobus' face, what with his back turned to her, but she can hear his expression fall, frail confidence replaced by worry. For a moment, the matriarch doesn't speak at all, but Rook can practically see the cogs turning in her head, and there's a very real chance that she'll be asked to leave now. She's not looking forward to walking back through the rain.
But then Caterina's frown shifts into a tight lipped smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Ah yes, of course. Please, enter, and shut the door behind you."
Rook shoots Jacobus an encouraging smile as she pushes past him, before closing the door in his face.
Her own smile drops, and gives a slight bow.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Dellamorte."
"Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?"
Said office is very clean and empty, almost austere, save for a handful of posters on the walls promoting old shows and bygone acts from the storied history of the Dellamorte Family Circus, their fading colours preserved behind glass, as well as a handful of family photographs arrayed on a cabinet.
"My name is Anya Laidir, and I heard through the grapevine that you're short a performer these days. It just so happens that I am between engagements, so I thought we might help each other out."
"Is that so?" the matriarch drawls, brows arched over a sardonic smirk. "And what makes you think that I would be interested in any help you are prepared to give?"
"I'm a 22 year old acrobat with a solid base in gymnastics and dance. My speciality is aerials, but I'm comfortable with ground work, too, and I've done both solo and group acts before. I've been born into this business, and I'm good at it."
Caterina takes a moment to size her up, from her scuffed sneakers over her nondescript leggings to her faded jacket. "So how come you're between engagements and desperate enough to just show up on my doorstep instead of sending an application through the appropriate channels?"
Rook shrugs. "I was in the neighbourhood, and it seemed more expedient than sending an E-Mail." It's not even a lie, not really; Antiva City is practically next door to Treviso when you've been in Montfort no more than two months ago.
The old woman hums thoughtfully. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that you parted ways with your last employer on less than amicable terms?" It's a shot in the blue, because she can't know that, no way, but Rook can't suppress her wince, and Caterina's eyes narrow in triumph. Gotcha.
"My last employer is perfectly capable of confirming my skill set."
"Then why did you leave without a reference?" Another thing she can't know about, but it is a good guess; if she had one — a good one, at least — she would have been inclined to show it off.
Rook grimaces, then sighs. "I objected to his hand between my legs, he wasn't inclined to take no for an answer, I valued myself too much to stick around."
Caterina nods, apparently satisfied. "Where and when did you say you parted ways?"
"I didn't. Antiva City, three weeks ago." Three miserable, hungry weeks, because she didn't wait around long enough to make him pay out her contract.
"I see."
The business being what it is, the circus matriarch should be able to find out who she'd worked for with that. To Rook's surprise, Caterina Dellamorte rises from her chair, brushing some invisible lint from her perfectly pressed slacks as she steps around the desk. "We'd better see what you can do then, don't you think?"
Rook can't quite believe it actually worked — so far, at least — when she follows the old woman through the labyrinthine halls of the office building that serves as the front of the circus headquarters, though not back towards the entrance. She's not entirely sure she would be able to find the way back on her own, but she can tell when they step through an unfamiliar door into another building and the silence of the office halls is replaced by the faint sounds of people at work. Physical work, not desk work; voices calling out a sloppy form here or a weak grip there, faint laughter echoing off far walls and the low thump of bodies hitting mats.
When they step through the double doors leading into the gym, Rook's heart beats faster; it feels a little like stepping into a big toy store as a kid, but better, because she actually gets to play with all of these toys at least once, just to prove that she can. This likely used to be an industrial hangar, large enough to house an air plane and high enough to form its own atmosphere in the rafters, but now it's a performers paradise, outfitted with everything from training mats and trampolines over tightropes and aerial rings to a full trapeze set dangling from the ceiling.
There are at least eight people milling around the large hall that she can see, either in the middle of training, observing or just standing around to chat. They all fall silent when they notice who just graced them with their presence, turning around to see what brought Caterina Dellamorte from her office into the gym.
There's a short young woman with hair as red as Rook's own dangling from a rope as she shoots a bow at different targets and another one twisting through a ring in mid-air, a bombshell with dark hair and chestnut skin, while a blonde woman with a pinched face is just climbing down from a tightrope. The young man waiting for her on the ground is probably one of Caterina's grandson's; there's something about the shape of his brow and the twist of his mouth that invokes the old woman's features, same as the other young man just sliding down form the aerial silk and another man with the same family resemblance chalking his hands while he chats with two other performers.
The two people who had been observing are probably coaches.
It's the latter two Caterina joins after directing Rook to begin her warm-ups, but she can feel everyone's eyes on her as she drops her bag and jacket on the ground and slips out of her sneakers to start preparing her muscles for a good workout. Her socks leave damp spots on the ground when she begins to move, jogging and jumping and twisting and stretching. Her body is her capital, and she takes her preparations seriously, especially since it's not just a training session she's striving for, but a performance — one she intends to excel at.
Her hoodie joins her discarded jacket to leave her in nothing more than her leggings and a simple sports bra. It's a good thing that a lifetime of hasty costume changes and costumes that leave very little to the imagination have largely desensitized her to undressing in front of strangers, but she's not usually in the centre of attention when she does. No matter.
She moves over to the line of mats, then stops. "Could I have some music?" she asks, turning back towards Caterina and the two she assumes are the coaches on duty. "I can work without, but I find it easier to switch into performance mode with a soundtrack."
The tan man grins, actually twirling his honest-to-Andraste moustache, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. A few seconds later, J Lo's 'Let's get loud' begins blaring from the speakers overhead, and she flashes him a grin of her own.
When she turns back to the mats, her posture changes, shoulders back and head high and hip cocked with a dancer's loose kind of tension. Her lips curl into a mischievous smile, like she know something you don't, but she doesn't hold it against you. She taps her foot to the beat for a moment, and then she moves, keeping her steps in time with the music for a short ballet-inspired routine before speeding up into a simple gymnastics sequence, tumbling down the line in a series of jumps, twists and flips, landing in a perfect finish before sinking down into a split.
Somewhere off to the side, someone whistles, but she barely hears it, her attention focused on the Dellamorte matriarch as she bends her head back. She is graced with a light nod from an unreadable face, and the real work can begin, showing off her skills on the aerial hoop, silk, and trapeze.
By the time she finally steps down for good, her head is spinning and her limbs weighed with lead, but her heart feels at least ten pounds lighter; she loves being in the air, as close to flying as she's ever going to get. One of the coaches, a thin woman with short-cropped hair and a stern face, hands her a bottle of water that she accepts gratefully, shaking out her limbs after the first sip; the rest of the bottle disappears down her throat as she avoids looking for Caterina Dellamorte's judgment just a moment longer.
When Rook does dare to sneak a glance at the formidable old woman, she is looking thoughtful. Rook steps closer, trying to look confident and hoping that her general exhaustion covers her nerves well enough; the other coach, the one who was kind enough to provide her with music, hands her a towel.
Caterina nods to one of her performers, the red haired girl who was shooting a bow earlier.
"Lace, please show our guest the facilities."
"Is that a yes?" Rook asks cautiously.
"It's a maybe. Now shoo, and don't forget your things."
Rook does as she's told, following a cheerful Lace on a tour around the interior parts of the Dellamorte Family Circus headquarters, the ones restricted to performers and staff, while the woman in charge turns to her staff and family.
"Well? Your opinions, if you please."
Heir is the first to speak up. "Her form could use some work, but her technique is solid, and she appears proficient in several disciplines. That kind of flexibility is useful, even if you didn't want her to replace Natalie."
"She's got great stage presence. Did you look at her face? You'll want that kind of charisma to offset golden boy's wooden performance," Dorian adds.
The barb rankles, but it's nothing Lucanis hasn't heard before. His performance is perfect in its precision, but he has trouble radiating the kind of emotion Dorian expects from a good act. He keeps his quiet until his grandmother turns to him, brows raised expectantly.
"She looks to be about the same height and weight as Natalie, so the transition shouldn't be too difficult, and she seems to know what she's doing."
Illario snorts, having moved up beside him. "That's all you have to say? She'll be easy to lift because she has the same format as your last partner?"
Lucanis glares at him. "What else is there to say?"
His cousin grins. "I think she's cute."
Lucanis groans, rolling his eyes. "Please, spare us."
"Hectore?" Caterina turns to her youngest son.
"She is very thorough with her warm-ups and safeguards and has good control over her body. I don't see why why shouldn't give her a chance."
The matriarch nods. "Very well. Send her up to my office when she's done with the tour. And stop slacking off, I believe you have work to do!"
"Yes, Caterina," her audience choruses in unison as she leaves them behind.
Back at her office, Caterina pulls out her Rolodex. She's aware that her children and grandchildren consider it terribly old-fashioned and keep urging her to transfer her contacts into her phone for easier access, but she likes to be a little old-fashioned about things. Tradition is the root that grounds the present, providing the current generation with their fast moving tech with something nice and solid to fall back on when their batteries die and their internet fails them.
Oh, she's perfectly happy to use her phone to look up which circus company left Antiva City three weeks ago, but she won't feed all of her precious contacts into a machine she has to replace every other year, and she doesn't like the thought of all those people's contact information being saved in some 'cloud' somewhere any enterprising young technophile could get at them. No, better to keep them in her office.
That way, her family will have a much easier time accessing them should she become unexpectedly unavailable one of these days. She is perfectly spry for her age, but she is getting on in her years, so it is better to be prepared — not that she would ever admit as much to those looking to her for guidance.
Her target picks up at the third ring.
"Caterina, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"Oh please, don't pretend you actually enjoy hearing from me, Giovanni. How is Cesare?"
There's a snort from the other end of the line. "Trying to bankrupt me, the way he keeps finding new and enterprising ways to break perfectly suitable equipment. "
"Well, perhaps things wouldn't break quite so easily if you didn't keep going for the cheapest available offer."
"It's all in perfect working condition!" There's a brief pause, and he sighs. "What can I do for you, cara mia?"
"I have one of your performers in my home."
"Do you now? … ah, of course. However did she manage to slip past your sophisticated application process?"
"She simply waltzed straight through the door; clearly, I need to refine my instructions to the staff, but I do admire the spunk it must have taken to pull that off. Now. How is her work ethic?"
Another sigh. "She has a bit of an attitude problem, but she doesn't seek out drama for drama's sake, and she's a good performer. The audience was rather enamoured with her, more's the pity."
"I see. Thank you for your candour."
"Happy to be of service. If that is all?"
"It is. Bets of luck with you endeavours, Giovanni."
"And to you, Caterina."
"Oh, and Giovanni? You really need to learn to keep your hands off your artists."
And with that, she hangs up on him, disinterested in any excuse he may think to dredge up.
When Rook finds her way back to Caterina's office some 20 minutes later, she has drawn up a contract and made the necessary arrangements to add the girl to her roster. Not that her newest artist knows that yet.
"So, what's the verdict?" Rook asks after she's closed the door behind her.
"You were correct," the Dellamorte matriarch greets her without preamble, "your former employer was indeed capable of confirming your suitability. How did you like our facilities?"
Rook shifts nervously, not knowing what exactly the old lecher told Caterina; you never know quite how vindictive men accustomed to power get when denied something they took for granted. Best go with honesty here.
"I'm impressed. Everything Lace showed me looked both practical, comfortable and tasteful. I would be honoured to find a home here for a time."
"Damn right you would be," Caterina mutters under her breath, then clears her throat as she slides the contract over her desk. "Your contract covers 12 months, with a 1-month probationary period. If we're happy with your performance at the conclusion of your contract, you may be offered a renewal. Mess up or give me cause to regret my offer and you'll find yourself on the street quicker than you can say 'tad-aa'."
Rook cautiously moves towards the desk and picks up the offered document. "Will you be offended if I read this first?"
"I would be disappointed if you didn't."
So Rook scans the contract, noting the room and board and mentorship included in the terms as well as an NDA concerning the program still in development, and finds nothing out of order.
"Do you have a pen?"
Caterina extends her an elegant fountain pen.
"Welcome to the Dellamorte Family Circus, Miss Laidir."