A&A&A Boarding School
Authoresses' Note: We must apologise for discrepancies. Last chapter we said that the next would be called Psychotherapy and Prejudice. We have changed Prejudice to Prima Donna, since it is so much more fitting.
Asha Ice: Kirsch is no great appreciator of elven beauty. Shorter than usual? Lydia bids you speak of your own chapter lengths first!
Katatonia: You're at boarding school! That must be fascinating. How is it? Awful?
Lee: The starwort idea came from 'Daughter of the Forest' by Juliet Marillier, in which that same plant figures prominently and painfully. And our French is not-so-good: Lydia's French is at best rudimentary, and Rukuelle's constantly non-existent.
Manveri Mirkiel: We are torturing Holly, let us remind you, because she beat up Legolas. We are very fair people. We punish people for beating other people up, even the ones we hate. Salad. Right.
Tsuki Yume: Oh, Venice! Lydia's always wanted to go to Venice. Lucky thing.
Bananatree: They have some sort of school dance – that's the Masquerade on Saturday, see.
Sapphire Dragon: Did you read Evil from the Past by Lydia? Dracula and Artemis met up in there. They didn't really get along. Glad it appears as &. It's supposed to.
Rei: Jean Valjean is Cosette's dad. He's an ex-convict-turned-wealthy-mayor. Long story.
Akwyn: Oh, you poor thing! Don't worry, you'll get over the braces soon. They've been at school for three days in twenty chapters. Strange how long things get, isn't it?
Mizamour: Nice of you to review so much. What's with the 'A!'s?
Not much more to say, if we're going to get this up before we go to bed. Goodnight. Chtchlolkanova out.
20. Psychotherapy and Prima Donna
Galadriel had temporarily abandoned the Masquerade dancing – since four of her female dancers had hands out of commision. So she had turned her attention back to Music of the Night and was arguing with Artemis over the transposition. To keep them occupied, she had told the couples to sit on the floor in their pairs and discuss their steps. Which, of course, no one was doing. Most of them were employing the policy so common in stressful school life nowadays: when one is given a chance to stone – just stone.
Eponine was certainly stoning. She and Grantaire had both fallen asleep sitting up. Enjolras was regaling Cosette with revolution propaganda – Cosette was too polite to tell him to shut up. Malfoy and Hermione were pretending that the other did not exist in this dimension. Insofar they were both succeeding admirably.
Sam was making polite conversation. The old gaffer had always said polite conversation was good.
"So…your name's Holly."
"Yeah." Holly went on examining her blistered fingers. Hello, you know that already.
"That's nice," said Sam, nodding. "That's a flower, you know."
"It's evergreen," said Holly without looking up.
"Mm. It's a right pretty plant, you know. My old gaffer always brings some in for Yuletide. Bright red berries, you know, give the place a lot of colour."
"I'm sure."
Sam gave it up. Holly was a pretty and prickly plant.
Faramir was humming again – that habit which Boromir found so irritating. Éowyn sat facing him, one knee up with her hands balanced on it, so she could watch the swelling.
After some time she mused aloud: "Where's that from?"
Faramir stopped humming long enough to give her a curious stare. "Where's what?"
"What you were humming," explained Éowyn patiently.
"I make it up."
"Ah." Éowyn went back to watching her wounds, and Faramir back to humming.
After some more time she said: "Is it in E minor?"
"A minor," said Faramir thoughtfully. "I think. I'm not very good at music."
"Neither am I," admitted Éowyn. "Do you hum to be irritating?"
Faramir considered this hesitatingly. Eventually he replied, "Well, yes."
"I see," murmured Éowyn. "You like being irritating?"
"No," said Faramir.
"Then it must be a psychological problem," said Éowyn knowingly.
"Perhaps," mused Faramir. "I'm not very good at psychology either."
"Neither am I," acknowledged Éowyn, "but I'm practising. Psychotherapy, you know. I have no idea why I took it up. I think fencers do it, sort of, before they go en garde."
"That's nice," remarked Faramir. "Why don't you show me?"
"Very well." Éowyn seated herself cross-legged and stared intently at Faramir. "Let's look into your problem of being irritating, shall we? You are irritating on purpose, but you don't like being irritating. What do you intend to accomplish by being irritating?"
"I don't know," answered Faramir truthfully.
"Subconsciously you do," argued Éowyn, "but that's no help. Who do you irritate?"
"Everyone. But most of all Boromir, I think. And…Dad."
There was a following silence, penetrated only by the chords from Artemis's organ and the occasional colourful curse from the Phantom.
"Your father is the Steward of Gondor, isn't he?" asked Éowyn gently. "Boromir told me."
Faramir nodded. "I annoy him most of all, I think. After Boromir I must seem like a pretty slapstick specimen."
"I think I know," exclaimed Éowyn.
"What?"
Éowyn was excited. This round of psychotherapy had actually produced results. "You're attention-seeking."
"No," said Faramir. "I'm not. Young children are attention-seeking. I'm not a young child."
"But that's the only rational explanation," protested Éowyn. "You irritated people because on a sub-conscious level you want them to pay attention to you. You want your father and brother to pay attention to you. And it's not restricted to young children – although perhaps that's why you act so childish sometimes."
Faramir said nothing. It was an excellent argument.
"Listen," said Éowyn in a different tone, "I've an idea. Try and behave sensibly for once."
Faramir ran a hand through his hair and blinked at her.
"If you start behaving sensibly," explained Éowyn, "it'll make them take a second look at you. You will get all the attention you want, and it will be positive. Do you get me?"
"Sort of."
"Good," concluded Éowyn cheerfully. "Now, we'll start work on your renovation."
"Reformation," corrected Faramir automatically.
"You're getting there."
Elizabeth, once she was well enough to walk about on stage without her hands throbbing like hell, rejoined the Cast. She was seated between Piangi and Raoul, and they were watching Jack sing 'Music of the Night'.
Aragorn, she noticed, was wearing a notably sour look on his face. He tended to wear this look every time Arwen and Jack had a scene together. Elizabeth observed and wondered how he would deal with the last scene. The one where Christine kissed the Phantom.
"Close your eyes,
start a journey through a strange new world
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before
Close your eyes,
And let music set you…"
"Bet Andúril that he can't hit the note," muttered Aragorn.
"FREE!" shrieked Jack off-key. Galadriel's eyes snapped towards him and she began remonstrating.
"Thought not," remarked Aragorn with a shadow of a smug grin on his face.
Galadriel gave a theatrical sigh and sent Jack off into the wings to practise his pitching – which echoed around the stage in the most ghastly manner for the rest of the rehearsal – and called up the cast required for Prima Donna.
Merry and Pippin trotted up onto stage in manager form. They were waving their scripts, which were also doubling as over-large Opera Ghost notes.
"…Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder," hummed Merry. "My salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost, by return of post……No-one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed!"
"Who would have the gall to send this?" read Pippin off the paper. "Someone with a…a…puerile brain?"
He leaned over to Merry and hissed in a stage whisper: "What's puerile?"
"Of course you wouldn't know," sniffed Merry loftily. "It means…erm…unwashed."
"It does not," corrected Galadriel, who had overheard – or over-mind-read. "It means childish. Master Meriadoc, putting down your friend like that is very bad for his self-esteem."
Merry looked wounded. Pippin gleefully stuck out his tongue at his fellow manager.
"That," said Merry in injured and dignified tones, "was puerile."
Aragorn put an end to the argument by rushing on stage in his top hat, waving a script. "Where is she"
"You mean Carlotta?" asked Pippin.
"I mean Miss Daae... Where is she?"
"Well, how should we know?" protested Merry. "And your cue is wrong."
Aragorn muttered a short expletive and stomped offstage.
"Aren't they adorable?" murmured Galadriel to Celeborn, as they viewed the proceedings from the stage apron.
Celeborn made a non-commital noise.
"You are always so tactiturn," sighed Galadriel. "Go get the couples dancing again – they've had quite enough time to discuss their steps already." She rose majestically and swept statuesquely across the stage towards her students. "We need more speed for this scene! Confusion! It's a scene of confusion!"
Celeborn jumped off the apron despondently and went over to the seated couples. It was not a job he looked forward to.
He got most of them onto their feet without as much trouble as he expected. Éowyn and Faramir were so deep in discussion over some obscure psychological point that they didn't even object to dancing. He poked Eponine and Grantaire, received a sharp exclamation from the former and a slurred vulgarity from the latter, ignored both and turned to the two pairs he had been saving for last.
"Practice time," said Celeborn into the ears of Malfoy and Hermione.
Hermione glanced up at him and shot a half-disgusted, half-terrified look at her assumed partner. Malfoy went on gazing stonily at the wall.
"I'll get my lady," warned Celeborn.
That did elicit some alarm from Malfoy. Hermione had obviously not told him the truth about last rehearsal, but apparently Ron had.
Celeborn had got them to stand facing each other with the length of a 30 cm ruler between them, and left them mutely stepping in forced coordination. With a sigh, he turned to Anna and Van Helsing.
Anna and Van Helsing had surprisingly not started World War III in the absence of teacherly surveillance. Because of Anna's preoccupation with her hands, they had been reduced to mere glowering.
"Stand up," commanded Celeborn in the most forbidding terms he could muster.
Anna and Van Helsing glanced up at him briefly, and went back to glowering.
"Stand up," repeated Celeborn in tones of despair.
To his enormous astonishment, Van Helsing leapt to his feet. "Come on, Anna," he cried with unexpected exuberance, and grabbing his partner's hand, yanked her up forcefully.
Anna choked back an agonized shriek as Van Helsing's hard fingers closed mercilessly about her sore prickled skin. She certainly saw his purpose well enough. Gritting her teeth, she resisted wincing as she gripped Van Helsing's shoulder like an iron vice and dug all her long fingernails in as deeply as she could.
It was Van Helsing's turn to cringe. That was going to leave a mark.
Celeborn, exceedingly relieved at this surprising change of mindset, left to oversee the rest of the Patch Crew, who were working on their chorus. When he departed, Anna and Van Helsing were dancing with aggressive violence and attempting to stamp on each other's toes. Obviously they were wishing for hob-nailed boots.
Confusion was reigning supreme on stage. Galadriel was pleased with this. It looked very realistic. It was also probably realistic, because most of the cast had no idea where they were supposed to be standing.
"This hour shall see your darkest fears," prophesied Andromache darkly.
"I must see her!" exclaimed Aragorn and Briseis simultaneously.
"Abbandonata!" shrieked Elizabeth in her best Italian falsetto. "Deseredata! Sventurata!"
"You're overdoing it," remarked Andromache. "The angel knows, the angel hears…"
"Where did she go?" questioned Aragorn with feeling.
"Abbandonata!" sang Elizabeth in a toned down version of her original accent. "Disgraziata!"
"Signora, sing for us! Don't be a martyr!"
"What new surprises lie in store?"
"Our star!"
"Non vo'cantar!"
Everyone paused to catch their breath. Galadriel and Arwen, who had come to watch alongside her, applauded with appreciation. "Very good," commented Galadriel. "Very confused. Continue, dears."
Artemis struck a tentative chord on the organ, winced delicately at the discordance it produced, and struck another one. Merry and Pippin sidestepped at Galadriel's frantic gestures until they were standing in Elizabeth's taller shadow.
"Your public needs you," pleaded Merry.
"We need you," corrected Pippin, and dimpled appealingly.
"Would you not rather have your precious little in-genue?"
Elizabeth went so high on "in-genue" that the hobbits nearly fell over from shivered eardrums. Hastily they recovered and became the persuasive duo that everyone knew. "No. Signora. The world. Wants. YOU."
The orchestra slid – a tad rockily – into the opening of Prima Donna. Merry and Pippin spread open their arms in synchrony and began serenading.
"Prima Donna, first lady of the stage
Your devotees are on their knees to implore you
Can you bow out when they're shouting your name?
Think of how they all adore you!"
They linked arms and began to skip around a puzzled Elizabeth like flower-girls.
"Prima Donna, enchant us once again
Think of your muse, and of the queues round the theatre!
Can you deny us the triumph in store?
Sing, Prima Donna once more!"
Aragorn decided to join in the fun. Flinging his arms out so energetically that he almost whacked Andromache in the face, he sang: "Christine spoke of an angel…"
Divas are people who excel at seizing the circumstances for their own limelight. Since Elizabeth was supposed to be a diva, she did exactly that. Pirouetting forward and finishing in some sort of statuesque sun-worship position, she took a deep breath and carolled into La Carlotta's part. "Prima Donna, your song shall live again!"
"Think of your public," suggested Merry.
"You took a snub,"sang Elizabeth, "but there's a public who needs you!"
"She has heard the voice," murmured Andromache aside of Christine, "of the Angel of Music…"
"Those who hear your voice liken you to an angel!" eulogized Merry and Pippin as they Shire-jigged across the stage in synchrony.
"Think of their cry of undying support!" expounded Elizabeth as she performed an elaborate series of under-arm whirls – all the more elaborate because she lacked conspiciously a partner. "Follow where the limelight leads you!"
"Is this ghost an angel or a madman?" mused Briseis as she flitted after Elizabeth like a haphazard butterfly.
"Angel or madman?" echoed Aragorn as he struck a pose at downstage right like the Statue of Liberty.
"Leading ladies are a trial," commented Pippin as he hopped past on one foot.
Andromache flung her arms dramatically into the air. "Heaven help you, those who doubt!"
"You'll sing again and to unending ovation!"
"Orders! Warnings! Lunatic demands!"
"This miscasting will invite damnation…"
"Tears…oaths … lunatic demands are regular occurrences!"
"Bliss or damnation? Which has claimed her?"
"Think how you'll shine in that final encore! Sing, prima donna, once more!"
"Oh fools, to have flouted his warnings!"
"Surely, for her sake…"
"Surely he'll strike back…"
"Surely there'll be further scenes - worse than this!"
It did not seem highly possible that there would be. Everyone onstage was hyper and literally quite mad.
Merry and Pippin galloped to the front and began their cheerful gossip duet. "Who'd believe a diva happy to relieve a chorus girl, who's gone and slept with the patron? Raoul and the soubrette, entwined in love's duet! Although he may demur, he must have been with her!"
"O fortunata!" shrieked Elizabeth. The Italian was back in full force. "Non ancor abbandonata!"
"You'd never get away with all this in a play," continued the hobbit managers,"but if it's loudly sung and in a foreign tongue, it's just the sort of story audiences adore, in fact a perfect opera!"
They collapsed upon their knees before a glowing Elizabeth.
"Prima Donna, the world is at your feet,
A nation waits, and how it hates to be cheated!"
Elizabeth hitched up her skirts and clambered up onto the nearest high object, which happened to be the managers' desk. "The stress that falls upon a famous prima donna! Terrible diseases, coughs and colds and sneezes! Still, the dryest throat will reach the highest note, in search of perfect opera!"
"Christine plays the Pageboy," counted Aragorn off his fingers, "Carlotta plays the Countess…"
"…should you dare to…" hissed Andromache, posing downstage right.
"…when you once again…" whispered Briseis as she formed a symmetrical accompaniment to Andromache's pose.
Everyone flung their arms out in their most dramatic imitation of opera, took deep breaths, opened their mouths and sang.
"Light up the stage with your age-old RAPPO-O-O-ORT……Sing, Prima Donna……once more!"
And that was the moment Jack chose to make his thespian reappearance onstage, with the best of piratical swaggers and Caribbean accents. At least he had remembered the line.
"So it is to be war between us! If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will OCCUR!"
And the cast sang: "ONCE MORE!"
That was the moment the curtain chose to collapse.
"And would you believe it?" exclaimed Elizabeth as she swayed precariously, but managed to shove the edge of the cloth back into its hold. "She actually liked it!"
"She said it was confused," murmured Will in agreement as he helped steady the cloth.
They were balanced somewhat perilously atop a soaring ladder, trying to fit the curtain back into its hooks and holds and simultaneously discussing Galadriel's extraordinary tastes. After spending ten minutes praising the cast for an 'exuberant, dramatic, life-inundated, confused performance", she had swept off to direct the curtain back into place, all the while humming Think of Me.
"A bit more separation between the hooks!" came the order from below. Elizabeth and Will sighed and obeyed. "Good! Very good! I think it should be fixed – won't you come down now, dears?"
Aragorn and Hector were already climbing down the other ladder. "Let's go," said Elizabeth to Will, and put out her foot to feel for the rung.
Will put out his foot at the same time. His foot came down upon Elizabeth's rather hard and struck it off the rung.
For a split and terrifying second, Elizabeth hung suspended in mid-air, six metres above the stage, one foot hanging off and the rest of her threatening to follow. Then she overbalanced.
Elizabeth screamed and clutched at the ladder rung. She missed and clutched Will's arm instead. With a yell, Will fell off too, and they both went tumbling downwards.
For six awful metres they plummeted down, screaming and fighting against the onrush of gravity. Will hit the stage with a sickening crack. Elizabeth missed it and fell another couple metres. The ground was coming on awfully fast, wasn't it?
She struck the floor head-first.
Pain cracked through her head like a lightning bolt. Elizabeth lay in the darkness that was soaking into her skin, wondering at the numbing pain and listening idly to the voices around her that were swimming in and out of focus. The confused mutter of the crowd – Eponine's high-pitched scream cutting across the murmur: "Mon Dieu, Elizabeth!" – footsteps rushing towards her – the murmur growing into a horrified gasping – "Blood!" someone screamed – and then Galadriel's voice soaring calmly and efficiently above the general noise.
"It's severe concussion. Get both of them to the hospital wing. Now!"
She was being lifted up, propped on something, carried. As her head lolled and the darkness shifted uneasily, a nasty little thought fought its way to the front of her crowded brain.
Didn't Foaly say something bad about the Hospital Wing?
The darkness shifted again, like a great black wave of dizziness, and consumed her utterly.
End of ChapterNext chapter coming…Stargazing and Sleepovers