Sunday: The crack of noon

When I woke up for reals, it was probably close to noon. Skylights filtered the dusty, dreaming sunbeams, and a low hum of activity rose from below. I sat up slowly. I had aches in all sorts of new places, plus the familiar throbbing in my head from the alcohol last night. I really should know better by now, but that's human nature for you.

"Hey," Alex said, appearing at the balcony doors, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was balancing two wooden plates and two mismatched china cups. "Er, I've got breakfast."

Breakfast looked like rubbery eggs, cold toast, and cold tea.

"How?"

"There's a buffet laid on for the workers downstairs. I just walked up and grabbed some."

I gave Alex an appraising look as he set down the plates. He was wearing his usual button-up shirt and dark trousers. It wouldn't pass close inspection, but guy's fashions don't change much. He looked more or less like every guy in this century.

"Are we really…" I started, but I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah. I think we really are. I found this lying around downstairs." Alex shifted slightly, pulled a rumpled and greasy newspaper from his back pocket, and handed it over. The date was 4 August. 1890.

We ate in silence for a bit. I tried to get my thoughts together.

"You still have that coin?" I asked. He did. It looked pretty much the same as it had last night. One side, Victoria Regina, the other, George slaying a dragon. It was still scuffed, but the date was definitely 1890.

"So that woman gave us some kind of …time coin and it took us back in time somehow. But, why?"

"Time coin?" Alex snorted. "That's real logical."

"And what's your oh-so logical explanation?"

"Hallucination, maybe." Alex said after a brief pause that told me he didn't have anything better. "A dream. We could have been mugged and now we're comatose in a hospital."

"I see. So we're having a collective coma?"

"Hey, this could be my coma and you're just a hallucination. It's not any more improbable than a time portal."

"True."

"So, why?" Alex asked the ceiling.

"That's what I asked you."

"Okay, if your time coin theory is correct, then it must be some sort of machine. If it's a machine, that means someone built it and presumably they are responsibly for...this."

"Well," I said sarcastically, "if that's true, then tomorrow we can expect that old lady or Yoda or somebody to show up at the door and explain everything."

We waited for a moment to allow 'Yoda' to dramatically appear. This did not occur.

"I saw cleaning staff downstairs," Alex said. "We should move."

"No, we need to get clothes," I said. "At least, I need to get clothes. You might pass inspection, but given how that cop reacted last night, I need something different to wear."

This took some serious sneakiness on Alex's part. As the less suspicious looking one of us, he set off looking for the costume storage.

While he wandered the opera house, I tried to make out what was going on onstage without being seen. So far it seemed to be mostly men in work clothes, hauling, sawing, hammering, and painting. Actual opera was not yet in evidence.

I carefully peered over the edge of the balcony. There was a group of well-dressed men huddled in conversation. The words 'audition', 'ruined', 'money', and 'Bach' drifted up to the balcony.

Eventually one of these men peeled off from the group and began arranging music on the concert grand piano, which sat in gilded isolation in the orchestra pit. There was a moment of quiet expectation, and then the opening measures of something complicated. I eventually decided it was attempt at Bach, but it was difficult to tell as the music swung back and forth across the tempo without actually hitting it.

Some time later, Alex returned with a huge pile of clothes and an annoyed expression.

"I had to ask for directions," Alex explained, "and once I'd asked for directions I had to explain why I wanted a pile of women's clothing."

"Well?"

"I told him that one of the singers had me running errands. I had to get pretty sarcastic at him before he'd push off."

"Well, I appreciate it, Alexi."

"Thanks."

"Now push off so I can change."

Now, I considered myself fairly average in most respects; average height, average weight, average brown hair. But compared to the average woman of the opera, I was a giant. The blouse and skirt were fitted for a woman a few pounds lighter and wearing a corset. I managed to get one on, wincing as some threads snapped. But they didn't seem to be attached to anything vital, so I called it a success. The hat was easier, though it didn't match.

"Looks good," Alex said automatically, when I came around the corner.

"Really?"

"No, you look like somebody's poor relative."

"As long as I don't get arrested for that, we're cool."

"I dunno. You hear some weird stories about the Victorians."

"Okay, we look like we belong. Now what?"

"Er," Alex glanced at his watch, as if that might help. It other circumstances it would have been amusing to see Alex out of his depth for once, but now was not a good time.

The discordant music which had been the backdrop to the last few minutes suddenly stopped, and I suddenly had an idea.

Now, I am a doctor by training, but I am a musician at heart. My mom had made me take piano lessons when I was seven and there was no stopping me after that. I quickly moved on to the flute, clarinet and even the violin briefly before I found the drums. I had an absolute passion for percussion, to the point where I practically had to join the school band to justify spending entire evenings in the garage with my drum set.

More recently I had been drafted into the band The Irregulars by my friend Lorelei, who was the lead vocalist (Alex played bass). But I kept up the piano, mostly to please Mum, but also for the variety.

I headed down the stairs, and through the double doors to the main house, Alex following like a shadow.

"I've got an idea," I said to Alex, "but maybe you should stay out of sight."

Alex seemed to be following my train of thought. He just winked and disappeared.

"Thank you Mr. Anderson. We will get back to you." The young man at the bench bowed stiffly and hurried out of the theatre. As he passed I could see him wiping the sweat off his forehead. The three men in the front row bent their heads for a worried consultation.

"If he could just get over his stage fright he'd be all right." The one on the left said half-heartedly.

"If he was that nervous in front of three people, he might have a fit of apoplexy in front of a full house," said the one on the right.

"His mother is one of our finest patrons. If we turn him away we might as well close our doors."

"If we let him play we'll be a laughing stock from here to Paris."

"He's as good as any other applicant. All of our best are being lured away by LaValle." There was a moment of silence as the three men contemplated their rival.

"We will hire him as an understudy," the man in the middle said, pronouncing the words with all the authority of the Voice of God.

"Understudy to whom?" The man on the left said sourly.

This debate was tossed back and forth a bit, but it sounded like an old argument. I decided

"I understand you gentlemen are looking for a pianist?" I asked sweetly. Three head swiveled to stare at me. The expressions on their faces were an interesting range between puzzlement and disbelief.

"I guarantee I can play better than the gentleman who just left." I said, with a hopefully winning smile, after the silence had stretched on a bit. "I rather prefer Bach myself, but I am quite good at most of the classical composers." This was, strictly speaking, a lie. I thought Bach's work was ostentatious bordering on the pretentious, but that wasn't to say he didn't have his moments.

"Who are you, uh, madam?" The man in the middle rose and bowed gracefully in my direction, trying to act as if he hadn't been surprised at all.

"Solei Watson. I am recently arrived from, um, India." I said, thinking quickly. The mention of the Crown Jewel of the British Empire went some way toward soothing ruffled feathers. Everyone knew that they did things differently in foreign parts; hopefully it would go some way toward explaining my inevitable faux pas.

"I am Mr. Loman, the owner here at the London Opera. This is our good manager Mr. Squires and our conductor Dr. Cocteau. You say that you are interested in a position here?"

I believe that is exactly what I just said, repeated back to me.

"Yes. I can give you an audition right now if you like." I said. I moved toward the piano without waiting for an answer. Mr. Loman indicated that this would be acceptable. The sheet music was still on the stand. I gave it a cursory examination, cracked my knuckles and began to play.

Fortunately, it was a piece I had performed before at a recital a few years ago. I could play music from the sheet without having seen it before, but it wasn't something I wanted to pull in a professional audition.

I finished the Bach, and moved straight into a Beethoven sonata. And, because I could, I segued from Beethoven into Glenn Miller. "Moonlight Serenade" was comparatively simple when put next to Beethoven, but it was also a piece that wouldn't be composed for another fifty years or so. It added a certain flare to my résumé.

As I played, I watched the three men out of the corner of my eye. Loman was clearly Mr Moneybags. Only someone very rich would be able to get away with a jeweled ring that was so unbelievably ugly. Physically, he was rather tall and skeletal, like he slept upside down with the bats at night. Squires was the sort of man who is always perched on the edge of his seat, barely able to keep still. Shorter, with a rather bushy beard. Possibly the brains of the outfit. Cocteau was staring fixedly into space, wincing slightly when I made an error. French, definitely French.

When the last notes faded into silence, I folded my hands and faced the judges. Mr. Loman looked pleased; Dr. Cocteau looked overjoyed and Mr. Squires looked as if he was planning something.

"I think, my lady, we would be willing to take you on. Pro tem, of course." Loman said evenly. I could see the thoughts swirling in his head. A mysterious stranger walks in and proceeds to outclass every other applicant. There was definitely something suspicious about this. On the other hand, she can play and we need someone who isn't going to keel over at the sight of a spotlight. Dr. Cocteau had no such apprehensions.

"Wonderful, dear! Just wonderful." He gushed, despite disapproving glances from Loman. "Some work needs to be done in the second movement of your sonata, but still. What was that last piece you played? Eloquent in its simplicity with a direct emotional approach. Do you have much experience in opera?"

"No, not much. I have played in smaller groups though." I said with absolute honesty. The fact that it was the drums for a punk/metal/ska/whatever we felt like at the time band went unmentioned.

"Nevertheless," Loman said sharply, "we shall see how things fall out. Room and board will be part of your wages. Practice is at nine in the morning, every morning. We shall start you out at a salary of three pounds a month. Is this agreeable?"

Three pounds a month was insane. Clearly the value of the British pound had changed over the centuries. But Loman said it as if he didn't expect an argument.

"I shall need a suitable wardrobe. My luggage was, uh, lost. On the ship." I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out if three pounds was agreeable.

"Where did you say you were from?" Squires asked.

"Er, India," I said, thinking fast. I'd never been to India in my life. Maybe I should have lied about being from America instead. It wasn't technically a lie…

"And your luggage was lost?"

"On the boat."

"Where are you staying?"

"With a friend," I said. Alex was a friend and I was staying in the same space as him.

"Your parents? Family?"

"In India."

"India?" Squires repeated. There was an amused spark in his eye, like a plotting schoolboy.

"India."

"Husband?"

"No, thank you."

"Lover?"

"I say, Squires," Loman interrupted the rapid-fire interrogation. "The girl can play. Apart from that who gives a damn?"

"It's brilliant!" Mr. Squires cried, with a snap of his fingers. "We'll be rich!"

I was glad to see that Loman and Cocteau were also looking at Squires as if they feared for his sanity. I would hate to think that random exclamations were a normal occurrence.

"What are you talking about, man?"

"We can bill her as the Indian Princess! Emerged from the Wilds of the Subcontinent with Sublime Musical Skill! Performing exclusively with the London Opera Company! Those bast- blokes at the Theatre Royal won't know what hit them!" Squires was only the second person I'd met who could speak like a playbill. The first was currently residing in the depths of the University's media productions department.

"We'll send someone out to buy her one of those Indian dresses. It will be fantastic. She'll be the hit of the season!"

I wondered if he had considered the problem of me being several skin shades lighter than the average Indian woman. I decided not to mention it in case he developed a brilliant solution involving skin dye.

"We'll have to do something about the name though."

"Everyone, this is Miss Solei Watson."

It had taken some serious negotiation to wiggle out of being given some faux-Hindi stage name, but I managed to convince Squires that my current name was sufficiently exotic. That, and I threatened to develop a case of amnesia every time he called me by the wrong name.

"She had just arrived from Calcutta and the court of the Maharaja there. She will be our pianist this season. I hope you will all welcome her to our little family." Mr. Squires said everything like he was an actor in a melodrama; he either gushed or lamented. The expressions of my fellow cast mates gave me little hope for a cheery welcome. They ranged from indifference (the orchestra) to condescension (the actresses) to lust (one of the actors) and naked envy on the part of the guy whose place I had usurped. Fun times.

"Hello." I said hopefully. Silence. Crickets chirped.

"Well, then," Squires said, oblivious, "I will leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Cocteau."

Dr. Cocteau gazed at me as if I were the worst talentless hack he had ever had this misfortune to meet. (All good music teachers do this.) I returned his gaze evenly.

"Well." He snapped, looking straight at me but addressing the whole stage. "We have precisely one week to transform this group of [pause to indicate disgust] artists into the cast of Bharata. Places!"

There was a brief flurry of action as the actors scurried for the wings and the orchestra made its way to pit. A few minutes were spent in the inevitable tuning of instruments and I hurriedly examined my sheet music.

As I mentioned before, I'd rather be practicing snare than playing opera, but it seemed I had little choice if I wanted to keep a roof over my head. I became aware of the curious glances from my fellow musicians and the Glare of Death from Mr. Anderson in the stalls. I pretended to ignore them, while sneaking glances of my own. Alex had disappeared once I started my audition, but he had yet to reappear, though I looked for him among the stage crew.

I was also trying to get comfortable in this damned dress. The dress Alex had stolen earlier was torn, stained, and a size too small, so Mr. Squires had gotten one of the singers donate a dress to me until "more suitable clothing" could be obtained. Thankfully, it was not the standard corset and bustle item that I had been expecting, but rather a loose gown tied on with a sash. I looked like I belonged in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, but at least I blended in.

"Settle down. We only have half a day, so this better be right the first time." Dr. Cocteau grumbled. I noticed that his French accent was more pronounced when he was angry. A few pointed glances were directed at Anderson, whose audition was apparently responsible for the loss of practice.

We plunged into the overture and played through to the curtain rising. At this point we had to stop so Loman could yell at the chorus for being in the wrong spot.

I pretended to examine my sheet music and noted the reactions of the orchestra. This time, I saw expressions of mixed satisfaction and relief. Finally, a tempo. Anderson fumed in the stalls.

Author's Note

Regarding the problem of continuity: I established in the other stories that Alex and Solei don't like their first names, but in this story I let all that slide. And I will continue to let it slide, since I actually like this way better, plus it's less confusing.

Regarding the time coin: I realize this sounds silly, but I dislike the type of fanfiction in which time travel occurs for no specific reason. Especially in a fandom like Sherlock Holmes, I feel like things should have reasons.

I sort of, kind of hinted at the idea that Alex and Solei are sent back in time for a specific purpose in the old version, but I didn't really flesh out the idea well. It wasn't a big change plot-wise, but it did require a lot of extra words.

Regarding Moonlight Serenade: Initially, this was "My Immortal" by Evanescence. I still like the song, but it seems jarring in this context. Take note: the songs which seem cool and classic now may not withstand the test of time.

Regarding the problem of a piano in the opera: When I was first writing this, I went looking for an opera with a piano part in, since I'd already established that solei played piano and I didn't want to give her sudden expertise in another instrument.

For some reason, I got the impression that Tristan und Isolde was such an opera. Further research suggests that this is not the case. It was never terribly important to the plot, but it bothers me nonetheless. So I decided to make up an opera here, which can have a kazoo part in it if I like.

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.