Saturday: Dramatic Tension Builds

Solei Returns

I awoke the next morning to an Opera in a state of barely controlled panic. Aside from the usual opening night hysterics on the part of the cast, the stage crew was trying frantically to repair the damage done by last night's falling spotlight. Alex informed me of their progress through the door as I changed into my new scarlet sari.

"They've got all the wreckage cleared away, but the real problem is getting a new piano."

"Why's that a problem?" I asked.

"There isn't one in the entire city. Not a lot of demand for grand pianos, so each one is generally custom-ordered. It doesn't have to be a grand piano," Alex continued, mostly to himself. "What's wrong with an upright piano?" Despite the door, I managed to create a sarcastic silence.

"The sound's all wrong," I said. "It would throw off the acoustic dynamic of the orchestra."

"I doubt that people would notice."

"So do I. But logic had no place in Opera."

"I've noticed."

"All clear. What do you think?" I opened the door for Alex to enter.

"I think it's a good thing Marguerite defected to the Other Opera. She'd probably kill you for stealing the spotlight with that outfit."

"Awww, aren't you sweet," I started in on the massive pile of jewelry we'd pulled out of the storage trunks. If I was going to be playing at the exotic Indian princess, I might as well go all the way.

"You missed a spot, though."

It turns out getting tackled by a guy who weighs at least 30 pounds more than you, and landing in a pile of folding chairs can leave a few bruises. The folds of the sari hid most of them, but I ended up borrowing (read: stealing) some stage makeup from the Corps de Ballet. Alex smeared some more over a bruise on the back of my arm.

"I wonder what the saboteur's next move will be?" Alex asked, as he stretched out on the bed.

"We'll, if I was him, I'd wait and see if the destroyed piano would do the trick. But then again, we haven't had much luck predicting this guy's moves."

"That's because he's an amateur," Alex scoffed. "If he were a professional, it would be easy to predict what his next move would be. As it is, Sherlock's plan is our best shot. By the way, did you notice that Mister Holmes paired me and him up?" Alex asked. I noted the heavy sarcasm on Mister.

"I did notice. He's still not sure that you might be working as a team with the saboteur. This way he can keep an eye on you, and the other suspects," I grinned. "I guess Psych 1000 wasn't all for naught after all."

"Probably would have been more helpful if you went to lectures more often."

"Hey, I only ditched on purpose a couple of times."

"What about the other dozen times?"

"Slept through it, occasionally while in the lecture hall," I finished fiddling with the earrings and turned my attention to the bangles. I wouldn't wear them while playing, but until then I was going all out.

"Do you think he's really the Sherlock Holmes?" I asked my own Alexander Holmes.

"I dunno. One the one hand, he's fiction, but on the other, so is time travel."

"I know. If this is possible, then anything could be possible."

"You're not going to bring up fate again?"

"Fate? No. Kismet, possibly, but not fate," Alex rolled his eyes.

"I'm going downstairs to find Virgil-slash-Sherlock Holmes," he said, getting up.

"I'll see you down there," I called after him. Once I had all my glass baubles arranged satisfactorily, I checked my reflection in the small mirror. If a sari could cause a commotion among the Theatre crowd, I couldn't wait to see its effect on a crowd of respectable Victorians. But shocking sensibilities would have to wait; I needed to check on the progress of my new piano.

I found a group of stagehands staring half-heartedly at the open space where the piano used to be. Miles, as the most senior member of the stage crew had taken on the duties of stage manager while Mr. Barnes recovered from his head wound. He greeted me with a nod, unaffected by my new outfit. He'd probably seen much more shocking things in his years at the Opera.

"I suppose there's been no progress on a new piano," I asked.

"There will be a replacement here in two weeks," Miles replied, "but we'll not need it by then."

"Perhaps this is a silly question, but what about the one backstage?" I offered. The stagehands looked baffled.

"Which one backstage?"

"It's impossible."

"S'not."

"How do you figure?"

"'Cause it's there." The other stagehand found this line of reasoning hard to argue with and admitted defeat. I'd led the group of stagehands backstage to the impossible practice room. The piano in there was only a baby grand piano, but the acoustics were good enough for it to act as a replacement for the time being. Now the problem was getting the piano from where it was to where it needed to be.

The stagehands had tried everything to get the piano to fit through the door. Nothing worked, not even taking the legs off.

"Someone got it in; there must be a way to get it out," Miles said with determination.

"I've got an idea," I offered.

"Yes, lass?"

"I don't think you'll like it."

"You can tell me lass, then I will tell you if I like it."

"Well, I think the piano was there first and the wall was built after it, so the piano never actually went through the door," I paused. Miles nodded for me to continue. "I don't think there is a way to get it out the door, but you could take it out through the wall."

Miles deliberated my suggestion for a minute, then turned to one of his subordinates.

"Murphy, go get the sledgehammer."

"Wow."

"I know," Alex and I stood before the new door to the practice room. It was roughly piano-shaped.

"I'm glad I wasn't on that work crew," Alex said. "I met up with the other Holmes and Watson. They're going to have a couple of cops in the audience, just in case we need some legitimate authority."

"You do realize that we've got no hard evidence whatsoever?" I asked Alex.

"Doesn't seem to bother Mr. Holmes," he shrugged. "We'll probably get him on conspiracy to commit assault, but anything else he'll have to confess to."

"And the employer gets off scot-free."

"Unless we find some conveniently incriminating letters, yes."

The chaos of the Opera swirled all around, but I remained apart. It felt surreal to be worried about capturing a saboteur when all those around me were searching frantically for their other shoe or the right shade of lipstick, all the while calling out the time left until the curtains rose. It was like listening to a really stressed out New Year's Eve party.

There was about an hour left before the curtain rose. The audience was beginning to arrive.

Alex, Holmes and Watson were already engaged in tailing their respective suspects. Alex gave me a wave when I caught sight of him perched in the flies. The good doctor was on stage level, keeping an eye on one of the scene shifters. The loss of two of their number had left the stage crew too harried to notice the extra man backstage, as long as he kept out of trouble.

I fiddled with the tail end of the sari as I watched the frantic activity backstage. I was trying hard not to think of anything at all, because my thoughts inevitably turned to the disasters that the saboteur could cause if the boys failed to catch him. I took some comfort, however, in knowing that the spotlight above my piano hadn't been replaced yet, so I wouldn't have to keep looking up during the performance.

I realized what I was doing and dropped the end of the sari. My hands had a mind of their own, though, because a few minutes later I realized I was twiddling with my earring.

"Have you played in the Opera before?" Watson asked me. I jumped and nearly fell off the stool I was perched on. I had been so distracted I hadn't noticed his approach.

"Not in the Opera. Er, smaller venues, though."

"Holmes has told me of your musical talents. I am sure you will do quite well."

"It comes back to you now, how many hours you could have spent practicing. You're never sure if you've practiced enough until you get to the ovation. It's the same way with exams. I always feel prepared until I turn over the paper and there's a carboxyl group staring me in the face."

Carboxyl groups happened to be on my mind at the moment because of a test I had taken a couple of weeks ago during the summer semester. I was really mad about that test, because carboxyl groups were definitely not on the study guide. I think that's like cheating, when a professor fails to tell you what he's going to test you on.

"Carboxyl group? You've read chemistry?" Watson asked, with a note of shock in his voice. Normally I would have said something sarcastic, but I remembered when I was.

"Present tense." I decided to give him the truth. "I'm studying for medical school."

"Oh." Watson considered this for a moment. "You are studying to be a nurse?" He asked with innocent curiosity. Sadly, this was the question I usually got in the present day too. Don't get me wrong; nurses are wonderful, magical people who get a lot of crap and not enough credit. But not every woman in the hospital is a nurse, just like not every guy is a doctor. I mean, what century are you living in?

I caught myself mid-mental rant and grinned. That was indeed an excellent question.

"No, I'm studying to be a doctor, with lots of lovely letters after my name. Surgery, internal med, cardiology, there's just so much to choose from." To his credit, Watson digested the idea of a female doctor very well; better, in fact, than some so-called modern men.

"And Mr. Alexander, is he studying at university too?"

"Yeah." I nodded, and my dangly earrings chimed together. "For a philosophy degree. What use is a philosophy degree, I ask you?"

"Why did you decide to come to the Opera? Are you here just for the summer?" Watson asked. It was only then that I realized what he was doing. Mr. Sherlock Holmes got answers out of you by giving the impression he could read them off the back of your skull if he wished. Dr. John Watson got answers out of you with patient, circular probing, until you'd revealed all your secrets without even realizing it.

"Hard to say, really," I answered him.

"Forgive my curiosity, but I must ask. What is your relationship with Mr. Alex, exactly?"

Funny you should ask, I thought, I was just wondering that myself. I had been sharing a room with one of my best friends, who happened to be a boy, for the past week. It wasn't the first time we'd shared a room, although admittedly, those other times the rest of The Irregulars had been there too. But that entire time it hadn't been the least bit awkward, until Thursday night/Friday morning when I'd went and gotten drunk and kissed him.

"Friends. We're just friends."

Doc Watson didn't get to finish his interrogation, because one of the ballerinas came bouncing over.

"Solei? Solei! You'd better come quick Miss Solei!" She said in a shrill, breathless voice that reminded me strongly of a whistle.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Miss Brook! She won't come out of her dressing room!"

Author's note

Regarding the piano: The line "What's wrong with an upright piano?" was the line that made me want to redo everything. Initially, Solei asked this question, but, being the pianist, she would obviously know the difference between and upright and a grand piano. I only intended to make some minor changes, but I kept finding sections that I thought I could do better, and I ended up writing another 6,000 or so words.

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.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.