Saturday: Doctor Watson's Thoughts
I confess I felt rather like a hunter in the Indian jungle, spying upon his prey. I had been assigned to watch the movement of a sceneshifter by the name of Jenkins. He was leaned up against the wall, observing the activity around him and doing nothing suspicious whatsoever. Miss Solei had just been dragged away to help soothe the hysterics of one of the other ladies of the Opera.
As I watched the suspect, my mind drifted back to the morning. Holmes had insisted that I familiarize myself with the layout of the opera house, so I found myself in the balcony when several stagehands, with the assistance of a block-and-tackle, maneuvered a new piano into the orchestra pit. It was a tense affair, and there was an audible sigh of relief once the piano was in place.
Mr. Alex and Miss Solei had appeared on stage during this process. The acoustics of the theatre were marvelous, and I could hear nearly every word that transpired.
"I really hope that's still in tune," Miss Solei said, sitting on the edge of the stage while the ropes were cleared away.
"If it wasn't, would you be able to fix it before tonight?"
"Probably not," Miss Solei conceded. She hopped lightly into the pit and took her seat before the instrument. She played a few random notes, then proceeded methodically from the lowest note to the highest.
Now Holmes would be the first to tell you that I am no musical genius, but to me each note sounded pure and true.
"It'll do," Miss Solei said.
"You're barely going to use that lowest octave," Alex said reprovingly. He perched on the edge of the stage, rolling a gold coin over his knuckles.
"The other one had better tone. Poor thing," she sighed. She played a few more notes, somewhat idly, then plunged into a piece I had never heard before. It was bright and lilting, somehow jaunty, and entirely at odds with her melancholy appearance. Holmes was right, the girl certainly had talent.
After a few minutes, Mr. Alex moved from the stage to the piano bench, taking possession of the lower octaves. The melody grew more complex, and the jauntiness was overtaken by a wistful joy, of things past. They sat shoulder to shoulder for some minutes, weaving the simple melody into an ethereal elegy. If they spoke, I could not hear.
Later that afternoon I reported my findings to Holmes, who responded with an indifferent grunt and filed the information away in his capacious brain.
One of the few subjects, perhaps the only subject, in which I considered myself superior to Holmes was matters of the heart. If these two youths were not lovers, perhaps they were near enough so as to make no difference.
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.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.