o magnum mysterium
Lachesis merely hummed in response. She had not, upon first glance, expected that her companion was the chatty sort - on monastery grounds, she seemed composed and powerful, and while that radiated here as well, there was something about her that did not lend itself to silence.
Perhaps this was why she had agreed to come - a performer for a performer.
“Of course,” was all Lachesis said as they stood, weaving their way through the applauding crowds giving their first ovation. By her estimate, the first ovation would last around five minutes, then an encore, then another ovation - at least, this would be what she might expect for a true performance. However, a rehearsal was different, a more casual and exclusive affair.
The better, as Zephia had said herself, to breed familiarity, and trust.
The bustle of the backstage was easier to access, for all that, than it perhaps might have been at a true showing, and Lachesis smiled warmly at those who passed, guest and stagehand alike. She did not disagree that breeding familiarity was the easiest route forward - it was ever how she had manoeuvred in Agustria, when all else had failed her. Better with honey, even when they deserved vinegar.
“Excuse me,” she tapped one of the stagehands on the shoulder, and he turned to appraise her with a look that was half bright interest, and half cool suspicion, lingering on the dresses they wore.
“Ay?”
“My friend and I just watched the performance - splendid work from all, except…” Her eyes flicked down the the chalk on his hands, the corded muscle along his forearms from heaving rope for set, for curtain, for ballast; she smiled, charming. “We believe that it could have been a little better for the lighting-”
“I knew it,” he snapped immediately, dusting hands on his worn trousers and throwing them up in the air, a gesture of deep-seated irritation. “I told ‘em, I told Connor that the lighting needed to be better, but he’s been in with Jolanda and she said that the dimmer light makes the yellows pop, or some shit, and he ate it right out her hand, and now the rest of the girls all up on my ass too.”
Two names already, and all it'd taken was a pretty smile and a suggestion for improvement. And for something that sounds terribly simple, Zephia knows better than most that it isn't; it takes a certain eye and a certain charm to identify who to approach and which hint to dangle, like a fisherman choosing a specific bait for the right time and place. It seems she's been paired with a very capable woman for this assignment.
"Oh, dear... that's a shame," Zephia frowns, truly looking displeased on his behalf. "That was really the only thing we found amiss. Is there no one that can speak to Connor and have him see sense? It truly was the only shortcoming of the performance; I'd hate to see something with such a simple solution keep it from further renown..."
"Bah!" The stagehand waves the mere suggestion off with an aggressive shake. "He's so crazy about her that he won't listen to anyone within a ten mile radius. Gerald tried, too—took him out drinking some nights ago, you know, since he was the stage manager for that other big production, Five Dusks in Faerghus or whatever, so obviously he knows what he's talkin' about... but no, Connor was as stubborn as a thrice-damned mule!"
"Perhaps we can pass along a letter, then," Zephia suggests. "A simple review from two admirers of his work. Stubborn he may be, but he must surely also care about the audience's opinion."
"You can try," comes the reply. "But I'm tellin' ya, it's a wasted effort." He pauses briefly to look around, scanning his surroundings until he finds someone with a snap. "There—that's Margaret. She handles the finances, so everyone kinda tiptoes around her. Don't be scared, though; she just looks tough as nails, but she's actually really nice once you get her talkin'. If there's two things she cares about in this world, it's profitability and messy gossip. I always say she'd be better off as some gossip magazine columnist, you know, but—"
"Perfect." Zephia turns to Lachesis, then, settling a hand on her companion's elbow. "Shall we?"
