Wintergale - Octavia

By: Wintergale on Jun 23rd, 2013 | syntax: None | size: 41.85 KB | hits: 540 | expires: Never

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>Day Zero:
>The dim cacophony of a hundred hushed voices rolled across the concert hall in a manner similar to that to a stormy sea. It would only be moments now before the carpets were drawn aside, exposing the eye of the storm. The lights dimmed and the spoken chorus of Canterlot’s cultural elite faded with it. I fastened the grip on my violin, as if to brace myself from the crowd I was soon to face. The curtains were drawn aside. Time for music.
>The white noise died as I raised my bow to the violin’s delicate strings. I gazed out on the audience, more out of habit than of actual interest. It was always the same people who attended my concerts. Those who came to experience my music where always outnumbered by those who came to become experienced. The concert hall was just another social arena for the rich and famous.
>It was in this short moment of silence between the sounds of the masses and my first note for the evening that I had started to call “The Eye of the Storm” that I was first struck by a pair of amethyst eyes. She was clearly out of place, the beautiful woman on the first row. Her simple black dress looked like a single iron coin in a chest of golden bits. Unimpressive, but practical. Common, but resilient.
>I’ve seen all kinds of eyes from my place on the stage, round eyes, thin eyes, deep eyes and shallow eyes. But never before had I seen eyes like hers. They were screaming something few other eyes dared whisper: passion.
>Suddenly becoming aware of how long my “moment of silence” had become, I started playing. I don’t think I’ve ever put on a better show before, for while my feedback speakers told plenty of how my music sounded, it was not before today that I could know how my music felt. For I saw it all reflected in a pair of radiant amethysts. I spent the entire concert with my eyes trapped in their power.
>Once the applause died out and we went backstage, I refused to join the other musicians for some celebratory champagne. Heck, I didn’t even bother to put my violin back in its case; I just dumped it in a chair and ran for the main entrance. I had to find her.
>I managed to spot her as she made her way out of the concert hall. Her long black hair and simple clothing standing out from the overly decorated apparel of my usual listeners. She was talking on her cellphone when I finally reached her.
”May I ask your name?”
>I had no idea what I was supposed to say, and I hoped that my sudden intervention didn’t startle her.
”Oh Celestia it’s you!”
>She uttered a quick “I’ll have to call you back”, and ended her call, swiftly stuffing the phone back in her purse.
>The rest of our conversation flowed as smoothly as skin on sandpaper, with me sounding every bit as awkward as I felt. She was open and friendly, but I sensed a certain strain on her voice, and I hoped I wasn’t making an utter ass of myself.
>Her name was Octavia, and this was her first day in the capital. She’d left behind everything she had to start a life as a classical cellist. She was just on her way to find a cheap motel where she could get a room for a while, at least until she found a job and a more permanent lodging. She asked, in a joking tone, if I knew of any one that could take her in.
”I need a new maid”.
FUCK! Where did that eve come from? I’d never had a maid before. In fact, I made a point of living in a moderately sized house for exactly that reason. I liked my home being no bigger than I could manage on my won. She’s going to think I’m such a creep for sugge…
”Great. Where do you live?”
>Day One:
>At exactly six o’clock in the morning, the doorbell rang. I woke up, my head still heavy from lying awake into the small hours of the morning fantasising about my new maid. I put some clothes on in a hurry, as if she’s going to disappear if I don’t answer the door fast enough. It still took a while for me to dress and run down the stairs from the second floor and into the hall.
>She stood there in the soft morning light, a suitcase in her right arm and a cello case in her left. She was wearing the smallest maid outfit I’ve ever seen, her dress just barely covering the top half of her thighs. The air of security and grace that surrounded her the night before was gone, and she was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. I can’t recall asking her to wear a uniform, and I wondered how she got hold on one in the short time since I’d offered her the job.
>She stared at me in silence. I gave in.
“Welcome, Octavia. I can show you to your bedroom.”
>She followed me, still holding her apparent vow of silence. I gave her some time to settle in and unpack, and told her to meet me in the study when she was done.
>I spent well over half an hour reading and replying to letters before she joined me.
“Octavia, it’s time that we go through the basic schedule for your daily chores”
“As you say”
>Her voice was dripping with venom, and I halted my speech. What had happened to the charming, well-spoken lady from the night before? She must have mistaken my pause for disapproval, as she added “Master”, in a tone somehow more toxic than her last.
“You don’t need to call me that. “
“No, of course not. Master”
>Deciding to ignore her attempt to make me uncomfortable, I ran her through a normal day in my life. When I preferred to eat dinner, when I needed silence in the house so that I could practice, and when I left for band practice. She followed keenly, but didn’t say a word. When we were done, I asked her to make me some breakfast, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
>I spent most of the day practising in the living room, which was where I kept my violin. Now and then I would catch her in the corner of my eye, stalling in her tasks, and her amethyst eyes becoming faint echoes of their past glory as she watched me play. But each time I turned to look at her, she went back to work, and the passion would disappear.
>Oh did I regret taking her in. It was like putting an armed bomb under your pillow and going to sleep. She made decent food, but you could tell that it was rushed. She cleaned and washed, but never more than absolutely necessary. And then there was the cloud of contempt hanging around her. Had I not seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed that it was possible to contemptfully vacuum the first floor, but she made it seem easy.
>I went to bed early that day, wondering how soon I could fire her without being rude. Her presence made me uneasy, and even now I could hear her moving around on the first floor, and I dared not imagine what she was doing down there.
>I slept uneasy that night, but not because of fantasies of the perfect maid, but rather the feeling of having my personal life invaded.
>Day Two:
>I woke up at eight, as per usual, and headed down to find a half-cold breakfast ready on the dining table. Octavia was nowhere to be found. I ate all of it except for the slices of undercooked bacon that was somehow supposed to go with my bread and breakfast sausages. After satisfying my hunger, if nothing else, I headed for my study, hoping to catch up on some mail I hadn’t had the chance to read the day before. I opened the door slowly, as the door had a tendency to make a high, unpleasant screeching sound if opened too fast.
>She was standing there, bent over my desk, her short dress allowing me to see far more than would be appropriate. She was going through my letters, her long sleek fingers jumping from paper to paper for what must have been several minutes before I finally broke the silence.
“Looking for anything?”
>She let out a small scream, and spun around with a speed that would put a wonderbolt to shame.
“NO! I was just… looking for a schedule or something, so that I know when you’re playing concerts. You said that I had to prepare dinner earlier on those days.”
>Judging by the look in her eyes, she didn’t expect me to believe her. I didn’t.
“You can ask me if there are any uncertainties, but since you are so eager to serve, there are dishes that need washing on the dining table.”
>I am not an angry man, and I take great pride in my conflict shy nature, but this was getting out of hand, and I made no attempt to hide the brooding anger in my voice. She left the study without any protest, no doubt eager to get out of my way.
“And Octavia? Never enter my study unless I specifically ask for it.”
>I got no answer.
>Later on in the day I decided to go out for some errands. I had mail to post and people to meet, and I wouldn’t be back until late into the evening. I told Octavia that I expected the house to be clean by then, no doubt a simple task for someone as dedicated as her. The last thing I did was to lock my study door, something I hadn’t ever done before.
>I knew something was wrong the second I stepped into the hall. Octavia was sitting on a chair in the living room, her neck was bruised, and several small cuts adorned her right upper arm. She had made no attempt to stop the bleeding, and her wet eyes told of tears recently shed.
“What’s the matter?”
>Angry as I had been, I could not help but feel sorry for her, and I tried my best to make my somewhat alcohol-affected voice seem as calm and helpful as possible. She just buried her face in her hands, before pointing towards the floor, further into the living room.
>I’m unsure as to how I’m supposed to describe what I saw. Upon the floor lay a hundred wooden pieces, each of them splinters of a familiar object. I knew what it was, but it was not until I saw the strings that my brain accepted it. My violin.
>It might be hard to understand the significance of a instrument to anyone but the owner, but for me, this was no less grave than murder. I had never been an angry man. Now I was. I turned to her.
“You come to my house because I offered you a job. All I wanted was some help around the house and an opportunity to help a young musician find a job. You show up here dressed as a prostitute, with poison in your mouth and hate in your mind. You read my mail and destroy the only thing in this house I truly cared about!”
>I started out cold and controlled, but by the end I was shouting out every word with a tone that can only be fuelled by anger and alcohol. She was sobbing loudly by the end.
“Go, you are dismissed for the evening. It would be wise to pack before you go to sleep. You will leave as soon as
morning comes.”
“Please… I have nowhere to go.”
“Didn’t sound that way when you first introduced yourself.”
“I lied. It wasn’t my first day in Canterlot. I’ve been here for two months. I was living with a friend, but she threw me out.”
“I can’t imagine why. So you lose your home and you go to an expensive concert. No wonder you’re homeless.”
“I was looking for patrons! Someone that would support a promising young musician.”
“Promising young musician? You can’t even hold an instrument without ruining it! Fuck, how did you manage to break a violin like that?”
“I tripped… I was trying to play it.”
“YOU WERE TRYING TO PLAY IT?”
>She gave no answer, and only intensified her sobbing. I realised that I had to lower my voice. The whole neighbourhood could probably hear me shouting. But even if I seemed calmer, my heart still called for one thing. The most human response there is. Revenge.
“Go get your cello.”
“What?”
“Go get your cello; I’m going to play it.”
“No…”
“It either that or I throw you out right now, no cello, no clothes, just you and that fetish garb all alone in the big city night. Would you like that?”
>She made some sort of answer, but I could not make out what it was, as her words seemed to drown between her sobs. I raised my voice again.
“Get your cello!”
>She disappeared into her bedroom. I sat down in the chair I had found her in. Small drops of blood were sprinkled all over the right side of it. A good portion of it had begun to darken, taking an appearance not entirely unlike ink stains on paper.
>I don’t know how many minutes passed before she reappeared. I just sat there, mind empty while listening to the wild drumming of my own heart. Her hands were trembling, holding the cello like a mother holds her child. She didn’t make a sound, not even the slightest sob. For one look into those soulful eyes told me more than a library of tomes.
>With hands as steady as an excited Parkinson’s patient, she handed me the instrument. I grabbed the fingerboard with two hands, not bothering to pick up the bow. I fingered the strings for a short while, each broken note making her visibly flinch.
>I stopped, but offered no room for pause as I lifted the cello above my head, holding it by the neck as a construction worker holds a sledgehammer.
>I tried to smash it, I truly did. But just as I had found myself spellbound by her that first night at the concert call, I now found myself lost once more in her deep amethyst wells. I felt like a monster. I wasn’t an angry man. I was a slightly drunk man, upset by the loss of a 164 year old piece of wood. I lowered my hands.
“You are dismissed. There is no need for you to pack. You will receive no pay until you’ve covered the loss of my violin, and your cello will be locked in my study until I deem you ready for my thrust again. Understood?”
>I could not tell if her face was twisted with remorse or relief, but it was clear to see that I had taken her by surprise. Her response was a whisper, so low that I had to strain my ears to make out what she said.
“…Understood…”
“Understood?”
“… Understood… Master.”
“Good. I will retire now. Clean this place up before you go to bed. Oh, and you’ve got blood on your uniform. Make sure you are wearing a clean one come morning.”
>I didn’t even wait for her to answer; I just left her alone there, standing amongst the wooden splinters, looking unsure as to where to start. I slept surprisingly well that night.
Day Three:
>The house was silent when I woke up, and for a moment I was unsure if last night had really happened at all. It all seemed surreal now, like an especially realistic nightmare. I dressed myself and walked down the stairs in utter silence. I don’t know why I was so silent that morning. Maybe I was afraid to awaken the ghosts of last night’s event. Maybe I was just clinging on to the hope that these last two days were nothing but products of my imagination, and that my experience with Octavia had ended that night in the concert hall. How can something so beautiful be so vile?
>I was almost at the kitchen when I halted. I had to know. I walked into the living room, half expecting my violin’s carcass to still be lying on the floor; its wooden guts spilled everywhere.
>The room was spotless. No wooden splinters, no strings, no blood. Heck, even my violin case was where it used to be, on a stand near the windows. I walked over to it, not really sure what to expect, and carefully weighted it in my hands. It was hollow.
>As I made my way out of the living room, I noticed small spots on the fabric of a chair. It was the colour of dried ink. Technically, washing this would be the maid’s job, but I was far from eager to call out for her. Breakfast could wait. I removed the fabric and went to the washing room.
>I don’t know who was the most surprised when I opened the door. She was no doubt surprised to see me, fabric in hand and eyes still heavy from sleep, intruding on her. And I know for a fact that I was surprised by her apparel, or sooner, lack thereof.
>She was wearing nothing but black lace panties, and was apparently in the process of putting on her bra when I made my entrance. Her maid suit, probably fresh out of the washing machine, was hanging on a drying rack behind her, still dripping with water.
>Believe it or not, there are actually several acceptable ways for a man to react when he walks in on an undressed female. Most of them are variations of staring into the ground and apologizing as you swiftly remove yourself from the premises, but my point still stands. But as many and varied as these reactions are, I, or rather some prehistoric part of my brain, chose something so horrendously wrong it would make for a good porn plot:
>I smiled.
>I could see that she was struggling hard to repress her anger. My outburst last night had to have been effective, for had I walked in on her the day before, I would have feared for my life.
Stop smiling and get your sorry ass out of here!
>I was screaming internally at myself, but there was just something confoundingly amusing about seeing her like this. The Ice Queen, the Venom Maid, who not even a day ago mocked me with every breath that she took, was now repressing her anger. She dropped her bra, her hands tightening into fists.
>With quick steps she walked up to me, her modest breast moving ever so slightly with each step she took. She grabbed the fabric with one hand and tore it out of my grip. She looked up at me with those amethyst eyes beautiful amethyst eyes I had once found gentle.
“If the master would kindly step back?”
>Her words hit me as gently as a tsunami would hit an orphanage, and I stepped back with a step so long it would be comical under other circumstances. She slammed the door shut in my face, and before I could reach for the door handle, or even begin to formulate any kind of apology, I heard the lock turn.
>The rest of the day went about as well as expected. The food was better than ever, the cleaning was excellent, and I lived with the constant feeling that I could be stabbed to death with a kitchen knife any minute.
>In the evening I locked myself into my study. I had already dismissed Octavia for the evening, since everything that needed to be done in the house was already long done. There were no letters for me today, but I had a different agenda. I dragged the big, black cello case out from the closet I’d hidden it in, and opened it, my fingers trembling ever so slightly.
>It was a beautiful instrument. In many ways, it reminded me of my violin (my late violin if we’re being painfully accurate). It wasn’t old or expensive, nor was it decorated or stylish, not like my instrument. It was worn, but in a good way. It was worn in the same fashion a childhood treasure is worn, with every scratch and bit of strained wood only making it more valuable to the owner.
>As I lifted the cello out of the case to study it more carefully, I found something I, in my fit of anger, hadn’t seen last night. At the bottom of the case lay a number of note-sheets and books, jammed as thick as the case would allow.
>I have a friend, well several in fact, who play the cello. But amongst them only one has ever managed to talk me into playing it. But though it had been years since I’d last played it, I was overcome by a desire to play some music one way or another. Feeling like a little boy again, learning to play the violin for the first time, I started playing a version of “Eternal Solstice” I had found amongst her papers. And even though I made a thousand errors, I could not help but try to play it again. And again. And again.
>It was past midnight when I finally gave up. My arms were aching from the unfamiliar movements, and while it had been quite an ordeal to my ears, I could not help but feel happy. The house was draped in silence as I made my way up the stairs to the master bedroom, but I can’t help but think that I saw something in the darkness that was my living room.
>It might just have been my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear to Celestia it looked like a pair of amethysts in the dark. Two passionate gemstones, and a dim smile.
>Day Four:
>After having a wonderful breakfast, I spent most of my morning on the phone, managing to borrow a decent violin from a friend of mine, though I made a point of storing it at the concert hall, where my band had a small storage.
>Octavia seemed calmer than she had ever been before, and although I could still feel a wall of figurative ice between us, her words had lost nearly all of their poison. In fact, I could swear I even saw her smiling to herself once or twice, when she was sure I wasn't looking.
>At six in the afternoon I left, explaining to her that I was meeting a dealer in antique instruments and would be going straight to band practise afterwards, which would likely be followed by some rounds at a nearby bar. Thus, as she didn’t have to prepare any more meals for the day, and since I hadn’t been able to make a mess of the house yet, I gave her the evening off.
>It was barely eleven o’clock when I returned home. I hadn’t been able to find a violin I liked, and none of the other band members had accepted my invitation for a night out. Octavia was nowhere to be found, so I assumed she was either asleep or outside, begging her friend to let her move back in.
>I locked myself in my study yet again, too tired to continue writing, yet not tired enough to go to bed. The cello case was calling for me, and it was not long before I sat there, bow in my hand and “Eternal Solstice” in front of me.
>I played until I almost fell asleep; and luckily there was no practise tomorrow, for I played the same broken tune on that cello until the small hours of the morning.
>I dragged myself up the stair and into the master bedroom, this time seeing no eyes in the dark. Just as I had undressed and was about to lay down I saw something rectangular lying on my pillow. I picked it up to examine it further with my tired eyes. It was a book, and although my room was dark I could just manage to read the title:
>Cello for beginners.
>Day Five:
>I woke up a bit earlier the next day, and while my head hurt from too little sleep, I could not help but smile to myself. It had been just a few hours ago that I had set my clock half an hour forwards, so that I was sure to catch Octavia as she was preparing my breakfast.
>Despite feeling exhausted, finding that book had filled my whole body with a warm, fuzzy feeling, and it had been hard for me to find rest afterwards. I couldn’t help but feel exited.
>I strode down the stairs with long, quiet steps, but stopped, realizing that this would be the third time I would sneak up on her, and I didn’t want to seem like a creep. Well, more like a creep anyway.
>She was apparently cleaning after her own breakfast when I entered the kitchen. She looked confused to see me so soon, especially as I didn’t have anything in particular scheduled for today. To call her by any other word than radiant would do her injustice. She had slept even less than me, but looked as keen and awake as royal guardswoman, yet her gaze was soft and warm as a mild summer’s day.
“Oh, I’m sorry Master. I didn’t realize you were awake already. I’ll get breakfast ready in an instant.”
“Oh please. Do take your time. I just happened to wake up a bit early.”
>Seconds dragged along. It had all started out according to plan. Wake up early, make sure she stays a while, have a good tone, and just talk for a while. Not the most complicated of plans. But while I’d thought about countless subjects we could talk about last night, I now stood unable to find anything at all. Minutes that felt like hours passed before I managed to find something appropriate to say.
“So, we haven’t really talked much since you moved in. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself Octavia?”
“Well… what do you want to know?”
>She sounded a bit hesitant to tell me anything at all, so I decided to start out with something safe.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from a small town near Manehattan, the name isn’t important. It’s more rural than the inhabitants think. Great place if you’re a steelworker looking for a job. Not so much if you’re a classical cellist.”
“Or a maid.”
>She shrugged.
“I guess.”
>Seemed like she would rather talk about her music than her current occupation. It was understandable, and so I tried to push the conversation towards music.
“Did you grow up with musical parents?”
“Not really. My father worked so many years at the mill that he became steel himself. He had no love for any music but metal. The man was a living cliché.”
>She paused for a bit to move some of the newly cooked food over to a plate. Breakfast was served.
“My mother was a singer in her youth, before she left Stalliongrad. She refused to learn any songs in her new language. She didn’t help me play the cello, so I guess that’s irrelevant as well.”
>She poured some juice in a glass and put it down in front of me next to the plate.
“If you would excuse me, Master, I have other duties to look after.”
>She had almost left the room before I managed to respond.
“Octavia, I would appreciate it if you ate your breakfast with me on the mornings from now on.”
>She turned around and smiled. Not a hidden smile, not a sly smile, not a defiant smile. She was done with those games. It was a real smile.
“I’d love to, Master.”
>She disappeared again into the depths of the house.
>Not having to work every day is a blessing and a curse. I make enough money to live well off my concerts, and I don’t have to work a second job to make ends meet. Not since I was a student anyway, though I admit money was sparse for a while. It took some time for my music to really pay off. But when it did? Then it was worth all the cheap ramen I ate.
>After finishing breakfast I went to my study. I didn’t bother locking the door behind me. Normally, I would spend days like these doing a bit of writing, a bit of practising, and a lot of reading, before going out in the evening. I hadn’t really been out that much lately. I was getting a bit tired of Canterlot’s social scene, and the seemingly unending current of people that “I simply had to meet”.
>But now I had other, more pressing concerns on my mind. I took the cello out of its hiding place and the book out of my pocket. It was weird to read such basic texts about music again. I staggered my way through some of the practise movements. To be honest, it was still pretty far from being good, but managing to play some notes in a row without error felt as good as playing a whole concert on the violin. I was interrupted up a knock on the door.
“Master, a phone call for you.”
“Come in.”
>Octavia walked in and handed me my cellphone. I could see her gaze found rest on her cello, which I still held in one hand. I took the phone from her and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hi! It’s me. Look, I need you to do both of us a favour.”
>I know a lot of people. Or rather, a lot of people think they know me. But there is just one person I know who introduces himself with “It’s me”.
“What do you want now Note?”
“Want? I don’t want anything, Or rather, nothing that wouldn’t also benefit you.”
“Sigh… go on then.”
>Note was the kind of guy who’d never really grown out of his “oh so random” phase. I wouldn’t call him childish or socially awkward. I mean, he could talk a nun out of her clothes given enough time, but he was also the kind of guy who could derail a conversation at a formal dinner from being about freedom of speech to discussing the kitchen applications of The Anarchist’s Cookbook.
“So, tonight, there’s going to be a private party at the Philharmonica residence. Or mansion, which I guess would be more correct. Anyway, Old Man Philharmonica, whom I’m sure you know is the most respected violinist in town, has invited a lot of people, but he hasn’t said what the occasion is. It’s important that both of us show up there tonight.”
“Wait, why is this important? How do you even know about any of this?”
“I’ll get to that part. I’m guessing you were invited?”
“Yeah. I didn’t really plan on coming though. I had other things planned for this evening Besides, it told me to bring company. You know how much I dislike showing up alone at events made for couples. Did you get an invitation?”
“No, but I’ve got that all planned. As for company, judging by the feminine voice that answered the phone just now, you’ve got plenty of company. Wow, how long has it been since you broke up with your last girlfriend anyway? What was her name again?”
“Note, no. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It was something on L, wasn’t it? Or was it M? Was it L or M who showed up wearing nothing but a…”
“NO. Just let past be past and continue with your plan. You still haven’t told me why I should go there.”
“I was getting to that. Basically, the reason he’s calling all of his buds and a sizable part of Canterlot’s musicians over is that he’s retiring. He’s going to announce it at the end, and we’ve got up until then to make a good impression.”
“How do you even know any of this?”
“I have an agent on the inside. As you probably also know, he owns a collection of violins only rivalled by certain museums. Really good stuff too, if my informant isn’t lying to me. Thing is, he’s giving it away. Millions of bits worth of equipment, and he’s giving it away. Don’t ask me why, maybe his age’s getting to him, or maybe he sold his soul to play the fiddle, and is now giving it all away in a last attempt to reach redemption before he dies. I don’t know and I don’t care. Didn’t you wonder why you were invited? He’s invited what he considers to be the best young violinists in Canterlot. His plan is to name one of then his successor. Yes, it’s every bit as cheesy as it sounds, but the reward is worth it.”
“He couldn’t… I mean… Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. Anyway, the plan is pretty simple. Just bring your new girl over with you, and I’ll meet you there.”
“She’s just a friend. What do you get out of all of this anyway?”
“If you truly know me, what my goal for the evening is.”
“Sigh… Who is she?”
“His granddaughter. The Old Man can be a bit… over protective when it comes to her, so I’d appreciate it if you laid in a good word for me.”
“You never change, do you Note? Besides, what happened to that painter you were dating?”
“Let’s just say that her paintings weren’t the only thing that was surreal about her. Besides, this is different. I’ve never felt this way towards anyone before. I go day and night and I can’t get her out of my head. I’m going as her companion tonight. The Old Man doesn’t know anything yet, and I want to make a good first impression.”
“I recall you using those words about women before.”
“I’m telling you man, this is different. So meet me there tonight okay. Make sure to arrive a bit early, so you can properly introduce me to this friend of yours.”
>I didn’t even get a chance to respond before he hung up. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. If any of this was true, then it was a chance I couldn’t let pass. Heck, I’d never be wanting for fame, funds or equipment if I managed to pull this off. And I couldn’t let Note down, not after he practically became my manager while I was still a struggling artist. His golden tongue won me more gigs than I would’ve ever managed to get on my own. And I fear all the time he invested in me hurt his own career. I didn’t really have a choice, did I?
>I handed the phone back to Octavia.
“Do you own a dress that you could wear at a formal party?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, You’ll be needing it tonight.”
>We’d spent quite a bit of time going through our coverstories when the cab called from outside. We’d both agreed that it would probably be for the best if her occupation stayed hidden from the other guests. Our story, as most good stories are, was mostly based on truth. She was a young promising musician who had just moved to the capital, and was staying at my place for a while, as she hadn’t found a decent apartment yet.
>I still can’t believe she agreed to any of it. The plan was vague to say the least, and all I really had to go by was Note’s word. When I’d finished explaining she went quiet, and while it took some time before she agreed, her eyes had already betrayed her.
>Building and rehearsing the coverstory was probably the most fun I‘d had in some time. Octavia seemed more relaxed than usual. The discussion we shared was unlike anything we’d talked about in the last days. Getting her out of her uniform and into something else changed her. For the first time in a couple of days, I didn’t feel like “Master” anymore. I kind of liked it. Something about her reminded me about that first night in the concert hall, about the black-dressed girl with fire in her eyes. I’d never been one for these types of occasions, but when I saw her now, in the light of a young moon, wearing that simple black dress with more grace and beauty than an empress in her finest clothes, I knew that whatever happened tonight it would all be worth it.
>The cab called again, I opened the door for her, and her hand found mine as we walked the short distance from the door to the car. It was going to be a good night.
>We arrived early, as Note had requested. There were a few couples there already, some who had just arrived by cars, and others who were making their way up the stairs to the entrance. I’d been to the Philharmonica residence a few times in the past, but the sheer beauty of the place never stopped to amaze me. Located outside the city, it lay as the golden heart of a vast evergreen body, a garden few could ever dream to rival. Unless you were noble, that is.
>We stepped out of the cab, and a dark haired man with a familiar face waved me over to him.
“Hi Note.”
“Hi.”
>He eyed Octavia for a second.
“Hello Miss. I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of seeing you before? Name’s Note, though I’m sure your ‘friend’ here has told you all about me. May I ask your name?”
“I’m Octavia Melody. And no, your reputation doesn’t precede you.”
>I decided to interrupt before things got out of hand.
“She knows our goal for the evening. Keep your verbal bravado to yourself and be glad that I showed up with company this time. Speaking of which, where is your chosen one? She does know you’re coming, right?”
“Oh so sensitive. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from the White Knight himself. And don’t worry; she is waiting inside with her grandfather. Who did you think my ‘informant’ was? This whole thing was her idea.”
“Well then, what are we waiting for?”
>The Old Man himself stood in the grand foyer, greeting guests as they arrived. A young woman with blue hair stood beside him, wearing a more modern dress, and looking completely out of place. Some members of Canterlot’s classical music society had taken to calling the man “Old Iron” for his grey hair that, despite his age, refused to go white, and his often cold demeanour. I’m told he’s always been a strong man, and though age might have made him brittle, he would much sooner break than bend.
>I shook his hand, his long fingers locking mine in a firm grip.
“Hello Sir.”
“Hello. I’m glad you could come. How great to see that you made your way up the stairs without falling over any expensive instruments.”
>The Old Man himself stood in the grand foyer, greeting guests as they arrived. Some members of Canterlot’s classical music society had taken to calling the man “Old Iron” for his grey hair that, despite his age, refused to go white, and his often cold demeanour. I’m told he’s always been a strong man, and though age might have made him brittle, he would much sooner break than bend.
>I shook his hand, his long fingers locking mine in a firm grip.
“Hello Sir.”
“Hello. I’m glad you could come. How great to see that you made your way up the stairs without falling over any expensive instruments.”
>I was taken aback for a second, not quite sure how to respond. Whenever asked about just how I’d managed to destroy my violin, I’d simply told them that I tripped and fell over it when practising. As close to the truth as it was, I wasn’t completely comfortable telling anyone about my newly acquired employee.
>It was Octavia, not me, who broke the silence.
“I’m afraid your joke is a bit misdirected. I was the one who fell over his violin, Sir.”
>The Old Man let out a short, but heartily laugh.
“My, who says chivalry is dead? What would a young man be without a strong woman by his side? May I ask the knight’s name?”
“Octavia Melody.”
“Octavia, that’s a lovely name. I’m Francesco Philharmoica. This:”
>He pointed towards the young, short woman on his right.
“Is my granddaughter, Francesca.”
“We’ve met before. Tough it was under a different name.”
>Octavia’s voice seemed a bit uneasy, but I couldn’t figure out why. Francesca didn’t say anything, but she was starting to look a bit more uncomfortable than she already looked.
>The Old Man redirected his attention towards Note.
“I’m sorry, but I fear my age is getting to me. What is your name, young man?”
>Note smiled, and shook Francesco’s hand.
“You can call me Note, Sir. And I wouldn’t expect you to know my name. You didn’t even invite me.”
“Well then, that would explain a thing or two. The servant’s entry is out back, near th.…”
>He was cut short by his granddaughter, speaking her first words for the evening.
“It’s okay grandfather, I invited him.”
“You did what?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to be the only one who showed up without company. So I invited Note.”
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. You should tell me about things like these beforehand Francesca.”
“I’m not a child anymore. Besides, he’s just accompanying me for the evening, it’s not like we’re getting married or something.”
“You’ll be a child as long as you dye your hair and make noise in clubs for a living. But go on now, take your friend with you and go mingle with the other guests. I can take care of the welcoming alone.”
>Francesca took Note by the arm and walked away. I started following them, glad to get away from the scene between Francesca and The Old Man. I wanted to ask Note what the hell he thought he was doing, talking to our host like that. It was then I noticed that Octavia was lagging a bit behind. I wondered for a bit if I should ask her what the deal was between her and Francesca, but decided against it. Some things were better left in the past.
“Do you want to meet someone in particular? I could introduce you to some great cellists I know.”
>I wasn’t going to get another chance at talking to Francesco until he finished welcoming everyone, something that would still take a while. I figured we might pass time talking to some of the other guests, as Octavia didn’t seem terribly eager to be around Francesca and Note right now.
“No, I didn’t really have anyone in mind. Would it be okay for you if we didn’t interact with your friend and his mistress more that absolutely necessary?”
“Is this about how Note has been acting so far? I assure you, he isn’t normally this… rude. I don’t know what has gotten into him.”
“No, it’s not that. Let’s just stay clear of them, please?”
“Okay. There is still a lot of time before we can get to The Old Man again, in the meantime, I can show you the sun room. It’s wonderful, and though it’s getting dark outside, you should still have a great view of the garden.”
“That would be great.”
>Though I’d decided only seconds ago to let past be past, the desire to know just what had happened between Octavia and Francesca in the past now burned within me, stronger than ever before.
>I led Octavia to the sun room. The noise of the grand foyer died behind us as we crossed the bowels of the mansion and came out on the other side, in an old fashioned sun room. The moon shone through the glass roof, and through the transparent walls you could see a large, lush garden draped in shadow.
>We stood there in silence for a while. The wind played with the willow threes, a quiet whisper, in an otherwise mute world. Well, mute, except for the argument that was now clearly raging in one of the lesser drawing rooms behind us.
>We were getting ready to go somewhere else, as few things are more uncomfortable than trying to ignore an audible argument behind closed doors, when said door burst open, and an elegantly dressed woman walked out with quick, determined steps. Her short blue hair now looked even odder than before, mostly due to the reddish hue her face had taken.
>Judging by the look on Octavia’s face, she didn’t want me to interfere. Truth be told, I didn’t either.
>We hastily walked back to the grand foyer. Most of the guests had arrived by now, and people were drawing into the grand chamber, which was filled with large tables and a decorated temporary stage. Following the flow, I got a glance at the guests of the evening. Unlike most parties I attended, almost every single guest was a musician. There were no fashion designers, no princes, and no officials.
>We mingled for a bit. I introduced Octavia to some of my friends. I told her who to befriend if she ever wanted to live off her music. The announcement that dinner was to be served was a pleasant one, as this meant that I could get a chance to talk to The Old Man. He sat at the end of the table, with Francesca and Note on his right side, and luckily enough Octavia and me on the left side. No doubt Francesca’s work.
>The Old Man rose from his seat. Servants had entered the room, carrying huge, hot plates and bowl filled with food.
“Friends, colleagues, guests, lend be your ears. I’m no great speaker, and so I shall speak little tonight. But before the night is over, I will have shared with you not one, but two surprises. One may bring sadness, but the other will bring joy. But the night is still young! Now we will feast, and then we will play, and we will dance.”

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>Day Zero:

>The dim cacophony of a hundred hushed voices rolled across the concert hall in a manner similar to that to a stormy sea. It would only be moments now before the carpets were drawn aside, exposing the eye of the storm. The lights dimmed and the spoken chorus of Canterlot’s cultural elite faded with it. I fastened the grip on my violin, as if to brace myself from the crowd I was soon to face. The curtains were drawn aside. Time for music.

>The white noise died as I raised my bow to the violin’s delicate strings. I gazed out on the audience, more out of habit than of actual interest. It was always the same people who attended my concerts. Those who came to experience my music where always outnumbered by those who came to become experienced. The concert hall was just another social arena for the rich and famous.

>It was in this short moment of silence between the sounds of the masses and my first note for the evening that I had started to call “The Eye of the Storm” that I was first struck by a pair of amethyst eyes. She was clearly out of place, the beautiful woman on the first row. Her simple black dress looked like a single iron coin in a chest of golden bits. Unimpressive, but practical. Common, but resilient.

>I’ve seen all kinds of eyes from my place on the stage, round eyes, thin eyes, deep eyes and shallow eyes. But never before had I seen eyes like hers. They were screaming something few other eyes dared whisper: passion.

>Suddenly becoming aware of how long my “moment of silence” had become, I started playing. I don’t think I’ve ever put on a better show before, for while my feedback speakers told plenty of how my music sounded, it was not before today that I could know how my music felt. For I saw it all reflected in a pair of radiant amethysts. I spent the entire concert with my eyes trapped in their power.

>Once the applause died out and we went backstage, I refused to join the other musicians for some celebratory champagne. Heck, I didn’t even bother to put my violin back in its case; I just dumped it in a chair and ran for the main entrance. I had to find her.

>I managed to spot her as she made her way out of the concert hall. Her long black hair and simple clothing standing out from the overly decorated apparel of my usual listeners. She was talking on her cellphone when I finally reached her.

”May I ask your name?”

>I had no idea what I was supposed to say, and I hoped that my sudden intervention didn’t startle her.

”Oh Celestia it’s you!”

>She uttered a quick “I’ll have to call you back”, and ended her call, swiftly stuffing the phone back in her purse.

>The rest of our conversation flowed as smoothly as skin on sandpaper, with me sounding every bit as awkward as I felt. She was open and friendly, but I sensed a certain strain on her voice, and I hoped I wasn’t making an utter ass of myself.

>Her name was Octavia, and this was her first day in the capital. She’d left behind everything she had to start a life as a classical cellist. She was just on her way to find a cheap motel where she could get a room for a while, at least until she found a job and a more permanent lodging. She asked, in a joking tone, if I knew of any one that could take her in.

”I need a new maid”.

FUCK! Where did that eve come from? I’d never had a maid before. In fact, I made a point of living in a moderately sized house for exactly that reason. I liked my home being no bigger than I could manage on my won. She’s going to think I’m such a creep for sugge…

”Great. Where do you live?”

>Day One:

>At exactly six o’clock in the morning, the doorbell rang. I woke up, my head still heavy from lying awake into the small hours of the morning fantasising about my new maid. I put some clothes on in a hurry, as if she’s going to disappear if I don’t answer the door fast enough. It still took a while for me to dress and run down the stairs from the second floor and into the hall.

>She stood there in the soft morning light, a suitcase in her right arm and a cello case in her left. She was wearing the smallest maid outfit I’ve ever seen, her dress just barely covering the top half of her thighs. The air of security and grace that surrounded her the night before was gone, and she was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. I can’t recall asking her to wear a uniform, and I wondered how she got hold on one in the short time since I’d offered her the job.

>She stared at me in silence. I gave in.

“Welcome, Octavia. I can show you to your bedroom.”

>She followed me, still holding her apparent vow of silence. I gave her some time to settle in and unpack, and told her to meet me in the study when she was done.

>I spent well over half an hour reading and replying to letters before she joined me.

“Octavia, it’s time that we go through the basic schedule for your daily chores”

“As you say”

>Her voice was dripping with venom, and I halted my speech. What had happened to the charming, well-spoken lady from the night before? She must have mistaken my pause for disapproval, as she added “Master”, in a tone somehow more toxic than her last.

“You don’t need to call me that. “

“No, of course not. Master”

>Deciding to ignore her attempt to make me uncomfortable, I ran her through a normal day in my life. When I preferred to eat dinner, when I needed silence in the house so that I could practice, and when I left for band practice. She followed keenly, but didn’t say a word. When we were done, I asked her to make me some breakfast, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

>I spent most of the day practising in the living room, which was where I kept my violin. Now and then I would catch her in the corner of my eye, stalling in her tasks, and her amethyst eyes becoming faint echoes of their past glory as she watched me play. But each time I turned to look at her, she went back to work, and the passion would disappear.

>Oh did I regret taking her in. It was like putting an armed bomb under your pillow and going to sleep. She made decent food, but you could tell that it was rushed. She cleaned and washed, but never more than absolutely necessary. And then there was the cloud of contempt hanging around her. Had I not seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed that it was possible to contemptfully vacuum the first floor, but she made it seem easy.

>I went to bed early that day, wondering how soon I could fire her without being rude. Her presence made me uneasy, and even now I could hear her moving around on the first floor, and I dared not imagine what she was doing down there.

>I slept uneasy that night, but not because of fantasies of the perfect maid, but rather the feeling of having my personal life invaded.

>Day Two:	

>I woke up at eight, as per usual, and headed down to find a half-cold breakfast ready on the dining table. Octavia was nowhere to be found. I ate all of it except for the slices of undercooked bacon that was somehow supposed to go with my bread and breakfast sausages. After satisfying my hunger, if nothing else, I headed for my study, hoping to catch up on some mail I hadn’t had the chance to read the day before. I opened the door slowly, as the door had a tendency to make a high, unpleasant screeching sound if opened too fast.

>She was standing there, bent over my desk, her short dress allowing me to see far more than would be appropriate. She was going through my letters, her long sleek fingers jumping from paper to paper for what must have been several minutes before I finally broke the silence.

“Looking for anything?”

>She let out a small scream, and spun around with a speed that would put a wonderbolt to shame.
“NO! I was just… looking for a schedule or something, so that I know when you’re playing concerts. You said that I had to prepare dinner earlier on those days.”

>Judging by the look in her eyes, she didn’t expect me to believe her. I didn’t.

“You can ask me if there are any uncertainties, but since you are so eager to serve, there are dishes that need washing on the dining table.”

>I am not an angry man, and I take great pride in my conflict shy nature, but this was getting out of hand, and I made no attempt to hide the brooding anger in my voice. She left the study without any protest, no doubt eager to get out of my way.

“And Octavia? Never enter my study unless I specifically ask for it.”

>I got no answer.

>Later on in the day I decided to go out for some errands. I had mail to post and people to meet, and I wouldn’t be back until late into the evening. I told Octavia that I expected the house to be clean by then, no doubt a simple task for someone as dedicated as her. The last thing I did was to lock my study door, something I hadn’t ever done before.

>I knew something was wrong the second I stepped into the hall. Octavia was sitting on a chair in the living room, her neck was bruised, and several small cuts adorned her right upper arm. She had made no attempt to stop the bleeding, and her wet eyes told of tears recently shed.

“What’s the matter?”

>Angry as I had been, I could not help but feel sorry for her, and I tried my best to make my somewhat alcohol-affected voice seem as calm and helpful as possible. She just buried her face in her hands, before pointing towards the floor, further into the living room.

>I’m unsure as to how I’m supposed to describe what I saw. Upon the floor lay a hundred wooden pieces, each of them splinters of a familiar object. I knew what it was, but it was not until I saw the strings that my brain accepted it. My violin.

>It might be hard to understand the significance of a instrument to anyone but the owner, but for me, this was no less grave than murder. I had never been an angry man. Now I was. I turned to her.

“You come to my house because I offered you a job. All I wanted was some help around the house and an opportunity to help a young musician find a job. You show up here dressed as a prostitute, with poison in your mouth and hate in your mind. You read my mail and destroy the only thing in this house I truly cared about!”

>I started out cold and controlled, but by the end I was shouting out every word with a tone that can only be fuelled by anger and alcohol. She was sobbing loudly by the end.

“Go, you are dismissed for the evening. It would be wise to pack before you go to sleep. You will leave as soon as 
morning comes.”

“Please… I have nowhere to go.”

“Didn’t sound that way when you first introduced yourself.”

“I lied. It wasn’t my first day in Canterlot. I’ve been here for two months. I was living with a friend, but she threw me out.”

“I can’t imagine why. So you lose your home and you go to an expensive concert. No wonder you’re homeless.”

“I was looking for patrons! Someone that would support a promising young musician.”

“Promising young musician? You can’t even hold an instrument without ruining it! Fuck, how did you manage to break a violin like that?”

“I tripped… I was trying to play it.”

“YOU WERE TRYING TO PLAY IT?”

>She gave no answer, and only intensified her sobbing. I realised that I had to lower my voice. The whole neighbourhood could probably hear me shouting. But even if I seemed calmer, my heart still called for one thing. The most human response there is. Revenge.

“Go get your cello.”

“What?”

“Go get your cello; I’m going to play it.”

“No…”

“It either that or I throw you out right now, no cello, no clothes, just you and that fetish garb all alone in the big city night. Would you like that?”

>She made some sort of answer, but I could not make out what it was, as her words seemed to drown between her sobs. I raised my voice again.

“Get your cello!”

>She disappeared into her bedroom. I sat down in the chair I had found her in. Small drops of blood were sprinkled all over the right side of it. A good portion of it had begun to darken, taking an appearance not entirely unlike ink stains on paper.

>I don’t know how many minutes passed before she reappeared. I just sat there, mind empty while listening to the wild drumming of my own heart. Her hands were trembling, holding the cello like a mother holds her child. She didn’t make a sound, not even the slightest sob. For one look into those soulful eyes told me more than a library of tomes.

>With hands as steady as an excited Parkinson’s patient, she handed me the instrument. I grabbed the fingerboard with two hands, not bothering to pick up the bow. I fingered the strings for a short while, each broken note making her visibly flinch.

>I stopped, but offered no room for pause as I lifted the cello above my head, holding it by the neck as a construction worker holds a sledgehammer.

>I tried to smash it, I truly did. But just as I had found myself spellbound by her that first night at the concert call, I now found myself lost once more in her deep amethyst wells. I felt like a monster. I wasn’t an angry man. I was a slightly drunk man, upset by the loss of a 164 year old piece of wood. I lowered my hands.

“You are dismissed. There is no need for you to pack. You will receive no pay until you’ve covered the loss of my violin, and your cello will be locked in my study until I deem you ready for my thrust again. Understood?”

>I could not tell if her face was twisted with remorse or relief, but it was clear to see that I had taken her by surprise. Her response was a whisper, so low that I had to strain my ears to make out what she said.

“…Understood…”

“Understood?”

“… Understood… Master.”

“Good. I will retire now. Clean this place up before you go to bed. Oh, and you’ve got blood on your uniform. Make sure you are wearing a clean one come morning.”

>I didn’t even wait for her to answer; I just left her alone there, standing amongst the wooden splinters, looking unsure as to where to start. I slept surprisingly well that night.

Day Three:

>The house was silent when I woke up, and for a moment I was unsure if last night had really happened at all. It all seemed surreal now, like an especially realistic nightmare. I dressed myself and walked down the stairs in utter silence. I don’t know why I was so silent that morning. Maybe I was afraid to awaken the ghosts of last night’s event. Maybe I was just clinging on to the hope that these last two days were nothing but products of my imagination, and that my experience with Octavia had ended that night in the concert hall. How can something so beautiful be so vile?

>I was almost at the kitchen when I halted. I had to know. I walked into the living room, half expecting my violin’s carcass to still be lying on the floor; its wooden guts spilled everywhere.

>The room was spotless. No wooden splinters, no strings, no blood. Heck, even my violin case was where it used to be, on a stand near the windows. I walked over to it, not really sure what to expect, and carefully weighted it in my hands. It was hollow.

>As I made my way out of the living room, I noticed small spots on the fabric of a chair. It was the colour of dried ink. Technically, washing this would be the maid’s job, but I was far from eager to call out for her. Breakfast could wait. I removed the fabric and went to the washing room.

>I don’t know who was the most surprised when I opened the door. She was no doubt surprised to see me, fabric in hand and eyes still heavy from sleep, intruding on her. And I know for a fact that I was surprised by her apparel, or sooner, lack thereof.

>She was wearing nothing but black lace panties, and was apparently in the process of putting on her bra when I made my entrance. Her maid suit, probably fresh out of the washing machine, was hanging on a drying rack behind her, still dripping with water.

>Believe it or not, there are actually several acceptable ways for a man to react when he walks in on an undressed female. Most of them are variations of staring into the ground and apologizing as you swiftly remove yourself from the premises, but my point still stands. But as many and varied as these reactions are, I, or rather some prehistoric part of my brain, chose something so horrendously wrong it would make for a good porn plot:

>I smiled.

>I could see that she was struggling hard to repress her anger. My outburst last night had to have been effective, for had I walked in on her the day before, I would have feared for my life.

Stop smiling and get your sorry ass out of here!

>I was screaming internally at myself, but there was just something confoundingly amusing about seeing her like this. The Ice Queen, the Venom Maid, who not even a day ago mocked me with every breath that she took, was now repressing her anger. She dropped her bra, her hands tightening into fists.

>With quick steps she walked up to me, her modest breast moving ever so slightly with each step she took. She grabbed the fabric with one hand and tore it out of my grip. She looked up at me with those amethyst eyes beautiful amethyst eyes I had once found gentle.

“If the master would kindly step back?”

>Her words hit me as gently as a tsunami would hit an orphanage, and I stepped back with a step so long it would be comical under other circumstances. She slammed the door shut in my face, and before I could reach for the door handle, or even begin to formulate any kind of apology, I heard the lock turn.

>The rest of the day went about as well as expected. The food was better than ever, the cleaning was excellent, and I lived with the constant feeling that I could be stabbed to death with a kitchen knife any minute.

>In the evening I locked myself into my study. I had already dismissed Octavia for the evening, since everything that needed to be done in the house was already long done. There were no letters for me today, but I had a different agenda. I dragged the big, black cello case out from the closet I’d hidden it in, and opened it, my fingers trembling ever so slightly.

>It was a beautiful instrument. In many ways, it reminded me of my violin (my late violin if we’re being painfully accurate). It wasn’t old or expensive, nor was it decorated or stylish, not like my instrument. It was worn, but in a good way. It was worn in the same fashion a childhood treasure is worn, with every scratch and bit of strained wood only making it more valuable to the owner.

>As I lifted the cello out of the case to study it more carefully, I found something I, in my fit of anger, hadn’t seen last night. At the bottom of the case lay a number of note-sheets and books, jammed as thick as the case would allow.

>I have a friend, well several in fact, who play the cello. But amongst them only one has ever managed to talk me into playing it. But though it had been years since I’d last played it, I was overcome by a desire to play some music one way or another. Feeling like a little boy again, learning to play the violin for the first time, I started playing a version of “Eternal Solstice” I had found amongst her papers. And even though I made a thousand errors, I could not help but try to play it again. And again. And again.

>It was past midnight when I finally gave up. My arms were aching from the unfamiliar movements, and while it had been quite an ordeal to my ears, I could not help but feel happy. The house was draped in silence as I made my way up the stairs to the master bedroom, but I can’t help but think that I saw something in the darkness that was my living room.

>It might just have been my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear to Celestia it looked like a pair of amethysts in the dark. Two passionate gemstones, and a dim smile.

>Day Four:

>After having a wonderful breakfast, I spent most of my morning on the phone, managing to borrow a decent violin from a friend of mine, though I made a point of storing it at the concert hall, where my band had a small storage.

>Octavia seemed calmer than she had ever been before, and although I could still feel a wall of figurative ice between us, her words had lost nearly all of their poison. In fact, I could swear I even saw her smiling to herself once or twice, when she was sure I wasn't looking.

>At six in the afternoon I left, explaining to her that I was meeting a dealer in antique instruments and would be going straight to band practise afterwards, which would likely be followed by some rounds at a nearby bar. Thus, as she didn’t have to prepare any more meals for the day, and since I hadn’t been able to make a mess of the house yet, I gave her the evening off.

>It was barely eleven o’clock when I returned home. I hadn’t been able to find a violin I liked, and none of the other band members had accepted my invitation for a night out. Octavia was nowhere to be found, so I assumed she was either asleep or outside, begging her friend to let her move back in.

>I locked myself in my study yet again, too tired to continue writing, yet not tired enough to go to bed. The cello case was calling for me, and it was not long before I sat there, bow in my hand and “Eternal Solstice” in front of me.

>I played until I almost fell asleep; and luckily there was no practise tomorrow, for I played the same broken tune on that cello until the small hours of the morning.

>I dragged myself up the stair and into the master bedroom, this time seeing no eyes in the dark. Just as I had undressed and was about to lay down I saw something rectangular lying on my pillow. I picked it up to examine it further with my tired eyes. It was a book, and although my room was dark I could just manage to read the title:

>Cello for beginners.

>Day Five:

>I woke up a bit earlier the next day, and while my head hurt from too little sleep, I could not help but smile to myself. It had been just a few hours ago that I had set my clock half an hour forwards, so that I was sure to catch Octavia as she was preparing my breakfast.

>Despite feeling exhausted, finding that book had filled my whole body with a warm, fuzzy feeling, and it had been hard for me to find rest afterwards. I couldn’t help but feel exited.

>I strode down the stairs with long, quiet steps, but stopped, realizing that this would be the third time I would sneak up on her, and I didn’t want to seem like a creep. Well, more like a creep anyway.

>She was apparently cleaning after her own breakfast when I entered the kitchen. She looked confused to see me so soon, especially as I didn’t have anything in particular scheduled for today. To call her by any other word than radiant would do her injustice. She had slept even less than me, but looked as keen and awake as royal guardswoman, yet her gaze was soft and warm as a mild summer’s day.

“Oh, I’m sorry Master. I didn’t realize you were awake already. I’ll get breakfast ready in an instant.”

“Oh please. Do take your time. I just happened to wake up a bit early.”

>Seconds dragged along. It had all started out according to plan. Wake up early, make sure she stays a while, have a good tone, and just talk for a while. Not the most complicated of plans. But while I’d thought about countless subjects we could talk about last night, I now stood unable to find anything at all. Minutes that felt like hours passed before I managed to find something appropriate to say.

“So, we haven’t really talked much since you moved in. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself Octavia?”

“Well… what do you want to know?”

>She sounded a bit hesitant to tell me anything at all, so I decided to start out with something safe.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from a small town near Manehattan, the name isn’t important. It’s more rural than the inhabitants think. Great place if you’re a steelworker looking for a job. Not so much if you’re a classical cellist.”

“Or a maid.”

>She shrugged.

“I guess.”

>Seemed like she would rather talk about her music than her current occupation. It was understandable, and so I tried to push the conversation towards music.

“Did you grow up with musical parents?”

“Not really. My father worked so many years at the mill that he became steel himself. He had no love for any music but metal. The man was a living cliché.”

>She paused for a bit to move some of the newly cooked food over to a plate. Breakfast was served.

“My mother was a singer in her youth, before she left Stalliongrad. She refused to learn any songs in her new language. She didn’t help me play the cello, so I guess that’s irrelevant as well.”

>She poured some juice in a glass and put it down in front of me next to the plate.

“If you would excuse me, Master, I have other duties to look after.”

>She had almost left the room before I managed to respond.

“Octavia, I would appreciate it if you ate your breakfast with me on the mornings from now on.”

>She turned around and smiled. Not a hidden smile, not a sly smile, not a defiant smile. She was done with those games. It was a real smile.

“I’d love to, Master.”

>She disappeared again into the depths of the house.

>Not having to work every day is a blessing and a curse. I make enough money to live well off my concerts, and I don’t have to work a second job to make ends meet. Not since I was a student anyway, though I admit money was sparse for a while. It took some time for my music to really pay off. But when it did? Then it was worth all the cheap ramen I ate.

>After finishing breakfast I went to my study. I didn’t bother locking the door behind me. Normally, I would spend days like these doing a bit of writing, a bit of practising, and a lot of reading, before going out in the evening. I hadn’t really been out that much lately. I was getting a bit tired of Canterlot’s social scene, and the seemingly unending current of people that “I simply had to meet”.

>But now I had other, more pressing concerns on my mind. I took the cello out of its hiding place and the book out of my pocket. It was weird to read such basic texts about music again. I staggered my way through some of the practise movements. To be honest, it was still pretty far from being good, but managing to play some notes in a row without error felt as good as playing a whole concert on the violin. I was interrupted up a knock on the door.

“Master, a phone call for you.”

“Come in.”

>Octavia walked in and handed me my cellphone. I could see her gaze found rest on her cello, which I still held in one hand. I took the phone from her and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi! It’s me. Look, I need you to do both of us a favour.”

>I know a lot of people. Or rather, a lot of people think they know me. But there is just one person I know who introduces himself with “It’s me”.

“What do you want now Note?”

“Want? I don’t want anything, Or rather, nothing that wouldn’t also benefit you.”

“Sigh… go on then.”

>Note was the kind of guy who’d never really grown out of his “oh so random” phase. I wouldn’t call him childish or socially awkward. I mean, he could talk a nun out of her clothes given enough time, but he was also the kind of guy who could derail a conversation at a formal dinner from being about freedom of speech to discussing the kitchen applications of The Anarchist’s Cookbook.

“So, tonight, there’s going to be a private party at the Philharmonica residence. Or mansion, which I guess would be more correct. Anyway, Old Man Philharmonica, whom I’m sure you know is the most respected violinist in town, has invited a lot of people, but he hasn’t said what the occasion is. It’s important that both of us show up there tonight.”

“Wait, why is this important? How do you even know about any of this?”

“I’ll get to that part. I’m guessing you were invited?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really plan on coming though. I had other things planned for this evening Besides, it told me to bring company. You know how much I dislike showing up alone at events made for couples. Did you get an invitation?”

“No, but I’ve got that all planned. As for company, judging by the feminine voice that answered the phone just now, you’ve got plenty of company. Wow, how long has it been since you broke up with your last girlfriend anyway? What was her name again?”

“Note, no. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was something on L, wasn’t it? Or was it M? Was it L or M who showed up wearing nothing but a…”

“NO. Just let past be past and continue with your plan. You still haven’t told me why I should go there.”

“I was getting to that. Basically, the reason he’s calling all of his buds and a sizable part of Canterlot’s musicians over is that he’s retiring. He’s going to announce it at the end, and we’ve got up until then to make a good impression.”

“How do you even know any of this?”

“I have an agent on the inside. As you probably also know, he owns a collection of violins only rivalled by certain museums. Really good stuff too, if my informant isn’t lying to me. Thing is, he’s giving it away. Millions of bits worth of equipment, and he’s giving it away. Don’t ask me why, maybe his age’s getting to him, or maybe he sold his soul to play the fiddle, and is now giving it all away in a last attempt to reach redemption before he dies. I don’t know and I don’t care. Didn’t you wonder why you were invited? He’s invited what he considers to be the best young violinists in Canterlot. His plan is to name one of then his successor. Yes, it’s every bit as cheesy as it sounds, but the reward is worth it.”

“He couldn’t… I mean… Wow.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. Anyway, the plan is pretty simple. Just bring your new girl over with you, and I’ll meet you there.”

“She’s just a friend. What do you get out of all of this anyway?”

“If you truly know me, what my goal for the evening is.”

“Sigh… Who is she?”

“His granddaughter. The Old Man can be a bit… over protective when it comes to her, so I’d appreciate it if you laid in a good word for me.”

“You never change, do you Note? Besides, what happened to that painter you were dating?”

“Let’s just say that her paintings weren’t the only thing that was surreal about her. Besides, this is different. I’ve never felt this way towards anyone before. I go day and night and I can’t get her out of my head. I’m going as her companion tonight. The Old Man doesn’t know anything yet, and I want to make a good first impression.”

“I recall you using those words about women before.”

“I’m telling you man, this is different. So meet me there tonight okay. Make sure to arrive a bit early, so you can properly introduce me to this friend of yours.”

>I didn’t even get a chance to respond before he hung up. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. If any of this was true, then it was a chance I couldn’t let pass. Heck, I’d never be wanting for fame, funds or equipment if I managed to pull this off. And I couldn’t let Note down, not after he practically became my manager while I was still a struggling artist. His golden tongue won me more gigs than I would’ve ever managed to get on my own. And I fear all the time he invested in me hurt his own career. I didn’t really have a choice, did I?

>I handed the phone back to Octavia.

“Do you own a dress that you could wear at a formal party?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good, You’ll be needing it tonight.”

>We’d spent quite a bit of time going through our coverstories when the cab called from outside. We’d both agreed that it would probably be for the best if her occupation stayed hidden from the other guests. Our story, as most good stories are, was mostly based on truth. She was a young promising musician who had just moved to the capital, and was staying at my place for a while, as she hadn’t found a decent apartment yet.

>I still can’t believe she agreed to any of it. The plan was vague to say the least, and all I really had to go by was Note’s word. When I’d finished explaining she went quiet, and while it took some time before she agreed, her eyes had already betrayed her.

>Building and rehearsing the coverstory was probably the most fun I‘d had in some time. Octavia seemed more relaxed than usual. The discussion we shared was unlike anything we’d talked about in the last days. Getting her out of her uniform and into something else changed her. For the first time in a couple of days, I didn’t feel like “Master” anymore. I kind of liked it. Something about her reminded me about that first night in the concert hall, about the black-dressed girl with fire in her eyes. I’d never been one for these types of occasions, but when I saw her now, in the light of a young moon, wearing that simple black dress with more grace and beauty than an empress in her finest clothes, I knew that whatever happened tonight it would all be worth it.

>The cab called again, I opened the door for her, and her hand found mine as we walked the short distance from the door to the car. It was going to be a good night.

>We arrived early, as Note had requested. There were a few couples there already, some who had just arrived by cars, and others who were making their way up the stairs to the entrance. I’d been to the Philharmonica residence a few times in the past, but the sheer beauty of the place never stopped to amaze me. Located outside the city, it lay as the golden heart of a vast evergreen body, a garden few could ever dream to rival. Unless you were noble, that is.

>We stepped out of the cab, and a dark haired man with a familiar face waved me over to him.

“Hi Note.”

“Hi.”

>He eyed Octavia for a second.

“Hello Miss. I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of seeing you before? Name’s Note, though I’m sure your ‘friend’ here has told you all about me. May I ask your name?”

“I’m Octavia Melody. And no, your reputation doesn’t precede you.”

>I decided to interrupt before things got out of hand.

“She knows our goal for the evening. Keep your verbal bravado to yourself and be glad that I showed up with company this time. Speaking of which, where is your chosen one? She does know you’re coming, right?”

“Oh so sensitive. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from the White Knight himself. And don’t worry; she is waiting inside with her grandfather. Who did you think my ‘informant’ was? This whole thing was her idea.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?”

>The Old Man himself stood in the grand foyer, greeting guests as they arrived. A young woman with blue hair stood beside him, wearing a more modern dress, and looking completely out of place. Some members of Canterlot’s classical music society had taken to calling the man “Old Iron” for his grey hair that, despite his age, refused to go white, and his often cold demeanour. I’m told he’s always been a strong man, and though age might have made him brittle, he would much sooner break than bend.

>I shook his hand, his long fingers locking mine in a firm grip.

“Hello Sir.”

“Hello. I’m glad you could come. How great to see that you made your way up the stairs without falling over any expensive instruments.”

>The Old Man himself stood in the grand foyer, greeting guests as they arrived. Some members of Canterlot’s classical music society had taken to calling the man “Old Iron” for his grey hair that, despite his age, refused to go white, and his often cold demeanour. I’m told he’s always been a strong man, and though age might have made him brittle, he would much sooner break than bend.

>I shook his hand, his long fingers locking mine in a firm grip.

“Hello Sir.”

“Hello. I’m glad you could come. How great to see that you made your way up the stairs without falling over any expensive instruments.”

>I was taken aback for a second, not quite sure how to respond. Whenever asked about just how I’d managed to destroy my violin, I’d simply told them that I tripped and fell over it when practising. As close to the truth as it was, I wasn’t completely comfortable telling anyone about my newly acquired employee.

>It was Octavia, not me, who broke the silence.

“I’m afraid your joke is a bit misdirected. I was the one who fell over his violin, Sir.”

>The Old Man let out a short, but heartily laugh.

“My, who says chivalry is dead? What would a young man be without a strong woman by his side? May I ask the knight’s name?”

“Octavia Melody.”

“Octavia, that’s a lovely name. I’m Francesco Philharmoica. This:”

>He pointed towards the young, short woman on his right.

“Is my granddaughter, Francesca.”

“We’ve met before. Tough it was under a different name.”

>Octavia’s voice seemed a bit uneasy, but I couldn’t figure out why. Francesca didn’t say anything, but she was starting to look a bit more uncomfortable than she already looked.

>The Old Man redirected his attention towards Note.

“I’m sorry, but I fear my age is getting to me. What is your name, young man?”

>Note smiled, and shook Francesco’s hand.

“You can call me Note, Sir. And I wouldn’t expect you to know my name. You didn’t even invite me.”

“Well then, that would explain a thing or two. The servant’s entry is out back, near th.…”

>He was cut short by his granddaughter, speaking her first words for the evening.

“It’s okay grandfather, I invited him.”

“You did what?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to be the only one who showed up without company. So I invited Note.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. You should tell me about things like these beforehand Francesca.”

“I’m not a child anymore. Besides, he’s just accompanying me for the evening, it’s not like we’re getting married or something.”

“You’ll be a child as long as you dye your hair and make noise in clubs for a living. But go on now, take your friend with you and go mingle with the other guests. I can take care of the welcoming alone.”

>Francesca took Note by the arm and walked away. I started following them, glad to get away from the scene between Francesca and The Old Man. I wanted to ask Note what the hell he thought he was doing, talking to our host like that. It was then I noticed that Octavia was lagging a bit behind. I wondered for a bit if I should ask her what the deal was between her and Francesca, but decided against it. Some things were better left in the past.

“Do you want to meet someone in particular? I could introduce you to some great cellists I know.”

>I wasn’t going to get another chance at talking to Francesco until he finished welcoming everyone, something that would still take a while. I figured we might pass time talking to some of the other guests, as Octavia didn’t seem terribly eager to be around Francesca and Note right now.

“No, I didn’t really have anyone in mind. Would it be okay for you if we didn’t interact with your friend and his mistress more that absolutely necessary?”

“Is this about how Note has been acting so far? I assure you, he isn’t normally this… rude. I don’t know what has gotten into him.”

“No, it’s not that. Let’s just stay clear of them, please?”

“Okay. There is still a lot of time before we can get to The Old Man again, in the meantime, I can show you the sun room. It’s wonderful, and though it’s getting dark outside, you should still have a great view of the garden.”

“That would be great.”

>Though I’d decided only seconds ago to let past be past, the desire to know just what had happened between Octavia and Francesca in the past now burned within me, stronger than ever before.

>I led Octavia to the sun room. The noise of the grand foyer died behind us as we crossed the bowels of the mansion and came out on the other side, in an old fashioned sun room. The moon shone through the glass roof, and through the transparent walls you could see a large, lush garden draped in shadow.

>We stood there in silence for a while. The wind played with the willow threes, a quiet whisper, in an otherwise mute world. Well, mute, except for the argument that was now clearly raging in one of the lesser drawing rooms behind us.

>We were getting ready to go somewhere else, as few things are more uncomfortable than trying to ignore an audible argument behind closed doors, when said door burst open, and an elegantly dressed woman walked out with quick, determined steps. Her short blue hair now looked even odder than before, mostly due to the reddish hue her face had taken.

>Judging by the look on Octavia’s face, she didn’t want me to interfere. Truth be told, I didn’t either.

>We hastily walked back to the grand foyer. Most of the guests had arrived by now, and people were drawing into the grand chamber, which was filled with large tables and a decorated temporary stage. Following the flow, I got a glance at the guests of the evening. Unlike most parties I attended, almost every single guest was a musician. There were no fashion designers, no princes, and no officials.

>We mingled for a bit. I introduced Octavia to some of my friends. I told her who to befriend if she ever wanted to live off her music. The announcement that dinner was to be served was a pleasant one, as this meant that I could get a chance to talk to The Old Man. He sat at the end of the table, with Francesca and Note on his right side, and luckily enough Octavia and me on the left side. No doubt Francesca’s work.

>The Old Man rose from his seat. Servants had entered the room, carrying huge, hot plates and bowl filled with food.

“Friends, colleagues, guests, lend be your ears. I’m no great speaker, and so I shall speak little tonight. But before the night is over, I will have shared with you not one, but two surprises. One may bring sadness, but the other will bring joy. But the night is still young! Now we will feast, and then we will play, and we will dance.”

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