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Some golden afternoon, as the late summer sun slants over the parquet floors of the hallways, Phedre might hear an elegant female voice singing a graceful air, her warm, silvery notes floating through the open spaces of the Mansion, like a gentle siren's call. If she follows the voice, it might lead her to a south-facing salon. In a pool of light that slants through the many-paned doors that open onto the garden, a graceful figure in a violet gown stands, back to the room, face tilted upward but at an angle where she is careful not to put too much tension on her throat, hands clasped before her. As her song crescendos, she might lift her hands, extending them in a gentle supplication...
It's spring and Mag is thinking about the prospect of holding a summer concert. Thus she needs to think about a program for it, and so she's sitting in the library, surrounded by sheet music that she's sorting through, looking for arias and songs that she knows.

She's considering putting up an announcement on the bulletin board, announcing that she's looking for a few good musicians, but she's happy for someone to chat with about music, and she's open to the diversion.

Looking for Natalie Goodman, but if someone else wants Mag, feel free to tap the typist.

[For Aramat] Requiem for an accompanist

It's been over two months since Aramat's passing, and while Mag is through the darkest point of her mourning, there's still a lot of lingering shadows in her heart. But music is helping her to grieve, and she's sitting at the piano, playing and singing a gentle bit from a requiem setting of which she's always been fond. She isn't in tears as she sings, but the sorrow and the mourning in her voice are straight from her heart...

[Journal Entry]

Dear Marni,

My heart is heavier than usual as I put pen to page to write this letter to you. Aramat, dear Aramat, my strange little flower, has been crushed, killed suddenly. At least there is a team of detectives seeking to find her killer, but there is still a hole in the garden of my life.

Death was no stranger in our world: people were taken from us every day and suddenly, but somehow, you and I never grew hardened to it as so many did. You helped me to keep from growing as cynical as so many in our world: I miss her, but it is a good feeling to have. It means that her weird little life was not lived in vain, that she mattered to someone and that someone was me. I shall miss her playing and her companionship, but I pray that she has found a happier life.

Perhaps she is there with you now, my angel: if she is, take care of her; she is a wounded soul, much like me, and her wounds caused her to turn inward, as I nearly did. But perhaps you can help her as you helped guide me into the light.



[anOTP] For Aramat: Music and Verse

One's relationship with one's accompanist can be complicated and Mag has thought for Aramat have become no exception. She has thought of the lady of the poisonous blossoms as a friend and confidante, but she finds her heart is yearning for more than that.

She's gathered a bouquet of oleanders and put them in a vase on a table beside the piano in the ballroom, and she's playing a simple melody as she waits for her friend to arrive....
It's a chilly early winter morning, and Mag -- a hairnet covering her long hair and clad in a long-sleeved tee shirt and jeans -- is puttering about the kitchen, hunting in cabinets and cupboards, looking for flour and sugar and ginger and everything you'd need to whip up a batch of gingerbread cookies. She can't help feeling a teeny bit pensive in a happy way as she sets to work: baking the first gingerbread of the winter was the way she and Marni would start the winter holiday season. The smells and tastes and textures delight her, bringing back fond memories. She's hoping three young friends show up to help her and share in the fun.

Thinking of a Mag-Ilse-Twins set up...

[Journal Entry]

Dear Marni,

Do you remember that poem by Helen Hunt Jackson, which we memorized in school, "The golden-rod is yellow/The corn is turning brown". Well, I've seen real autumn splendor for the first time. The woods here are a riot of bright colors: the leaves of the tree seem on fire when the sun shines through them. When I woke up that morning when I first saw them on display like this, I jolted in terror, thinking the forest that surrounds this place had caught fire. But I soon discovered my mistake, and like a child, I've been out roving the woods, gathering leaves like a child and pressing them between the pages of whatever books I can spare. I'll have to share some of the harvest with your Shilo, but for now, I'm off to the kitchen to see if there's some warm cider and pumpkin spice cookies.

Love, your,
If 11-12 follows Ryuk's suggestion and heads for the ballroom, he may hear the voice before he reaches it: a rich but light soprano voice singing a sensuous aria, full of longing:

Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix,
comme s'ouvrent les fleurs
Aux baiser de l'aurore!
Mais, ô mon bienaimé,
pour mieux sécher mes pleurs,
Que ta voix parle encore!

Once he enters, he will find a woman with long, wavy dark hair, standing by a window, a music stand before her, singing with arms outstretched, then slowly drawing her hands in toward her heart, as if beckoning any listeners or some unseen lover to approach.

Mag has been working on expanding her repertoire and that includes relearning arias she'd set aside, as well as learning new material. But she's starting to tire just a little from a day of practicing and she'd welcome the chance for a break.

*"My heart opens to your voice
Like the flowers open
to the kisses of the dawn!
But, oh my beloved,
to better dry my tears,
Let your voice speak again!" -- Unfortunately, that is not Sarah Brightman singing it in the vid I've linked.

[Journal Entry]

Dear Marni,

I've been so busy settling into this new world, finding a niche in it and calling it my own, that I have been sorely neglecting this diary.

I'm growing closer to being able to earn my keep here: I've found a lady who's more than willing to work with me as my accompanist, a Southern belle with an oddly gothic air about her. I can't help finding her oddly attractive, but I have decided not to pursue any relationships till I am better settled. And she's somewhat of a fan of mine already, and thus I can't help feeling that to become intimate with her in that respect would be to cross a boundary that an artist should generally avoid. I would not want to disappoint her when she finds I am but another human being like the rest.

I've also been reading a somewhat voluminous fantasy of manners, set in a decrepit castle in an imaginary kingdom, with a mad ruler and a cluster of eccentric servants, an earth-mother dowager and a tragic princess, an unwilling boy-king and an ambitious kitchen-boy. The scope of it would make a grand opera in every sense of the word grand, but at the core of it, at the heart of hearts, it is a tale of freedom withheld and fought hard for. That is something very much on my mind, and I wonder if I might have hit upon a well of inspiration to draw from. The tragic princess might not be the lead character, but I do not mind having less of a spotlight on me, and I would be delighted to play poor, silly Lady Fuschia. I have been Fuschia for so many years: blind to the fact that the man she loved was not the man she thought he was, blind to her own silliness.

By now, I must be sounding a little maudlin: it's partly the late hour and partly the tears I've shed for a silly girl in an attic of a castle not found on any maps. I'll have more dreams to share with you soon.

Good night, my lady,