Last Act's Prelude (A Melancholy Angel Production)

[wakeangel]

Far, far away, there is a beautiful Country which no human eye has ever seen in waking hours. Under the Sunset it lies, where the distant horizon bounds the day, and where the clouds, splendid with light and colour, give a promise of the glory and beauty which encompass it.

Sometimes it is given to us to see it in dreams.

Now and again come, softly, Angels who fan with their great white wings the aching brows, and place cool hands upon the sleeping eyes. Then soars away the spirit of the sleeper. Up from the dimness and murkiness of the night season it springs. Away through the purple clouds it sails. It hies through the vast expanse of light and air. Through the deep blue of heaven's vault it flies; and sweeping over the far-off horizon, rests in the fair Land Under the Sunset.

The modest if slightly run-down hired livery clopped up the cobblestone driveway and rattled towards a teeth-jarring halt in front of a tall, three-story stone mansion. Inside the swaying carriage, Rue L. St. Nicholas closed her copy of Bram Stoker's Under the Sunset, a parting gift from Lady Weatherby's chamber maid, and glanced out the window at her new home. The bright spring day and riotous beds of flowers lining the driveway did little to relieve the stark lines of her first look at the manse-turned-orphanage. Butterflies of trepidation churned in her stomach with the marmalade scones and sweet cream from breakfast as they finally came to rest before the ornately carved stone entrance.

This was a mistake. Right now she should be assisting the ponderous Lady with her morning toilette, not moving into a completely unchaperoned living situation with a houseful of strangers. Granted, most of the strangers were children, and there would surely be other women in residence as caregivers, teachers or housekeeping staff. There had been at St. Nicholas. Besides, upon reaching majority and turning down every offer for her hand that had come to the orphanage, she could quite legitimately consider herself a old maid. The rules were a bit different for spinsters.

She had no interest in the quality of men who would seek a woman of no social standing or dowry for their bride and even less hope for her fate at the hands of such a gentleman. Her embarrassing defect had saved her for long enough to worm her way into the good graces of Mrs. Grenfeld, the orphanage's head mistress in charge of the facility's girls. In exchange for working as the mistress' assistant without pay, she was quietly moved to the list of unmarriageable ladies to be found employment within the city.

Now, as she stepped down from the carriage, she hoped that the impulse to apply here had been the right one. The liveryman piled her trunk and few bags at the doorstep, and then it was too late for doubts as he wasted no time in depositing his grizzled old bones back onto his perch. Slapping the reins, he and his team moved on to their next destination without so much as a polite inclination of the head. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, she turned back toward her new home. Both the steps and her fears rose above her to the grand entryway, but as Mrs. Grenfeld always said, 'Not a single one of your challenges will ever face itself.' So, gathering her skirts and her courage, she mounted the steps.

She held the heavy, tarnished brass doorknocker raised in her hand to announce her arrival when a faint shriek of glee rang out from somewhere beyond the house, followed almost immediately by giggles and boyish laughter. Rue smiled, her fears suddenly seeming not only groundless but foolish as well. She glanced at her bags in momentary indecision and then set off down the flagstone path that wound around the north side of the house.

A flash of movement from above caught her eye as she rounded the manse. Shadows lay dim here, even in the late morning sun, so she couldn't be sure, but she thought she briefly saw a figure standing in a third story window. She was raising her hand to wave when the curtain fell, dark and heavy, to erase the figure from sight. After a final curious glance upward, Rue continued down the path.

At the rear edge of the house, a small copse of trees ended in a stone arch framing the path as it ran down into open sunlight on the back lawn beyond. A dozen or more children of various ages raced around with rambunctious energy, and she paused there to watch them play.

If she hadn't paused, she would never have heard the low, whistling snore coming from her right. On the grass, back resting against a tree trunk in the shade slept a dour-faced, aging woman wearing a food-stained apron. Given her positioning, Rue could only assume the older woman was supposed to be watching the children.

[The Melancholy Spirit]

City noise, that of the clopping of horses on cobblestone, the creak and clatter of carriage wheels, and the gossip of maidens, house wives, business men, and labor workers, all of it was a distant afterthought, if not a partial white noise. For the time all Luca noticed was the trickle of the stream flowing over and around the larger of the rocks lining its bed. Above the trees swayed gracefully in a low breeze with birds fluttering about ion their boughs. As he lay on his back, Luca breathed in slowly, enjoying the peaceful moment.

He had snuck out of the orphanage early to make his way there. Judging from the sun he suspected it was time he head back, though the thought came with a sigh. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the watch, pressing the button to open it and peer at the time. It was as he suspected. Closing the watch, he slipped it back into the pocket before rising to his feet.

The trip back to the orphanage didn’t take long. Luca was one of the few adults there. Not that he was complaining. Adults made things complicated, mostly because they forgot how to have fun and simply enjoy life. Something Luca had been scolded about several times as he grew up and showed no indication of taking on such stoic, adult-like traits as finding an everyday job. Somehow he had managed to stick around the orphanage long after he should have been tossed aside. Being good with the children, and having been one of the star actors of his own generation, were likely all that allowed him to stay. He knew it well, yet would never complain. It was an easy, if flawed, life. Though he did still often dream of joining the gypsies the old cook would curse about. He’d never seen them in his life, but she had when she was younger and still hated them.

When he arrived at the orphanage he found the children playing in the back. The cook was fast asleep, which brought a smirk to his face. What was curious, however, was the addition to the scene he had not anticipated; the young woman who stood there with a mix of confidence of belonging and trepidation of trespassing. Luca paused, looking at her for a moment with a bemused look, complete with a quirked brow. He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. Starting toward her again, he smirked at the children and said loud enough for the woman to hear.

“What is this, too busy in your games to greet the guest?”

[wakeangel]

This Country is like our own Country in many ways. It has men and women, kings and queens, rich and poor; it has houses, and trees, and fields, and birds, and flowers. There is day there and night also; and heat and cold, and sickness and health. The hearts of men and women, and boys and girls, beat as they do here. There are the same sorrows and the same joys; and the same hopes and the same fears.

If a child from that Country was beside a child here you could not tell the difference between them, save that the clothes alone are different. They talk the same language as we do ourselves. They do not know that they are different from us; and we do not know that we are different from them. When they come to us in their dreams we do not know they are strangers; and when we go to their Country in our dreams we seem to be at home. Perhaps this is because good people's homes are in their hearts; and wheresoever they may be they have peace.


With a moue of disapproval at the snores coming from her right, Rue considered her options. She could wake the sleeping woman, which for some reason she felt reluctant to do, or she could leave her belongings unattended at the front entrance to stay and watch over them herself. Neither course of action seemed optimal, so she stood next to the gate looking out over the lawn and gardens as she deliberated.

The children, intent on their game, either hadn't noticed her yet or didn't care. She enjoyed watching them, but she had no idea if her belongings would be safe or not. So, she decided to rouse the old lady. Bending above her, Rue called out softly at first, “Madame.” When no response came, she nudged and then shook the woman's shoulder. “Madame, you must awaken!” Muttering under her breath, she turned away from Rue and promptly went back to sleep.

Resigned to leave her luggage to its fate and hope for the best, she settled in to keep an eye on the younglings. Not long after, a man emerged from the trees to the rear of the property and approached across the lawn. For a moment, nervousness prickled her spine at the possible necessity of defending a group of children from a ruffian with only an old woman's snoring for support, but his casual attitude and relaxed body posture soon told her that she, not he, was the outsider here.

The curious stare he leveled on her stirred a different kind of tension entirely. It was unseemly for a man to converse with a woman of whom he was not acquainted, and doubly so for a woman to do the same. She had no way of knowing which would offend her new employers more, the forwardness of speaking with a stranger, or the rudeness of snubbing a possible colleague.

Biting her lower lip with uncertainty, she tried to decide what best to do. She couldn't remember ever being in such an uncontrolled situation. She winced slightly when he spoke, fearing he'd address her directly, but applauded his cunning a moment later when he directed the children's attention to her instead. She appreciated his tact in buffering an introduction through them, and as play stopped and over a dozen pair of curious eyes turned her way, she found her smile and stepped forward, away from the gate and into the garden.

The open interest on most of the children's faces told her a lot about the orphanage and the people who ran it, easing further her fears of earlier. A boy of perhaps fourteen and a girl a bit younger took a few protective steps in her direction while the rest hung back, but the reaction of one girl, a cherub-faced beauty of about seven, was particularly telling.

“Luca!” she shrieked in unabashed glee and picked up her skirts to race across the lawn towards him, adoration plain on her face.

The boy and girl halted several feet away from Rue. From this close, the familial resemblance was obvious. He eyed her openly, assessing, but his companion, while obviously curious was more circumspect. “Who're you?” he asked bluntly.

“Nathan!” The girl chided, elbowing him. “'Tis hardly proper!”

She blushed prettily in chagrin, but Nathan's gaze was direct and unrepentant, clearly warning her that the girl next to him and the other children were under his protection and she'd do well to remember it. Rue liked him immediately.

“Hello, Ma'am,” the girl curtsied with only a slight wobble and spoke up quickly to forestall any further infraction on her sibling's part. “I'm Phoebe Whipple. Please excuse my brother's rudeness. He's a mite overprotective.” At his glare, Phoebe flashed him an apologetic look.

Hiding a smile at the likable pair, Rue inclined her head formally. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Whipple. My name is Rue St. Nicholas. I will be one of your teachers.” Her gazed flashed briefly past them to the man identified as Luca, wondering what sort of man he was. As it seemed they were to be colleagues, she hoped their interactions would prove amiable.

Nathan nudged his sister's arm. “Introduce me,” he whispered in an aside loud enough to be heard halfway to the manse. She glared at him, but complied.

“Miss St. Nicholas, may I introduce my brother, Nathaniel Whipple?”

Rue inclined her head again, a tiny curve of amusement finding its way to the corner of her lips. She wondered how nonplussed he'd be should she hold out her hand for him to kiss, but refrained from teasing him. “You may. A pleasure, Mr. Whipple, and how do you do?”

Formalities satisfactorily completed to his mind, he cocked his head to the side and regarded her shrewdly. “Who sent you?”

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