She likes to spend a lot of her free time wandering through the halls, touching a wall here, examining a sculpture there...she could get lost for hours in this place... in its beauty and its memories. Dressed in a simple dress of soft cream -- a light and airy fabric -- and little else, she leans against the edge of a window, gazing out into the night sky. Her hair is unbound, as she seems to prefer it, and her feet are... bare. She can sense the memories that better, perhaps, due to direct, constant contact.
     Tori seems lost in thought as she peers out into the darkness, but another watches her closely, a bit of a distance away, but never too far. The young man with the ponytail leans against a nearby wall, watching his insane mistress with care, lest she harm herself. Raf is ever diligent in this duty when Tori is not under watch from someone else. In his own hands rests a sketchbook and pencil, idly sketching passersby, but keeping to himself. Tori pays him no attention.

     From afar, Girault's life looks like the glitzy version of Caligula. Young boys and men everywhere, a beautiful Italian marble palazzo, sumptuosity. It seems one, great, glamorous feast. However, upon closer inspection, and within the walls of the grand palazzo, where only the most fortunate are able to visit or dwell, there is discipline, learning, routine and most of all business.
     Your nights are spoken for. You are risen gently just past sunset. You are led into a great hall and made to sing scale after rising scale, stretching your vocal chords, working your vocal chords. Sometimes with Girault there correcting you. He is so exact. He is so business-like, even in his passion. Sometimes, it is a very frustrating enterprise. From there, you are whisked to Italian language studies, you are even made to struggle through Italian literature even though you were only taught 'buon giorno!' two months ago. There is history, there is diplomacy, there is etiquette, dancing, music theory and finally vocal lessons again.
     Sometime in all of that you are allowed to eat and drink and have a little personal time. And if you thought respite would come when Girault had to travel...
     He is returning tonight. You were given leave to relax for the first night in ...well... since your arrival. But he is returning tonight from Germany. All of this relaxation will be at an end! The maestro has returned. The Voice. Il Gatto. Girault-Antonio di Medici.
     The palazzo is alive with the sounds of the preparations. The voices of those announcing Girault's arrival. The gondola is landing, apparently. Girault is home. And rapid, soft footsteps are sounding against the marble. "Signora! Signora?" The whispered tones of a servant looking for you.

     Even if it was not Tori who was 'present' at the lessons, the body remembers it all. Faith was as apt a student as Tori, for Faith was ever the curious child, seeking out new knowledge, nearly thirsting for more and more every time she emerged. Tori was always similar to Faith, being merely an older version of the little girl... the little girl being a younger version of her.
     It was rare that 'Alice' would ever emerge. No doubt, the incidents could be counted on a single hand... and still have fingers left over. But when those bouts came on, she was difficult, horribly distracted, and worse... sometimes violent and suicidal. Tori and Faith do their best to keep Alice under control. And while you were away, there were no incidents. She kept control, even as she keeps control now.
     Turning as she hears someone calling to her, Tori turns her porcelain-like face toward the servant. "Si?" she responds, even as Raf's head bobs up from his sketching at the movement and at the sound of her voice.

     The quickest way to learn Italian is to have to be immersed in it. Spare the rod and spoil the child, goes the saying. English or French is only spoken as a last resort. "Cercandoli! Sono venuto trovarlo nella vostra stanza, pensante li devo leggere." The servant is a familiar face. It is one of the palazzo's stewards. Young, gorgeous, Venetian. Girault's nickname for him is Murano -- because he is as brilliant as the blown glass! He's a little out of breath from running. "E l'ora per lettura. Il Dignitario sta arrivando. Dovreste venirli a contatto di nel salone..."

     The palazzo doors swing open from the Grand Canal, and yet unseen by you, Raf and Murano, Girault breezes into his palace home, in silks and sables. Servants come to fetch his coat, his gloves. "The house is too quiet!" Girault smiles, celebrating his return with kisses upon the faces of his Favorites. "Soon this will change, si?"

     Murano glances to Raf and then to you, turning as he hears Girault announcing himself -- who could miss the tenor's projection? "Si, si... the salon," he says quickly in English. "He will want to hear your progress...."

     Well, that part, he understood. Raf tucks his sketchbook under one arm, then moves to Tori, touching one of her elbows with his free hand. "We'd better go and meet him," he murmurs quietly to her.
     She glances at him. Here, she wears no specs to hide her condition. The eyes are so strange... off... not quite right. But she nods in understanding, the moves to follow Murano, remaining silent for now.
     The two of them head for the salon to meet the returning Il Gatto. She murmurs quietly to Raf, "Reading? Was I not given time for rest right now? Or am I confused?" He squeezes her elbow slightly and gives her a sympathetic glance. Oh, to be back in America... or at least England. All of this seems so strange to him. He was born in this century. At least Tori is from a century before, so she can adapt a bit to it all.. but for him, it's like he stepped into some historical film or something. But, he says nothing of this, understanding why he is here...not for him, but for her.

     Murano doesn't explain. Perhaps there is no free time on the Dignitary's clock. He turns, glancing back to make sure you are following him and he leads you down marble hallways, ornate passages, with interior fountains and statuary...
     It is like living in a museum, in its way...
     The salon is at the end of one of the great passages on the first level. It is ringed with windows and offers one of the best views of the Grand Canal. Gondola with lanterns can be seen bobbing on the dark, serpentine water. Other buildings, palazzi and other grand homes, are visible too. It is like another layer of decoration.
     Within the salon, Girault is sitting, turning as he is handed an almond liqueur. He is clothed in rich wools and thick velvet, in black with an undertone of burgundy to match his hair. His face is Perfection, so much so he is simply Unreal. He looks up as the doors open, smiling and rising as you all enter.
     "Bella Victoria," he announces, "...uccella canora bella. E una gioia per vederla!" He reaches out with his hands, his eyes moving to Raf. He smiles a greeting and gestures for him to take a seat. "Murano, please ask Giovanni to join us," the other music teacher. "Now that I am back, I wish to hear how everyone has missed me!"

     Once within the salon, the pair look to you and smile. Raf's is large and warm, while Tori's is reserved and maybe a little relieved. Raf nods his head and says, "Good to see you home, safe and sound, sir." With that, he then grabs a seat, as offered.
     Tori, however, remains standing, hands clasped before her. "It is good to have you home, Antonio. This place was..." She struggles with the Italian to finish her statement with, "...empty without your presence." The pause is short, but noticeable. Not bad for a Brit, perhaps. She still prefers her native English and the long-ago learned French, but the Italian will come with time and practice.
     Her poise has improved a bit during her stay here. Not that she was a slouch or anything, but it is all in subtle differences that you would pick up. Raf might not, but you would. Small differences in how she holds herself, how she moves, how she speaks. She is learning. It's just taking time.

     Murano bows to Girault and then whirls about, quietly but quickly taking his leave.

     "Si, si," Girault says, "... thank you, Rafael," he calls your Raf, smiling warmly to the human. He then focuses all his attention on you. "And thank you, la bella signora," he continues in a murmur. "You are looking very... European," he smiles. Very not the American he first met -- though you are hardly American in pedigree, it had rubbed off on you quite a bit. Like tarnish staining silver. "Very beautiful. Very confident. You are speaking Italian," though he smiles, his tone is all business. "You are improving. More words! I am glad to hear this. "And your music. I hear that you have graduated to Rossini. We will work tomorrow, you and I. I am looking forward to hearing you. Please, bella, sit... tell me how you have been spending your days while I have been in Germany..."
     Saarbrucken. Again.

     The ponytailed man settles in his seat, relaxing and watching the exchange between his mistress and Il Gatto. There is some relief in his face. He knows that as long as the master of the home is here, there are more eyes to watch his troubled lady. He can afford to relax... but only a little.
     Tori nods once and finds a seat, not too far away from Raf, in truth. She doesn't sprawl or curl up within it. This is Tori who is present. Faith likes to curl up in chairs. On the rare occasion that Alice shows up, she sprawls. Tori perches herself in the chair with a straight back, hands resting within her lap. In control for now.
     "Thank you, Antonio. I am working hard at my lessons," comes the quiet response. You mention Germany. Of course she knows you were there, but the mention of it causes a brief ripple from her... emotion... memory. But then it is sealed away again as Tori continues to strive to keep in control. Drawing in an unneeded breath, she exhales, murmuring, "I have been keeping up on my studies. Reading. Learning. Singing. Playing," the piano, of course. "We were taking a small break before you arrived. I was watching for you at the window." But somehow she did not see you arrive. Her mind was elsewhere, perhaps. Smiling a little, she says, "Tell me of your trip."

     Girault listens, certainly. He listens to more than what is said or what is perhaps obvious to the ears of others. He tilts his head, steepled fingers resting against an exquisite mouth, jewels on his fingers sparkling. Rubies and diamonds and gold. Even an old mage's or poison ring on his fingers, heavier than the rest. He studies the precision of your answer and smiles, hands lowering.
     "I am happy to hear that you are working hard, bella rosa," so many nicknames! "All of these things form the enriched and," he holds up a finger, "...educated life. A life without education cannot be enriching. They are essential not simply to our Family," he rarely says clan or even calls it by name. "...but to civilized society as a whole. Good! You are keeping up, soon we will be hearing Mozart and Monteverdi in these halls again and our evenings shall be glorious."
     He sips at his drink, a liqueur. He does not force you to do the same. Girault folds one leg over his other. "Things in Germany still are as they have been since the loss of Saarbrucken," not to mention the alleged murder of the Other German Toreador. "It will take many years, I think, for it to repair from the sudden vacuum of age and influence. We ...creature people, as a group we fancy ourselves out of the natural order. But see how such loss yet affects us. So, we as a group are healing. The challenge is to fill the void without losing one's balance. Or starting a war. But," hands spread beatifically. "I have faith in the Greater Family. It is hard work, but in the end I hope to see compromise, companionship and compliance." Thus speaks the Council. "Thus, I return frequently to Germany until Germany no longer needs me. We have matters in Spain to attend to as well. We have neglected Spain by being at Germany's bedside."
     The liqueur is finished. It is not followed by another. Girault falls into studying you for a time, sparing Raf the too-beautiful-and-intense attention. "What of your studies here have you found to be the most enriching, what interests you most of all you have begun to experience..."

     Her thoughts betray her, perhaps. She cannot hide much from you. Germany had a certain draw for her late lover, and her body knows it, feels it... much as though it was part of her own Self. Inwardly, she fights with the memories. No. No, that was not where he was before, no doubt. He is gone. Move beyond it. Faith speaks quietly in her mind's ear, perhaps, quietly soothing her.
     Outwardly, Tori murmurs, "I have no doubt that things will take time to set right or even begin to mend. It was... a great loss to the Family to lose one such as him, I understand." Though she never knew Saarbrucken, she understands what he meant to the clan... even if only a fraction of understanding. "I also have faith in your ability to aid Germany during its trials." The sound of the country's name from her lips makes an eyebrow quirk slightly on Raf, but he says nothing.
     Tori would not ask for a drink, even as her eyes light upon the liquid being consumed. Her tastes for such are still yet under-developed and she still prefers to abstain if she can. To your question regarding her studies, she replies immediately, "The music, Antonio... everything else I've been learning is wonderful... but it is the music that truly speaks to me." Did you expect anything else?

     No, he expected music to be at the forefront. Everything else you study is a supporting element of that learning, in truth. The language for elocution, for translation, for control, for expression. Your piano instruction with some of the foremost pianists of Europe, no less. Your vocal training by former opera performers and church vocalists, Girault included.
     But when Girault himself is your maestro, he taps into more than your voice...
     "Your vocal training is what I am most interested to see develop. The piano, the instruments," he makes a wave, "...these are nice. But, if I may say so, it is the instrument of the voice, Vox, that is the most powerful. All other instruments seek to reach the sublimity of the human, or otherworldly," he smiles, "...voice. Do you feel strengthened? Your range. Have you noticed the increase in both range and projection?"

     It was her voice, afterall, that drew Morgan's attention to her. He had visited her parents' home and she was playing the piano, which she had a bit of a gift for... but when she opened her mouth, he was awestruck. He told her father that she had the voice of an angel... and secretly, he vowed to claim her for his own uses.
     This voice has accomplished much over the passing years. It has entertained fans of her Goth Diva days, and seduced many. It has triggered derangement reactions in others, soothed the frenzied, and pulled some out of moments of madness. It has been her greatest gift and greatest vulnerability.
     And now, she has been given the opportunity to expand on all of this. This songbird has found a place to let her spirit soar in those moments when the music takes her. You have given that to her.
     Where there was turmoil moments before, her face is a visage of peace now, thinking of her first love -- the music. A gentle smile spreads upon her face... not just in her lips. It is a rare moment to catch a glimpse of these days, but every now and then, it happens. For a moment, she looks alive again... not her usual pale, shadow-self.
     Quietly, she replies, "Yes... my voice has strengthened greatly. I have noticed this, yes. It... it sometimes surprises me, how far it will go... how much it can achieve. Thank you. It... I never dreamed I could reach so far with my voice." Passion colours her words, like a magician basking in the glow of his magics, as she speaks of this. All this, you have given her...you've shown her what she is capable of... and she has adapted.

     "Strong enough to break glass, subtle enough to slip into the soul," Girault murmurs. "That is what I wish you to have. A voice that can do both of these things. Control, strength, subtlety. As strong as you think you are now, you are just beginning, Bella Victoria," he continues, hands resting upon his own lap now, folded lightly. "When you have strengthened it and yourself by it and with it to a certain degree," known only by him apparently, he doesn't share it, "... I will show you what else you may do with your voice. But first," Girault says, standing, "Rossini, Puccini, Mozart. When you can sing Mozart with confidence, when you can move where Monteverdi is asking you to go, then I will teach you my own songs..."
     Is he a greater composer than Mozart? Than Monteverdi? What songs are these?
     "Now," Girault speaks softly to you, holding out his arm to you. "Come along with me... We are going to sing together..."

     Is it possible? To take it even further than Mozart and Monteverdi? Even further than this? Even now she is silent with wonder at the thought that her voice could do more than it does now. Just the beginning? She is not aware of the effect her psychic scream had on the one-block radius around her hotel room that fateful night... but even if she did, could she imagine for even a second that perhaps her actual voice might have some of that power?
     Standing slowly, she straightens out her dress before looking up. Raf is forgotten for now. He understands how this goes....he stands, too, but begins to move away. She needs to do this on her own, and she is in good hands. Bowing silently to Tori's back and to you, he begins to take his leave from the room, sketchbook in hand.
     Tori's slender hand reaches out and rests lightly upon your arm as she murmurs, "Teach me... please. I want more." Like a hungry child, isn't she? Like a newborn. So demanding of more and more nourishment... but her nourishment is not one that can be eaten. At least, not in a physical sense, it can't. It is... consumed in other ways. And she craves for it. She longs for it. It was what she was created for.

Posted by rowan at October 01, 2003 02:16 PM