...'Til the Rat Lady Sings by Silvercobwebs
Title: …‘Til the Rat Lady Sings
Author: Silvercobwebs
Rating: PG-13/R for Fitz being Fitz
Character: Fitzcairn
Prompt: opera
Word count: Approx 1700.
Author’s notes: The character of Anna is inspired by Florence Foster Jenkins. I recommend you look her up after you finish reading this.
Summary: Never trust women who admire Wagner, Mac, it’s the mark of a deeply troubled soul.
The rats, MacLeod, it was the bloody rats.
Now I imagine that you are scratching that thick Scottish brow of yours and wondering what the devil your dearest companion is talking about (well, writing, but they are similar enough, yet with the welcome lack of your continual unflattering interruptions), not to mention the fact that I am essentially dedicating my memoirs to you, but I will explain all in my own good time.
Now where was I?
Ah yes. My memoirs - my innermost reflections on my long, rich, illustrious, daring-deed-filled, red-blooded (well you get the picture) existence. And of course this particular chapter concerns the one true love of my life. And I’ll thank you not to snigger MacLeod, it makes you sound like a disgruntled warthog with a nasty case of congestion. Yes, I know you may doubt the notion of a one true love for such a… liberated romantic as myself, but believe me, it’s true.
Or at least she was the love of that particular lifetime.
+++
I should have known when she begged me to see the premiere of Tristan and Isolde in Paris. It was a warning sign. Never trust women who admire Wagner, Mac, it’s the mark of a deeply troubled soul.
When was I? Oh yes, 1865, and whilst the Yanks were desperately busy trying to kill each other (God’s blood, man, why did you get involved with that?), I was in Berlin, engaged in much more civil, er, engagements.
Anna.
Even the name wounds me now, Mac. Brings a shudder to my soul, and butterflies in my stomach. By God, she had such magnificent breasts it would make you weep. Tall and buxom, the daughter of a Baron, and endowed with a really firm, healthy bosom. Oh I could wax lyrical about those breasts for an age, but I know how you can be so ridiculously impatient, so I shall reluctantly press on (so to speak). But really, Mac, you ought to compliment your women more often, you know. Women like to be appreciated, to be savoured, like a fine wine, not just gulped down like cheap ale as is your habit. No finesse, man, quite tragic.
Damn, where was I again? You see - even when you’re not around you still provide a distraction! Oh, all right, I’ll admit that it’s not always been an altogether annoying distraction, but still I digress.
Anna Rabe, whose smashing figure and devastating charm had me entranced from the very moment I saw her, Yes, I know, a terrible cliché, but there are exceptions to every rule. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, we met at a charming little party the prince, or dauphin, or whoever was wearing the finest hose at that time had decided to throw, and we sizzled, Mac. Anna and I sparked together (and then we ‘sparked’ later that eve), we were the very definition of chemistry! It wasn’t just the looks, Mac. Pretty girls are ten a penny - and I have been a rich rich man - but she was something quite extraordinary. There was this intangible quality, this, je ne sais quoi, this… Voice.
Now on occasion, I know I may have been prone to fits of what some might tenderly describe as exaggeration, but what I am about to tell you is not one word of a lie, Mac. Not a word of it. Anna has the most astounding, most incredible, most unique singing voice that you have ever heard. Opera was her favourite style, and when she opened her mouth everyone in the room would stop and listen. When Anna sung, the walls shook, I swear it! It was like hearing the most holy cherubim being slowly tortured on the rack whilst a blind butcher with no thumbs set about gutting a live cat with a spoon. Not one note could be held, not even if she had a bucket the size of Budapest. In short, Mac, she was bloody terrible. It was worse than bagpipes.
But don’t get me wrong Mac, you see, it did hold a certain - dare I say irresistible? - charm. I know, I know, it seems crazy, but like I said, she had a particular presence. So bad it was good, if we must keep to the clichés. She had singing lessons since childhood, much to the despair of her tutor, but despite hours of agonising practise, she never produced what you would call, a pleasant tune. Of course, that didn’t stop her. You see, Mac, she thought she was good. Better than good, and she wasn’t afraid to belt out a tune if encouraged. And people did encourage her. Well, everyone except her father. He thought singers and actors all alike - of low degree and moral character. And so she never got to perform in front of a large audience, as she had so dearly wished. That is, until she met me. I had recently fallen into some good fortune - a lottery win of all things, and I had money to burn. Now I know what you’re thinking Mac, and I confess it passed my mind too - she only desired me for my money, right? Well, I was convinced otherwise - she kept urging me to give the money away to charitable causes, children, the poor, small fluffy animals, that sort of thing. All very noble, and I did my part, but I knew what I really had to do. Anna wanted to perform to a real, paying audience, and I had the means to indulge her. So I did, and believe me, she was thankful. Thankful in the heart, in the bedroom, and at least twice in the kitchen before we were both thrown out and her father disowned her.
But it didn’t matter, Mac, because we had our love! (and several hundred guineas. I’m a romantic, not an idiot.) Even better than that, people paid to see her, to actually hear her! She got to sing, I got used to stuffing wool in my ears, and we both got a tidy little profit. Everything was perfect. We bought a modest little mansion, we had servants, fine food, fine wine - fine living! There was just one little problem. The rats.
Now I may have been a rich man back then, but I couldn’t afford to rent or buy some huge opera house for every performance, so we used a smaller, cosier venue on the outskirts of town. Nothing shoddy or of dubious repute, I’ll have you know, just something a little more intimate. Unfortunately it was a lot more intimate than I had initially thought. Now you know what things were like back then - even nowadays you still get the occasional rat lurking around a theatre, and so when we saw the first one scurry across the stage we took little heed of it. But the next night it was a couple of those little blighters, and the night after half a dozen of verminous rapscallions practically threw themselves at my darling right in the middle of her favourite aria. However, they all scuttled away back under the floorboards when she’d finished screaming. You see, her voice must have had a certain timbre that they found pleasing, and so every time she would reach the climax (thank God, it wasn’t that climax!), enter rats stage left. The audience thought it was part of the performance at first, but after they realised what was going on, well, ticket sales didn’t exactly skyrocket.
I tried to deal with it myself, protect the good lady, as I always do, and I managed to almost run one through before it disappeared into a hole by the wings and I ran smack dab into a rather large chunk of wood. I imagine you’re sniggering again, Mac, but those little buggers were speedy, and downright smart. I tried to get her to lure them out so that I and a few of the stagehands could round them up, but Anna was still so shaken she could barely produce more than a squeak. Night after night I’d seek them out, and after a month, I’d managed to kill three. Three! And such disgusting smelly little creatures they are too. I swear, some of them were as big as spaniels (or some Spaniards I’ve met too, I’d wager). Anna was in a frightful state, our workers were threatening to walk out, and I was ruining perfectly good pantaloons with rat blood. Clearly it was time to bring in a professional. And that, Mac, that was the biggest mistake I ever made.
The rat-catcher was from Hamelin. Yes that Hamelin. Go on, laugh, I know you want to. He made a good living from those brothers Grimm. Pied Piper my arse. Pie-eyed ponce was more like it. He dressed remarkably well for a rat-catcher, the great peacock. He was a short, slimy little whelp with a weak chin and beady little eyes. Anna called him striking but I couldn’t see it. I did however, know the type. No honour, no natural charm, and he had a very suspicious whiff of gin about him too. I should have acted on my base instincts and run him through when I saw him pawing over my delicate flower, like she was common market goods. At least then honour would be satisfied if we fought. But no, he was one to hide behind words and sickly smiles. But he knew his trade, and he had a curious collection of traps that seemed to do their job well enough. When he saw the effect that Anna’s voice had upon the animals his eyes lit up like two tiny suns, and he would whisper into the ear of the pet rat he carried about in his breast pocket. I’m surprised anyone would shake his hand after that pampered little pet had been snuffling around on it.
And that’s when it happened. After just a few days, he had all of the rats rounded up, most killed, and some kept for nefarious purposes I’ll bet. I went out to celebrate with the lads (and perhaps a few ladies), and when I came back, there was no sign of either of them. Not even a note. Nothing.
For the first time in over 700 years, I had been dumped, Mac. Me! Dumped! The very thought of it. Dumped for a common, hairy-eared, twitchy-nosed, sneaky little rat!
Author: Silvercobwebs
Rating: PG-13/R for Fitz being Fitz
Character: Fitzcairn
Prompt: opera
Word count: Approx 1700.
Author’s notes: The character of Anna is inspired by Florence Foster Jenkins. I recommend you look her up after you finish reading this.
Summary: Never trust women who admire Wagner, Mac, it’s the mark of a deeply troubled soul.
The rats, MacLeod, it was the bloody rats.
Now I imagine that you are scratching that thick Scottish brow of yours and wondering what the devil your dearest companion is talking about (well, writing, but they are similar enough, yet with the welcome lack of your continual unflattering interruptions), not to mention the fact that I am essentially dedicating my memoirs to you, but I will explain all in my own good time.
Now where was I?
Ah yes. My memoirs - my innermost reflections on my long, rich, illustrious, daring-deed-filled, red-blooded (well you get the picture) existence. And of course this particular chapter concerns the one true love of my life. And I’ll thank you not to snigger MacLeod, it makes you sound like a disgruntled warthog with a nasty case of congestion. Yes, I know you may doubt the notion of a one true love for such a… liberated romantic as myself, but believe me, it’s true.
Or at least she was the love of that particular lifetime.
+++
I should have known when she begged me to see the premiere of Tristan and Isolde in Paris. It was a warning sign. Never trust women who admire Wagner, Mac, it’s the mark of a deeply troubled soul.
When was I? Oh yes, 1865, and whilst the Yanks were desperately busy trying to kill each other (God’s blood, man, why did you get involved with that?), I was in Berlin, engaged in much more civil, er, engagements.
Anna.
Even the name wounds me now, Mac. Brings a shudder to my soul, and butterflies in my stomach. By God, she had such magnificent breasts it would make you weep. Tall and buxom, the daughter of a Baron, and endowed with a really firm, healthy bosom. Oh I could wax lyrical about those breasts for an age, but I know how you can be so ridiculously impatient, so I shall reluctantly press on (so to speak). But really, Mac, you ought to compliment your women more often, you know. Women like to be appreciated, to be savoured, like a fine wine, not just gulped down like cheap ale as is your habit. No finesse, man, quite tragic.
Damn, where was I again? You see - even when you’re not around you still provide a distraction! Oh, all right, I’ll admit that it’s not always been an altogether annoying distraction, but still I digress.
Anna Rabe, whose smashing figure and devastating charm had me entranced from the very moment I saw her, Yes, I know, a terrible cliché, but there are exceptions to every rule. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, we met at a charming little party the prince, or dauphin, or whoever was wearing the finest hose at that time had decided to throw, and we sizzled, Mac. Anna and I sparked together (and then we ‘sparked’ later that eve), we were the very definition of chemistry! It wasn’t just the looks, Mac. Pretty girls are ten a penny - and I have been a rich rich man - but she was something quite extraordinary. There was this intangible quality, this, je ne sais quoi, this… Voice.
Now on occasion, I know I may have been prone to fits of what some might tenderly describe as exaggeration, but what I am about to tell you is not one word of a lie, Mac. Not a word of it. Anna has the most astounding, most incredible, most unique singing voice that you have ever heard. Opera was her favourite style, and when she opened her mouth everyone in the room would stop and listen. When Anna sung, the walls shook, I swear it! It was like hearing the most holy cherubim being slowly tortured on the rack whilst a blind butcher with no thumbs set about gutting a live cat with a spoon. Not one note could be held, not even if she had a bucket the size of Budapest. In short, Mac, she was bloody terrible. It was worse than bagpipes.
But don’t get me wrong Mac, you see, it did hold a certain - dare I say irresistible? - charm. I know, I know, it seems crazy, but like I said, she had a particular presence. So bad it was good, if we must keep to the clichés. She had singing lessons since childhood, much to the despair of her tutor, but despite hours of agonising practise, she never produced what you would call, a pleasant tune. Of course, that didn’t stop her. You see, Mac, she thought she was good. Better than good, and she wasn’t afraid to belt out a tune if encouraged. And people did encourage her. Well, everyone except her father. He thought singers and actors all alike - of low degree and moral character. And so she never got to perform in front of a large audience, as she had so dearly wished. That is, until she met me. I had recently fallen into some good fortune - a lottery win of all things, and I had money to burn. Now I know what you’re thinking Mac, and I confess it passed my mind too - she only desired me for my money, right? Well, I was convinced otherwise - she kept urging me to give the money away to charitable causes, children, the poor, small fluffy animals, that sort of thing. All very noble, and I did my part, but I knew what I really had to do. Anna wanted to perform to a real, paying audience, and I had the means to indulge her. So I did, and believe me, she was thankful. Thankful in the heart, in the bedroom, and at least twice in the kitchen before we were both thrown out and her father disowned her.
But it didn’t matter, Mac, because we had our love! (and several hundred guineas. I’m a romantic, not an idiot.) Even better than that, people paid to see her, to actually hear her! She got to sing, I got used to stuffing wool in my ears, and we both got a tidy little profit. Everything was perfect. We bought a modest little mansion, we had servants, fine food, fine wine - fine living! There was just one little problem. The rats.
Now I may have been a rich man back then, but I couldn’t afford to rent or buy some huge opera house for every performance, so we used a smaller, cosier venue on the outskirts of town. Nothing shoddy or of dubious repute, I’ll have you know, just something a little more intimate. Unfortunately it was a lot more intimate than I had initially thought. Now you know what things were like back then - even nowadays you still get the occasional rat lurking around a theatre, and so when we saw the first one scurry across the stage we took little heed of it. But the next night it was a couple of those little blighters, and the night after half a dozen of verminous rapscallions practically threw themselves at my darling right in the middle of her favourite aria. However, they all scuttled away back under the floorboards when she’d finished screaming. You see, her voice must have had a certain timbre that they found pleasing, and so every time she would reach the climax (thank God, it wasn’t that climax!), enter rats stage left. The audience thought it was part of the performance at first, but after they realised what was going on, well, ticket sales didn’t exactly skyrocket.
I tried to deal with it myself, protect the good lady, as I always do, and I managed to almost run one through before it disappeared into a hole by the wings and I ran smack dab into a rather large chunk of wood. I imagine you’re sniggering again, Mac, but those little buggers were speedy, and downright smart. I tried to get her to lure them out so that I and a few of the stagehands could round them up, but Anna was still so shaken she could barely produce more than a squeak. Night after night I’d seek them out, and after a month, I’d managed to kill three. Three! And such disgusting smelly little creatures they are too. I swear, some of them were as big as spaniels (or some Spaniards I’ve met too, I’d wager). Anna was in a frightful state, our workers were threatening to walk out, and I was ruining perfectly good pantaloons with rat blood. Clearly it was time to bring in a professional. And that, Mac, that was the biggest mistake I ever made.
The rat-catcher was from Hamelin. Yes that Hamelin. Go on, laugh, I know you want to. He made a good living from those brothers Grimm. Pied Piper my arse. Pie-eyed ponce was more like it. He dressed remarkably well for a rat-catcher, the great peacock. He was a short, slimy little whelp with a weak chin and beady little eyes. Anna called him striking but I couldn’t see it. I did however, know the type. No honour, no natural charm, and he had a very suspicious whiff of gin about him too. I should have acted on my base instincts and run him through when I saw him pawing over my delicate flower, like she was common market goods. At least then honour would be satisfied if we fought. But no, he was one to hide behind words and sickly smiles. But he knew his trade, and he had a curious collection of traps that seemed to do their job well enough. When he saw the effect that Anna’s voice had upon the animals his eyes lit up like two tiny suns, and he would whisper into the ear of the pet rat he carried about in his breast pocket. I’m surprised anyone would shake his hand after that pampered little pet had been snuffling around on it.
And that’s when it happened. After just a few days, he had all of the rats rounded up, most killed, and some kept for nefarious purposes I’ll bet. I went out to celebrate with the lads (and perhaps a few ladies), and when I came back, there was no sign of either of them. Not even a note. Nothing.
For the first time in over 700 years, I had been dumped, Mac. Me! Dumped! The very thought of it. Dumped for a common, hairy-eared, twitchy-nosed, sneaky little rat!