A dressing room in a theater, New York, 1884
Celia sat quietly in the little room filled with her father's discarded belongings and tried to focus on the page. She knew she'd get an earful, or worse, when Prospero the Enchanter's final encore was complete and he came backstage in search of his brandy and found the room still in the disarray he'd left it.
But she couldn't quite bring herself to care, just yet.
He'd dropped the brochure in her lap earlier before taking the stage, with an unceremonious, "It's time you spent some time in the company of your peers. Maybe you'll find one or two here." She'd traced her fingertip over the words, Fandom High idly for hours, at turns both bewildered and overjoyed. Her heart raced with a sort of joyful anxiety. If Hector knew how happy she was about this, he'd surely take it away.
She wouldn't spend her days unpeeling apples with her mind, or healing wounds he'd given her, or being told she needed practice. She wouldn't spend her nights crying backstage while he received thunderous applause. She would be free.
It was terrifying. It was probably a trap. But it wasn't life with her father, and Celia was almost as happy as she was afraid.
She heard graceless footsteps down the hall, and glanced up. A flick of her fingers, and Hector's dirty shirts flipped up from the floor and hung themselves on pegs. Socks and shoes were lined up neatly beside the door. Celia's trunk was already packed, but its lid flipped shut and bolted.
Under the dressing-table, a tin of biscuits shuddered and snapped its lid shut.
Celia set aside her book and her brochure, and folded her hands neatly in her lap just as the door swung open.
"Get the packing done?" Hector Bowen greeted his daughter, flopping into a chair across from the stool where she was perched.
"Yes, Papa," Celia replied, smiling. If she wasn't sweet, he might not let her go. If she wasn't obedient, he might keep her here.
"Good." Hector nodded toward his brandy decanter. "Pour me a drink."
Celia knew better than to stand to pour it with her hands. She barely looked over as the amber liquid poured itself neatly into a glass, and floated over to her father's hand.
Hector smiled at her. And Celia smiled back, genuinely.
She could still practice, for now.
[nfi, nfb, natch!]
But she couldn't quite bring herself to care, just yet.
He'd dropped the brochure in her lap earlier before taking the stage, with an unceremonious, "It's time you spent some time in the company of your peers. Maybe you'll find one or two here." She'd traced her fingertip over the words, Fandom High idly for hours, at turns both bewildered and overjoyed. Her heart raced with a sort of joyful anxiety. If Hector knew how happy she was about this, he'd surely take it away.
She wouldn't spend her days unpeeling apples with her mind, or healing wounds he'd given her, or being told she needed practice. She wouldn't spend her nights crying backstage while he received thunderous applause. She would be free.
It was terrifying. It was probably a trap. But it wasn't life with her father, and Celia was almost as happy as she was afraid.
She heard graceless footsteps down the hall, and glanced up. A flick of her fingers, and Hector's dirty shirts flipped up from the floor and hung themselves on pegs. Socks and shoes were lined up neatly beside the door. Celia's trunk was already packed, but its lid flipped shut and bolted.
Under the dressing-table, a tin of biscuits shuddered and snapped its lid shut.
Celia set aside her book and her brochure, and folded her hands neatly in her lap just as the door swung open.
"Get the packing done?" Hector Bowen greeted his daughter, flopping into a chair across from the stool where she was perched.
"Yes, Papa," Celia replied, smiling. If she wasn't sweet, he might not let her go. If she wasn't obedient, he might keep her here.
"Good." Hector nodded toward his brandy decanter. "Pour me a drink."
Celia knew better than to stand to pour it with her hands. She barely looked over as the amber liquid poured itself neatly into a glass, and floated over to her father's hand.
Hector smiled at her. And Celia smiled back, genuinely.
She could still practice, for now.
[nfi, nfb, natch!]