[Memory, Mature] Beware the Patient Woman

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Act 1, Final Scene
Raffaele. Till now the skies were my love
Hurte’s beauty I did praise
Thus heart and duty both satisfied
Oh! For such simple days
She has moves me like a current
I struggle to keep my feet
Had yet I ever lived
Fore my Lady of Sielan?

Afternoon, 3 Ophus, 2700
Teatro La Fenizia

I have been to Sielan,” Niccolette announced.

“Have you, Miss Villamarzana?” Miss Andresano asked. She was doing up the buttons of her own coat, and she smiled down at Niccolette.

“Yes,” Niccolette said, smugly. “Have you?”

“Not yet,” Miss Andresano said. She brushed her hair over her collar, and adjusted her hat, angling it slightly. She glanced down at Niccolette; Niccolette reached one mitten up to touch her own hat, and, studying Miss Andresano, carefully tilted her hat a little. Miss Andresano smiled more then, although Niccolette did not know why.

“What was Sielan like? This way,” Miss Andresano held the door open; Niccolette went out first. It had snowed again, and her boots crunched through it; she stomped extra hard to make sure.

“It was very cold,” Niccolette said. The ground was slippery; she wobbled to a stop, looking at the walkway. Miss Andresano took her hand, and Niccolette held on as they went. “It is in the mountains, so sometimes it snows even in the summer. People wear very funny things there, but they are famous for it.”

Niccolette propped her feet on top of the blanket over the warm box in the carriage, and pulled a blanket over her lap, tucking it up around her shoulders. Miss Andresano did the same, sitting opposite from her. The carriage rocked, and began to move. Niccolette wriggled over a little to brush aside the curtain, staring out the window.

“How can the kontoura still go when the canals are frozen?” Niccolette asked, staring out the window.

Miss Andresano shifted over, leaning to look out the window above her. Niccolette froze, briefly, but it was not so bad to have the governess very close to her; she thought about it, and did not move. With Miss Andressano so close, Niccolette could feel her field properly. It was – bright, Niccolette thought. That was the right word for it: bright.

“The surface of the water is what freezes,” Miss Andresano explained, “because that’s the part which is closest to the air. Since it is only the surface which is cold, then the boats can break through it, and go in the water underneath."

“But it is very cold underwater,” Niccolette pointed out.

“Yes,” Miss Andresano agreed. “But not cold enough to freeze.”

“Why?” Niccolette looked up at her, wide-eyed. They had gone over the bridge, and by now it was only shops and houses on either side of the carriage; disappointed, Niccolette let the curtain close.

“Why?” Miss Andresano repeated, raising her eyebrows. “I suppose it’s because ice floats. Think of an ice cube in a glass of lemonade; it hovers at the top. Ice in the canals works the same way, I suppose, and so it protects the water below from the cold air.” She smiled again.

There was a pause as Niccolette thought the answer over. She pulled back the curtain again, looking out at the snow-covered ground, and then looked back up at Miss Andresano. “Yes,” Niccolette said, pleased. “That makes sense.”

Miss Andresano was smiling again. Niccolette smiled too.

The theater was much warmer than the carriage, warm enough that they left their coats at the check, and their gloves and scarves and hats too. Miss Andresano fixed her own hair in the mirror, and then fixed Niccolette’s, too, with a little brush. Niccolette stood very still and let her, and she did not mind, even though really she was old enough to fix her own hair. They were sitting in one of the small boxes along the side of the theater, and Niccolette was tall enough to see over the railing, looking down wide-eyed at the stage, at the heavy fall of the curtains.

“Will it start soon?” Niccolette asked, looking up at Miss Andresano.

“Soon,” Miss Andresano promised. “Are you bored?”

Niccolette frowned, thoughtfully, looking back at the stage. “No,” she said, slowly, drawing the word out with a quick glance up. “But I want it to start.”

Miss Andresano smiled. “Me too,” she said, simply, hands resting on her lap.

Niccolette nodded, and looked back at the stage.

It was not long, really, before the curtains began to lift. Niccolette let out a little gasp of excitement, shifting on her seat; she leaned forward. The music began to play, to swell; the stage was lit by candlelight, even though it was daytime, and two men walked out into the middle of it, opened their mouths, and began to sing.

By the intermission, Niccolette was bouncing up and down with excitement. She held fast to Miss Andresano’s hand, wide-eyed, all her breath rushing out of her in a steady stream of words. “And the dancing! It was so nice! I liked that very much – and the scene in the airship, with the mountains! How did they do that? Change the background so quickly?”

Miss Andresano was laughing, but it was very soft and she was smiling. “They practice,” she said, simply, “a great many times, until they can do it very quickly.” They were waiting in line for the ladies’ room, all the air a mix of perfume and laughter and breathless conversation.

“And the lady! She is very pretty, is she not? It is hard to tell from the seats.” Niccolette said, solemnly.

“I think so,” Miss Andresano agreed. “Both the singer and the character.”

“Yes,” Niccolette giggled. “From all the things Captain Raffaele says, she must be! Do you think he is very handsome?”

“Well, the lady certainly likes him,” Miss Andresano said with a little smile.

“True,” Niccolette paused. “She – she…” she shifted, then, and looked up at Miss Andresano. “What is her name?”

“The singer?” Miss Andresano asked with a smile. "Vincenzetta Caprioletti."

“No!” Niccolette said, shaking her head. “Not the singer. The Lady. I was listening – I was! I did not hear it.”

Miss Andresano paused; she frowned, faintly. “Do you know – I am not sure. Tell you what – we shall both listen for it in the third act.”

Niccolette nodded, pleased, and smiled again.

It was even colder when they left the theater; Niccolette’s breath steamed and curled on the night air. She held Miss Andresano’s hand as they walked to the carriage, smiling all the while, chattering still. “It was very exciting at the end,” Niccolette announced. “I liked the last song! It was very sad, when the Lady thought Captain Raffaele was dead, was it not?”

“Very sad,” Miss Andresano agreed, smiling.

They were in the carriage before Niccolette came back to it, curled up under the blanket once more, her head resting on Miss Andresano’s shoulder. “I did not hear her name,” the Bastian said, sleepily.

“Me neither,” Miss Andresano said. “Do you know, Niccolette, they make little booklets for the opera, called a libretto, where you can find all the parts written down. I shall get one for us. We can read it together, and look for her name.”

Niccolette nodded, then; she yawned, and closed her eyes. “She must have a name,” the girl said, sleepily. “Everyone does.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 48 Roalis, 2709
Niccolette's Room, the Villamarzana Townhouse

Niccolette pressed her face into the pillow and opened her mouth in a silent scream.

“Lady of Sielan starts at Teatro La Fenizia tomorrow,” Gia said, sitting cross-legged beneath her skirt on the edge of the bed.

Niccolette groaned, audibly, flopped over onto her back, and stared grimacing up at the fluttering pink canopy. “I have seen it,” she said.

Gia laughed. “When? It has not been in Florne in half a decade at least.”

Niccolette shrugged her shoulders against the bedspread. “When I was a girl,” she sighed, running her fingers through her hair and sitting up. One bare foot lifted, settling against the bedspread, and she hugged her leg with her arms.

“You cannot spend the entire summer sulking in your room,” Gia said, smiling. “Surely not even you remember all of Lady of Sielan after so long.”

Niccolette shrugged again, lips pressed together, and thought of hours spent reading the libretto, searching and not finding. “I am not sulking,” she said, lower lip thrust out in a pout. “There is plenty I wish to do. It is he who does not…” her lips pursed; she rolled her eyes, resting her cheek against one bare knee.

“He will allow it, I am sure,” Gia promised. “Come on, Niccolina! I love Lady of Sielan. Say you will go with me?”

Niccolette sighed; she turned her head the other way, resting her chin on her knee, glancing at Gia out of the corner of her eye. Her cousin’s eyes were wide, her lips pressed together as if she were actually holding her breath in anticipation. The seconds ticked by, slowly, uninterrupted; Gia’s eyes grew even wider.

“All right!” Niccolette said, laughing, unable to help it. Gia laughed, her breath whooshing out. “All right,” she promised, reaching out and taking the other girl’s hands. “We shall go and see the Lady.” She giggled.

Late Afternoon, 29 Roalis, 2709
Ground Floor, the Villamarzana Townhouse

Absolutely not,” Domenico Villamarzana said, watching his daughter descend the stairs.

Niccolette lifted her chin, jaw tight, the long red silk skirt of her dress flared out around her and pooled on the floor. “It is the very latest style.” Gia was hovering behind her on the stairs, one hand resting on the railing.

“For whores, perhaps,” Domenico said, arms crossing over his chest. “Or women who wish to be them.”

Niccolette swallowed, hard, her throat moving. She came to the bottom of the steps, and stood, her back straight and her head erect. “From Sielan,” she said, sharply. “In honor of the opera.”

“Go change,” Domenico said.

“I will not!” Niccolette stamped one foot, taking a deep breath. “There is nothing wrong with the dress – nothing at all – but that I like it! I am a grown woman – you cannot tell me what to do!”

Domenico laughed, bitterly. “Niccolette Villamarzana,” he said, “I pray to all the Circle that, some day, you shall be some other man’s problem. For now, you are mine – you will not tarnish your reputation further by appearing in at the opera in this… thing,” his hand waved over her, lightly, and he grimaced in distaste. “I should at least like whatever man we manage to find for you not to know what he is getting until he has signed.”

Niccolette felt tell-tale heat behind her eyes, and in her chest; she could taste the fury on her lips, as bitter as the lip color. “How dare – how dare you,” she trailed off, swallowing hard. For a moment, there was silence; Domenico’s lips quirked up in a faint smirk. Niccolette’s nostrils flared, and to her utter horror, she felt tears glistening in her eyes; red crackled through her field, hot in the air around her. “You are a cruel old man,” Niccolette spat. “You are heartless – I shall not listen to a word you say!” She moved forward, half-running towards the door.

The Bastian felt her father’s field first, sigiled and tense in the air around her. His hand clamped over her arm, and she flinched away. On the stairs, Gia inhaled, sharply, the sound ricocheting through the room.

It was not long later that Niccolette wiped furious tears from the sensitive skin of her cheek, sitting in front of the vanity in her bedroom.

“If you do not stop,” Gia said, gently, “I cannot cover it.”

Niccolette glared at her in the mirror; more tears welled up and spilled down her face. “He only cares for himself,” The Bastian said, voice tight. “I am but a possession to him. He is a monster, Gia, a monster. I hate him.”

Gia handed her another handkerchief.

Niccolette pressed it to her eyes; she blew her nose. She took a deep breath. “I hate this dress,” she said, looking down at the full pink skirt. “I am not a child! He would have me be a little girl forever, except for when he wants to marry me off to the highest bidder.” The Bastian curled up the handkerchief and flung it at the mirror; it fluttered to the table of the vanity. She took a deep breath, eyes closing; she breathed in and out, slowly, until she could open red-rimmed eyes and face herself in the mirror.

“I am sorry, Niccolina,” Gia said, softly. “He is a brute.”

Niccolette sniffled. “Yes. I do not wish us to be late,” she closed her eyes.

Niccolette felt the soft whisking of the powder brush over her skin; Gia’s fingers dabbed, gently, against her cheek. Niccolette flinched, and then held very still, her hands wrapped tight in the fabric of her skirt.

“There,” Gia said, softly, after a few minutes.

Niccolette opened her eyes, looking at herself in the mirror, at the blue-tinted air around her. She grimaced; she closed her eyes again, and breathed in and out until her field was indectal once more. “Better?” She asked, glancing at Gia.

“Better,” Gia took Niccolette’s hand in hers, the other brushing a lock of hair back from her face. “We shall go forget all about it,” she promised. “Captain Raffaele and his misadventures will be a wonderful distraction.”

Evening, 49 Roalis, 2709
Teatro La Fenizia

Gia was leaning forward next to her, her face alight. Niccolette watched her cousin; Gia turned to glance at her, her smile fading. Niccolette smiled a little more herself, and turned back to the stage.

There should have been enough to occupy her, Niccolette thought, her hands tight in her lap. This song was an ensemble, Raffaele’s tenor lilting through his love for his lady, Giannis alongside him singing more sternly of duty, and the crew of the airship the Cuore Impavido’s voices twined together beneath them both, soaring them through the sky. Occasionally, when Giannis looked at him, Raffaele would drop into the duty song, but – slowly – yet again – he would rise back into the higher registers, as if his voice was reaching for some distant love.

Name her, Niccolette thought, suddenly furious. She breathed, slow and steady; her hands were tight together in her lap. If you love her so much, why don’t you ever say her name? She shuddered again the seat; she swallowed, hard.

Another scene; another dance. The Lady, singing a duet with her mother in the corner, then an aria all her own, passed from one set of male hands to the next through the whirling dance floor.

“That is Trevissano,” Gia whispered, smiling, pointing to the stage. “Half a dozen of my troupe are in the show.”

Niccolette glanced back at her and smiled. “You are better than all of them,” she whispered back.

Gia laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, and turned her gaze back to the stage.

Niccolette watched, and let go of the pale pink fabric of her skirt once more, fingers wrapping together.

“Where is he?” The Lady sang, the words ringing high above the crowds, echoing through the theater, surrounded by the men of the dance hall, hands outstretched and heads through back, reaching for her. “This Captain of mine…?” Her voice trailed off on the final note; the scene ended, and the curtain fell.

Gia was applauding enthusiastically, next to her. Niccolette shifted on her seat, and brought her hands together, once and again, and then more regularly, adding her applause to all the rest, then, and again, and again, as the two lovers reunited on stage, their voices joined together in a final duet.

“Come on,” Gia said, grinning, “I have a surprise for you, Niccolina. I sent Trevissano a note during intermission; there shall be a little cast party to celebrate the opening night, and we are welcome to join.” She grinned.

Niccolette grinned back. “Of course.” She rose, shaking out her pink skirts. “He does not name her, you know?” She glanced back over her shoulder at the stage, and then back at Gia. “Her name is nowhere in all Bostouros’s libretto; never does this brave, wonderful Raffaele bother to say the name of his beloved.” She swallowed, unexpectedly; she felt heat beneath the powder on her cheeks.

Gia paused, dark eyebrows lifting. “He must,” she said, slowly. “At some point.”

“No,” Niccolette said, glancing at the stage again. “Never.”

Gia hesitated, glancing down at the stage as well. Niccolette could feel her cousin’s gaze on her face once more, a flutter of worry in the physical heavy field brushed against her own. “Come on, darling,” she said, then. “We shall feel better at the party.”

Niccolette shrugged, lightly, but she put her hand in Gia’s; she smiled, and she went onwards, and did not look back.