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?
Teatro La Fenizia
“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.”