The city was gray and dripping wet, and there would be nothing of interest in the public space this week. Those who had no choice but to live in the outdoors would be alright; their chronic maladies would be aggravated by the clamminess, but the elements weren’t severe, simply unpleasant. The common types would linger in their humble homes only a little longer than usual today before going about their necessary business, to return home later with damp hems and shivering shoulders. The genteel, or those who aspired to be, were staying behind closed doors for the most part.
A few days’ worth of this weather had the comfortable class a little stir crazy. Their well-appointed (or modestly appointed) parlors were growing tiresome, and they wanted diversion.
An invitation had arrived earlier in the morning: a youthful messenger intercepted Bosie and her adult children on the steps of their home just as they were leaving. He fumbled with a stack of flimsy fliers, hesitating in his inexperience whether to deliver three or just one. Bosie accepted a flier and the boy hurried off to deliver the short notice to others.
In two hours’ time there would be an exhibition of contemporary Madaal chamber music by select performers from the city orchestra, hosted most generously by Mister and Madam Wevoventnar in their newly remodeled home library. The writer of the invitation had misspelled “Madaal” and had scratched out the word “library” twice before getting it right.
Bosie grinned as she scanned the invitation several times. She walloped her kids on the shoulders and told them to go on without her to Cousin’s home and send her regrets, as she had to get dressed for a society event.
* * *
The “newly remodeled” library was hardly prepared for its debut. Half of the shelves stood empty, and the floor-to-ceiling windows had no curtains. The gloom of outside bled in through the brass-framed panes—those, at least, were shiny and new.
A few dozen chairs from all rooms of the house were arranged in the center of the room. A painter’s drop cloth covered most of the hardwood floor and bunched up under the feet of furniture as guests shuffled in. The chamber musicians expressed confusion over which seats belonged to the small clearing that was the stage. None of this could have been planned more than a day in advance.
Glarhas Wevoventnar was greeting guests at the entrance to the library while his already harried staff handled heaps of coats and muddy footprints in the hall. He clucked at each guest for their kind attendance and found various flaws in his home to equivocate about. He lingered a bit longer with the more esteemed guests.
“No, thank you, Professor. Please enjoy—uh huh—oh! Miss Vault—um, Vaporgate? Yes, yes. . . hi, hello!”
Bosie sometimes caught people off guard, as she was hard to see coming in a crowd.
“Hi Glarhas!” Bosie peered around the library from the threshold. “Where’s the wife?”
A servant swooped in to take the coat from her shoulders and wandered off to find a suitable hanger.
Glarhas’s expression fell somewhere between sheepish and uncomfortable. “Wel—welcome. Welcome to my home. I’m really so sorry about the dreadful state of the, uh, well the candelabras are so tarnished of course.”
“That’s alright!” Bosie tugged at the hem of her skirt to unstick it from her thick woolen leggings.
For such short notice, the event had gotten a decent sized, if otherwise relatively modest, crowd. It may have just been a trick of planning, however, to offer few enough chairs that they would fill quickly.
Bosie took a seat in the last empty row, at the back. She climbed up and immediately tucked her feet under her backside and hoisted herself up onto her knees, her customary seated stance among human company. Beneath those leggings, her knees were as tough as a blacksmith’s.
As she waited for the performance to begin, the gnome scratched her nose, tugged on her bodice, leaned her weight on her palms against the chair in front of her (to the half-disguised annoyance of its occupant), and glanced about with mild interest at the various faces she found present.
Chamber Music
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Bosie Vaporgate
- Citizen
- Posts: 71
- Joined: Thu Feb 05, 2009 4:03 am
- Name: Buoyansie Vaporgate
- Race: gnome
Re: Chamber Music
"You did -- he did what?" Jevan batted at his wife's hands as they did a complicated dance with his cravat. Her response was to reach up and pinch his ear, hard. They glared at each other for a few seconds before she backed off with a muttered, "have it your way, dear," before sighing and turning away.
She patted their daughter, Dorotha, on the shoulder as she retreated to her vanity to start picking through jewelry for herself.
"Well he pulled my hair first!"
"Dorotha Anna, that is inappropriate behavior! You cannot simply act any way you please, I've told you this. You will accept your teacher's punishment, and in the meantime your mother will be quizzing you daily on proper etiquette and behavior towards your peers and elders. I will not have a young savage for a daughter. You know better."
Dorotha flung herself on an armchair, eyes large and wet as she glared at the wall.
Dedenia finished the last touches on her own appearance and wrapped her shawl about her shoulders. She'd been the one to go to the school and listen to the teacher's complaints about Dorotha's fight and crude language, and the one who had broken the news to Jevan as they prepared for their event. It was merely bad luck that everything seemed to be falling apart all at once. That was what he told himself.
"We should get going," Dedenia said, and went to Dorotha to place a kiss on her cheek. The girl folded her arms and hunched her shoulders, rejecting the sign of affection without so much as eye contact. Dedenia, with some reserve of grace that never seemed to run out, accepted the silent tantrum and withdrew without seeming ruffled in the slightest.
"I love you," he said, eyeing Dorotha as if she was some foreign creature in his home. "Listen to your nanny while we're gone."
She muttered something under her breath, rubbed at her eyes, and wore an expression that would have suited a soldier facing down a platoon of enemy soldiers.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes sir." The words were spat at the floor.
Jevan frowned, but Dedenia touched his arm and, when he looked at her, shook her head. She'd warned him of the perils of little girls turning into teenagers, though this seemed still too soon. Dorotha was eleven, after all, and she was so sweet most of the time that her recent temper-tantrums seemed like the influence of some outside source. He very privately believed something else was going on, though he knew Dedenia would only laugh at him and tell him to wait a few more years and see what became of his beloved daughter once she began her monthlies. The thought made him uncomfortable; he did not want his daughter to grow up. He wanted her to stay a sweet, innocent child forever.
It was his turn to sigh as he left the room and went to check up on Ras. The boy was sick, though not dangerously so, and he had argued with Dedenia about the worth of leaving him for one of her -- and that was when he'd stopped talking, taking into account her raised eyebrows and small smile. Ras could be watched by the nanny. Jevan had acqueisced without further argument.
He said goodbye to Nezhka, who clung and begged to stay up until they returned, to which Dedenia gently but firmly told her no. Dedenia also told her that if she was very, very good they might bring her back a treat, to Jevan's quiet disapproval.
They left shortly after, with last minute instructions to the nanny given on their way out the door.
They arrived early to the Wevoventnar home so Dedenia could warm up and prepare with the other performers. She was playing a Teutonian horn, an instrument that had gradually infiltrated most levels of Eyropan music and spread slowly eastward in the decades since its invention. It was a finicky instrument, and Dedenia always claimed she needed at least one half-hour to ensure it was properly warmed and oiled. Jevan did not pretend to understand.
He wandered the library with some disgust as the other guests started to trickle in, keeping his thoughts to himself as familiar faces ensured his intermingling. Though he generally enjoyed such events, and especially enjoyed seeing Dedenia play, he still would have rather been home with his children. There were some knowing looks and grimaces of sympathy -- Jevan was sure they'd heard of the recent appointment of a young, frivolous woman ahead of him -- and the necessary gracious acceptance of their sympathy wore on him. However, an argument with a young synevive boy about the skill of the orchestra (Jevan did not think the insult direct; he doubted the young man knew who he or his wife was) caused him to be late to take a seat. He nearly always sat within the first row or two when Dedenia played, and he knew she'd tweak his ear over it later.
He wound up sitting next to a sprightly little gnome (did he know her? She seemed quite familiar, though he couldn't place a name) who behaved nearly like a disobedient child. It was a pet peeve of his own when someone touched or bumped his chair regularly during events, and he found himself pressing his lips together and glancing over at her frequently once the music started.
She patted their daughter, Dorotha, on the shoulder as she retreated to her vanity to start picking through jewelry for herself.
"Well he pulled my hair first!"
"Dorotha Anna, that is inappropriate behavior! You cannot simply act any way you please, I've told you this. You will accept your teacher's punishment, and in the meantime your mother will be quizzing you daily on proper etiquette and behavior towards your peers and elders. I will not have a young savage for a daughter. You know better."
Dorotha flung herself on an armchair, eyes large and wet as she glared at the wall.
Dedenia finished the last touches on her own appearance and wrapped her shawl about her shoulders. She'd been the one to go to the school and listen to the teacher's complaints about Dorotha's fight and crude language, and the one who had broken the news to Jevan as they prepared for their event. It was merely bad luck that everything seemed to be falling apart all at once. That was what he told himself.
"We should get going," Dedenia said, and went to Dorotha to place a kiss on her cheek. The girl folded her arms and hunched her shoulders, rejecting the sign of affection without so much as eye contact. Dedenia, with some reserve of grace that never seemed to run out, accepted the silent tantrum and withdrew without seeming ruffled in the slightest.
"I love you," he said, eyeing Dorotha as if she was some foreign creature in his home. "Listen to your nanny while we're gone."
She muttered something under her breath, rubbed at her eyes, and wore an expression that would have suited a soldier facing down a platoon of enemy soldiers.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes sir." The words were spat at the floor.
Jevan frowned, but Dedenia touched his arm and, when he looked at her, shook her head. She'd warned him of the perils of little girls turning into teenagers, though this seemed still too soon. Dorotha was eleven, after all, and she was so sweet most of the time that her recent temper-tantrums seemed like the influence of some outside source. He very privately believed something else was going on, though he knew Dedenia would only laugh at him and tell him to wait a few more years and see what became of his beloved daughter once she began her monthlies. The thought made him uncomfortable; he did not want his daughter to grow up. He wanted her to stay a sweet, innocent child forever.
It was his turn to sigh as he left the room and went to check up on Ras. The boy was sick, though not dangerously so, and he had argued with Dedenia about the worth of leaving him for one of her -- and that was when he'd stopped talking, taking into account her raised eyebrows and small smile. Ras could be watched by the nanny. Jevan had acqueisced without further argument.
He said goodbye to Nezhka, who clung and begged to stay up until they returned, to which Dedenia gently but firmly told her no. Dedenia also told her that if she was very, very good they might bring her back a treat, to Jevan's quiet disapproval.
They left shortly after, with last minute instructions to the nanny given on their way out the door.
They arrived early to the Wevoventnar home so Dedenia could warm up and prepare with the other performers. She was playing a Teutonian horn, an instrument that had gradually infiltrated most levels of Eyropan music and spread slowly eastward in the decades since its invention. It was a finicky instrument, and Dedenia always claimed she needed at least one half-hour to ensure it was properly warmed and oiled. Jevan did not pretend to understand.
He wandered the library with some disgust as the other guests started to trickle in, keeping his thoughts to himself as familiar faces ensured his intermingling. Though he generally enjoyed such events, and especially enjoyed seeing Dedenia play, he still would have rather been home with his children. There were some knowing looks and grimaces of sympathy -- Jevan was sure they'd heard of the recent appointment of a young, frivolous woman ahead of him -- and the necessary gracious acceptance of their sympathy wore on him. However, an argument with a young synevive boy about the skill of the orchestra (Jevan did not think the insult direct; he doubted the young man knew who he or his wife was) caused him to be late to take a seat. He nearly always sat within the first row or two when Dedenia played, and he knew she'd tweak his ear over it later.
He wound up sitting next to a sprightly little gnome (did he know her? She seemed quite familiar, though he couldn't place a name) who behaved nearly like a disobedient child. It was a pet peeve of his own when someone touched or bumped his chair regularly during events, and he found himself pressing his lips together and glancing over at her frequently once the music started.
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Bosie Vaporgate
- Citizen
- Posts: 71
- Joined: Thu Feb 05, 2009 4:03 am
- Name: Buoyansie Vaporgate
- Race: gnome
Re: Chamber Music
The first melody was an upbeat one. It was a good way to get the audience’s attention.
Although Bosie didn’t gravitate to the engineering arts, she did possess her species’ innate affinity for rhythm and pattern. She followed the oompah of the bass line with ticks of her hips and even added her own complementary cadence with puffs of air past her lips, toneless whistles. As the number wound down, the gnome wiggled gradually down in her seat like a shrinking metronome.
Bosie and Jevan could be said to each have a very different threshold for impoliteness. At least Bosie only held others to the same standard for public behavior she did herself. In that way, perhaps her and Jevan’s differences could be viewed along a continuum, rather than as an irreducible contradiction.
Bosie scratched at the spot on the side of her face where Jevan’s gaze had alit a few times. When the music paused, she promptly started making small talk.
“So! Not saving a spot for Ryoko?” The somewhat-familiar gnome was at least familiar with Jevan. There were many ways Bosie made herself familiar around town, but were any of them particularly memorable? Sometimes she haunted the university, lobbying for this or that—curriculum tweaks, scholarship grants. She ran about outside of the gnome neighborhoods frequently enough, accompanied by either a meek constituent or an impatient peer. Often she hung around markets and yakked with vendors—simply small talk, or more clever dealings? Who was really paying attention. . . She plucked at the loose wrinkles of her stockings.
Condensation had begun to drip down the windows. A servant, following the direction of a concerned Glarhas, scurried behind the performers and used a cloth to mop moisture from the corners of the windows. The conductor nearly made a false start, paused for a few moments, and then reluctantly started the next number.
Although Bosie didn’t gravitate to the engineering arts, she did possess her species’ innate affinity for rhythm and pattern. She followed the oompah of the bass line with ticks of her hips and even added her own complementary cadence with puffs of air past her lips, toneless whistles. As the number wound down, the gnome wiggled gradually down in her seat like a shrinking metronome.
Bosie and Jevan could be said to each have a very different threshold for impoliteness. At least Bosie only held others to the same standard for public behavior she did herself. In that way, perhaps her and Jevan’s differences could be viewed along a continuum, rather than as an irreducible contradiction.
Bosie scratched at the spot on the side of her face where Jevan’s gaze had alit a few times. When the music paused, she promptly started making small talk.
“So! Not saving a spot for Ryoko?” The somewhat-familiar gnome was at least familiar with Jevan. There were many ways Bosie made herself familiar around town, but were any of them particularly memorable? Sometimes she haunted the university, lobbying for this or that—curriculum tweaks, scholarship grants. She ran about outside of the gnome neighborhoods frequently enough, accompanied by either a meek constituent or an impatient peer. Often she hung around markets and yakked with vendors—simply small talk, or more clever dealings? Who was really paying attention. . . She plucked at the loose wrinkles of her stockings.
Condensation had begun to drip down the windows. A servant, following the direction of a concerned Glarhas, scurried behind the performers and used a cloth to mop moisture from the corners of the windows. The conductor nearly made a false start, paused for a few moments, and then reluctantly started the next number.
Re: Chamber Music
That voice. Jevan stiffened, recognizing the gnome's voice where her behavior and appearance hadn't triggered his memories of her. He knew her through Dedenia. They hadn't crossed paths often, but he did remember the intense energy that followed her about, spilling from her no matter what task she was engaged in. Apparently that carried through to sitting and listening to music. Or making conversation. She wasn't stupid, he didn't think, which meant . . . something. Something he didn't like but didn't care to speculate on within the very first foray. He dredged up a smile that stuck to one side, giving him the crooked, strained expression Dedenia claimed to hate. "Vaporgale, wasn't it? I'm not working at the moment. Are you here working?" He allowed some genuine puzzlement into his tone, as if he couldn't quite fathom why she might ask such a question.
He'd leaned towards her, the tail end of his words covered by the sounds of the instruments. He leaned back, handwaving the question away as the volume began to swell into fortissimo . It would be several minutes before the piece was concluded.
He'd leaned towards her, the tail end of his words covered by the sounds of the instruments. He leaned back, handwaving the question away as the volume began to swell into fortissimo . It would be several minutes before the piece was concluded.
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Bosie Vaporgate
- Citizen
- Posts: 71
- Joined: Thu Feb 05, 2009 4:03 am
- Name: Buoyansie Vaporgate
- Race: gnome
Re: Chamber Music
The downtime between the first two numbers was hardly long enough for much interaction. Most of the other members of the audience had limited their conversation to polite murmurs of appreciation, which were only incidentally directed at their neighbors by proximity.
"Incidental" was not a plane on which Bosie Vaporgate operated. When Jevan botched her name, she didn't interrupt or correct him, but simply mouthed "close enough!" through a twist of her grin. The music was starting up as he was asking his question. Bosie wiggled her knees to face forward again with her shoulder still inclined towards Jevan as a social placeholder.
Some would describe the gnome's style as mercurial or distracted. She would describe herself--and often did, aloud--as "integrated." Her attention was not long rapt to any one engagement. Through the song, she bopped along to the music for a few measures at a time before pausing abruptly to squint at the baseboard molding or to glance around at the familiar faces, only to percolate anew for a key change or interesting countermelody.
After the bolder section of the song, the bridge was mellow. Bosie tipped her chin above her shoulder and grinned at Jevan. She rippled her fingers to the melody and announced, in a stage whisper, "I love my work. I'm always working." This would have come across as a particularly self-satisfied thing to say, under the circumstances, but given the several minutes that had passed since the last words exchanged between them, as well as the open-ended tone she took, it may have been a non sequitur.
"It's really good," she added, even more stagey, with a jerk of her little thumb in the direction--obviously--of the orchestra.
"Incidental" was not a plane on which Bosie Vaporgate operated. When Jevan botched her name, she didn't interrupt or correct him, but simply mouthed "close enough!" through a twist of her grin. The music was starting up as he was asking his question. Bosie wiggled her knees to face forward again with her shoulder still inclined towards Jevan as a social placeholder.
Some would describe the gnome's style as mercurial or distracted. She would describe herself--and often did, aloud--as "integrated." Her attention was not long rapt to any one engagement. Through the song, she bopped along to the music for a few measures at a time before pausing abruptly to squint at the baseboard molding or to glance around at the familiar faces, only to percolate anew for a key change or interesting countermelody.
After the bolder section of the song, the bridge was mellow. Bosie tipped her chin above her shoulder and grinned at Jevan. She rippled her fingers to the melody and announced, in a stage whisper, "I love my work. I'm always working." This would have come across as a particularly self-satisfied thing to say, under the circumstances, but given the several minutes that had passed since the last words exchanged between them, as well as the open-ended tone she took, it may have been a non sequitur.
"It's really good," she added, even more stagey, with a jerk of her little thumb in the direction--obviously--of the orchestra.
Re: Chamber Music
Though Jevan had looked at Bosie and obviously heard her words, he didn't respond through two more songs. He went stiff, clasped his hands in his lap, and only gave the barest nod when she complimented the music. He was as still as Bosie wasn't, and as a result he went largely unnoticed by those sitting around them. Bosie, however, was the target of several mutters. He didn't seem to notice as time drew them to an intermission -- before one of their neighbors could say something to Bosie, he spoke first in his customary dignified air, though it was a little worn around the edges.
"I used to. Every year it seems there's a reason that comes creeping along to steal my enjoyment. Now --" he shook his head. "In the hands of babes."
"I used to. Every year it seems there's a reason that comes creeping along to steal my enjoyment. Now --" he shook his head. "In the hands of babes."
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Bosie Vaporgate
- Citizen
- Posts: 71
- Joined: Thu Feb 05, 2009 4:03 am
- Name: Buoyansie Vaporgate
- Race: gnome
Re: Chamber Music
Bosie was no stranger to the "half-turn." Fellow patrons shifting their posture to raise an eyebrow at her did nothing to deter her from her belief that most occasions could be improved with the addition of her own voice. Those who were bold enough to make eye contact--just aggressive enough in their passive objections--were met with a wave of greeting, of good-to-see-you-too!
As the intermission started, the host leaped into action serving tiny cups of rose petal tea.
Bosie wiggled down to relax in her seat for only a moment before springing back up on her knees. She didn't want to be overlooked for tea service. "It's so interesting that you should say that!" she said, uncharacteristically softly. "What do you love about your work? In this business of government, right, some are in it for the rigor, that planning; maybe some are in it for the creative thinking, some for the people--to serve or be served, right? Everyone's got their reasons. Me, all of them. I do all of those things. Mostly the people stuff though. Not as much the um, how'd I put it--rigor!"
She accepted a cup of tea from a servant. It was served stylishly tepid, with a morsel of beet sugar refusing to melt in it.
As the intermission started, the host leaped into action serving tiny cups of rose petal tea.
Bosie wiggled down to relax in her seat for only a moment before springing back up on her knees. She didn't want to be overlooked for tea service. "It's so interesting that you should say that!" she said, uncharacteristically softly. "What do you love about your work? In this business of government, right, some are in it for the rigor, that planning; maybe some are in it for the creative thinking, some for the people--to serve or be served, right? Everyone's got their reasons. Me, all of them. I do all of those things. Mostly the people stuff though. Not as much the um, how'd I put it--rigor!"
She accepted a cup of tea from a servant. It was served stylishly tepid, with a morsel of beet sugar refusing to melt in it.
Re: Chamber Music
Bosie's reply was unexpected; it showed in the way Jevan blinked. He looked away from her, then back. The action was disguised by accepting his own cup of tea, taking in the aroma with an automatic deep inhalation that in no way contributed to his own enjoyment. "I enjoy seeing things put to rights," he said, and his tone matched Bosie's. There was an air of caution about him, though dampened. "Civil Obedience has always been a tangle, and I feel it has long become a resting ground for those unsure of which direction their political career is to take. It has need of guidance, and experienced hands to provide that guidance."
He didn't look away from her, but there was something simmering in him. "I am sure you have experienced it yourself, considering your own position."
He didn't look away from her, but there was something simmering in him. "I am sure you have experienced it yourself, considering your own position."
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Bosie Vaporgate
- Citizen
- Posts: 71
- Joined: Thu Feb 05, 2009 4:03 am
- Name: Buoyansie Vaporgate
- Race: gnome
Re: Chamber Music
Bosie slurped at her tea. The porcelain cup squeaked against her overeager teeth. She seemed to always be ready to bare those teeth--in a smile?
"Oh, obedience!" He had touched on an interesting topic. "Well, obedience is actually a useless ideal," she stated as if this opinion were empirical fact. She took a quick, deep breath before she started up: "Take the orchestra, yup? If the most pleasing situation--and here I'm going to conflate ethics and pleasure, because they're actually the same thing in the long run, which most people don't know, but I won't get into that--were for the music on paper to be played precisely to the ink. . . then musicians would have long gone out of this world in favor of mechanical solutions. But! The joy, the pleasure, and let's reiterate, the ethics are found in the interpretation: the conductor's tempo changes, the extemporaneous flourishes. Art, people, life, governance. . . what's ethics without interpretation? So. Obedience is. . . nothing."
Bosie looked at Jevan with a canny, level stare for such a brief moment it may have been illusion, before her gaze twinkled again.
"Oh, obedience!" He had touched on an interesting topic. "Well, obedience is actually a useless ideal," she stated as if this opinion were empirical fact. She took a quick, deep breath before she started up: "Take the orchestra, yup? If the most pleasing situation--and here I'm going to conflate ethics and pleasure, because they're actually the same thing in the long run, which most people don't know, but I won't get into that--were for the music on paper to be played precisely to the ink. . . then musicians would have long gone out of this world in favor of mechanical solutions. But! The joy, the pleasure, and let's reiterate, the ethics are found in the interpretation: the conductor's tempo changes, the extemporaneous flourishes. Art, people, life, governance. . . what's ethics without interpretation? So. Obedience is. . . nothing."
Bosie looked at Jevan with a canny, level stare for such a brief moment it may have been illusion, before her gaze twinkled again.
Re: Chamber Music
If it could be construed as a smile. Poor facsimile, in Jevan's opinion, but then again he was all too ready to present his own. He didn't like her; she had always made it difficult for anyone to like her, in truth, but he could have some respect for her. She, at least, had earned her position, even if her demeanor was variably some measure of unbearable.
He nodded to her. "That's a bold opinion to keep," he remarked under his breath. "Obedience is beloved of order, and order is what this city is founded upon." He shrugged. "If you choose to let your children act out and make questionable choices, I won't quibble. But I hold no sway over obedience in the abstract sense. What is my concern is maintaining some semblance of order in the city, and the safety of its citizens." He tapped his fingers on his knees, eyes seeking out his wife. "I will not see my livelihood be made a laughingstock."
There was certainly some measure of acidity in that last comment, mirrored for a moment in the way his lips pulled sideways in a grimace.
He nodded to her. "That's a bold opinion to keep," he remarked under his breath. "Obedience is beloved of order, and order is what this city is founded upon." He shrugged. "If you choose to let your children act out and make questionable choices, I won't quibble. But I hold no sway over obedience in the abstract sense. What is my concern is maintaining some semblance of order in the city, and the safety of its citizens." He tapped his fingers on his knees, eyes seeking out his wife. "I will not see my livelihood be made a laughingstock."
There was certainly some measure of acidity in that last comment, mirrored for a moment in the way his lips pulled sideways in a grimace.