The New World, 3/8

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(See intro for disclaimers)

[THE NEW WORLD, Part 3 of 8]
(Second story in "The Disciple" arc)


"Okay, look, if I don't deny
 I'll cry and cry and cry and cry
 Till all the walls are washed away.
 No, I could not tolerate such disarray.
 So,
 Not a crack in this dam,
 Not a tear in this eye,
 Not a single fucking cloud in the sky today."
             "Not A Cloud In The Sky", John Bucchino


Rachel sat stiff and straight in the back of the cab as it pulled
away, refusing to look either to the right or the left, let alone over
her shoulder, until the cab turned the corner.  The Buzz vanished,
and Rachel let her head fall against the high back of the seat with
a low groan of relief.  She ground the heels of her hands against
her eyes and rubbed, hard, as if she could rub the weariness away
if she just tried hard enough.  It didn't help.  Her thoughts kept
churning around in her head and in her stomach, and she couldn't
for the life of her make them go away.  The headache went
away, mostly, when the Buzz vanished.  Getting away from her
own doubts and fears and worries wasn't nearly so easy.

It couldn't be as dangerous as they said.  Could it?  There couldn't
be all that many of *them* in the world.  How could they have
kept it a secret, for... for eons and eons?  It wasn't possible.  It
didn't make any sense.

But it didn't make sense that Richie could pull out a knife and cut
open his hand and have it heal, either.  It didn't make sense that
whenever she got anywhere close to one of them, she got a
headache like a migraine.

It didn't make any sense that a week ago someone had broken
into her apartment when they shouldn't have been able to and
killed her, and she didn't even know it.  Or that she had walked
around Immortal for a week and never had the first clue that she
was different.  And now there were supposed to be people,
Immortal people, coming after her with swords, wanting to...

"I've changed my mind," Rachel said suddenly from her corner in
the back of the cab.  "Please, take me downtown instead, to the
corner of 4th and State."

The cab driver obliged her, and within minutes they pulled up to
the back entrance of the Seacouver Opera House.  Rachel blindly
handed the driver a small handful of bills, and she thanked him
profusely as she climbed out of the back seat.  She already had
her keys out, but they weren't necessary: the Sunday matinee' of
"Butterfly" was well underway, and most of the stage crew were
relaxing in the hallway, one floor below the stage, waiting to be
called upstairs for the scene change into Act II.  A few raised
their hands in cheerful greeting, or called Rachel's name as she
passed.  Rachel hurried past them with a smile planted on her
face, waving in return, glad for the safety of being surrounded by
familiar faces and people, in a place where everything was normal
and she knew all of the rules.

She ran up the stairs, too jittery to wait for the disobedient old
elevator.  She rushed past the second basement dressing rooms
that the chorus filled to overflowing, past the stage level where
out onstage the tenor was drinking a toast to America, on up to
the second floor workshops and Mari Dauro, the head costumer.

Only a few years older than Rachel, Mari ruled the costume shop
with unchallenged discipline.  Pins lived in pincushions; scissors
and tape measures lived in their assigned drawers; and anyone
who was imprudent enough to throw one of her creations over a
chair instead of hanging it up neatly was fiercely lectured into
submission, be they chorus member or imported European star.
Rachel appreciated Mari's professionalism and her inspired
costume designs; Mari approved of Rachel's compulsive tidiness.

The new Immortal barely slowed as she rounded the corner into
the costume shop.  Mari and her small crew of cowed
seamstresses were nearly finished cleaning up after the
last minute adjustments and mending, and Mari's red gold head
jerked up at Rachel's unannounced, unceremonious appearance in
her domain.  She scowled slightly in annoyance as she looked
Rachel up and down, already sizing her up mentally for a fitting.

"You aren't in 'Butterfly', and I don't have a costume for you, and
you're way too late anyway," she proclaimed.  "Even if I had
something to fit you, there's no time to get into make up.  Who are
you substituting for?"  Mari glanced at the Act I costume rack as
Rachel tried to catch her breath.  "There's nobody missing today."

"I'm not here for the opera," Rachel answered.  Her hands, she
realized, were wringing each other nervously; she forced them to
her sides and made them behave.  "I need to ask you a favour,
Mari."

Mari lifted an eyebrow.  "What is it?  Something wrong with one
of your costumes?"  Her voice dared Rachel to say so.

"No!" Rachel protested, shaking her head emphatically.  "Nothing
like that.  I just... can I borrow a key to the upstairs storeroom for
a few days, Mari?  Please?"

One of the assistant dressmakers had stopped folding ribbons to
listen; Mari shot her a quick warning glance, and the woman
returned immediately to her job.

"Broke your lease?" Mari asked, not unsympathetic.  When the
story of the late night breakin and the attack on Rachel had made
the rounds at the opera company, reactions had run from
sympathy for her, to disdain that she would live in *that* part of
town in the first place.  As in most things, Mari came squarely
down in the middle, and on the side of common sense.  Moving
out, in her opinion, was the only sensible thing to do, and Rachel
wouldn't be the first member of the opera to spend a few illicit
nights at the theatre.

"Not yet," Rachel temporized.  If there had been sand on the floor,
she would have been digging her toe in it.  "But I can't get any
rest there.  I can't fall asleep.  I'm too scared."  She hated saying
it.  She hated feeling it.  She hated admitting it to herself, let alone
to anyone else.

And Rachel couldn't tell Mari, or anyone else, just how much she
had to be scared of now.

The seamstress was nodding her head knowingly, though, and her
strong fingers, gnarled and reddened at a young age from long
hours with a needle, were working a key free from the large
bunch she carried.  "Here," she said, handing it to Rachel.  "Just
be sure I get it back.  I don't have to tell you to leave the room
like you find it, do I?"

"No, ma'am" Rachel agreed, clutching the key in her fist.
"Thanks, Mari."  Relief made her impulsive, and she hugged the
costumer briefly in gratitude.  "Thanks so much."

"And don't get caught," Mari called after her as Rachel turned and
started up the last flight of stairs to the third floor.

The top floor of the theatre was used mostly for storage.  Painted
scenery flats and backdrops were lined along the walls in huge
stalls.  Set pieces were sorted and stored by type: trees, bushes,
and papier-mache' rocks in one huge corner; chairs and tables to
suit a dozen different periods in another.  One end of the large,
rectangular floor had been blocked off with a chain link fence
from floor to ceiling, with a steel gate.  Mari Dauro had
commandeered for the entire end of the room for costume
storage.  Like all of Mari's domain, it was clean and orderly.
Most important to Rachel, there was an old, saggy sofa shoved
against the back wall, and the gate locked.  Tightly.

High up in the ceiling, a grimy and neglected skylight let a few
rays of afternoon sunlight filter into the storeroom.  Rachel picked
her way through the stacks of dusty furniture and fake trees, and
let herself into the costume storage room.  The steel door swung
shut on meticulously oiled hinges, and latched with a reassuring
*snik* of the lock.  A long velvet cloak borrowed from the racks
made do for a blanket, and Rachel curled up on the broken down
old sofa without bothering even to take off her shoes.

With two industrial doors, a chain link fence, and a hundred or
more of the opera's cast and crew between her and whatever
threats might be out there    natural or unnatural    Rachel felt
almost safe for the first time in a week.

Two floors below, the opera chorus was singing to Cio Cio san's
family spirits, and Puccini's rich melodies drifted up to the attic
where Rachel lay in the dark, curled into a tight, tense ball.  The
music was familiar and comforting to listen to, and at the same
time, it nudged against a deep, hollow ache in her heart.  The
voices faded and softened as the chorus left the stage, and the
melody strengthened and focused, crystallizing into the glorious
love duet that Rachel's voice would never be mature enough to
sing.  Two tears slipped out from underneath her closed eyelids,
and rolled slowly down her cheeks as she fell, at last, into the
heavy and dreamless sleep of sheer exhaustion.


[End of Part 3]

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