9th of Winter, 514
Zeltiva Opera House, Costumery
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Minnie dreamt of peaches.
She had a (dried) peach only once, at a dinner party, with fresh goat’s-cream, and while certainly it had been delicious, it had not been particularly important to her. Her body, now, still much filled with energy, did not fully rest, and so she found herself in the queer half state in which one realizes one is dreaming, while still failing to have enough consciousness that dreaming changes to musing, or melts away entirely. And in this peculiar state, the odd return of the taste of peaches - something she had not perhaps thought of in 15 years, almost amused her. Why peaches? Why not… well, in the dream, she was not so cogent as to think of a more suitable alternative, but she was sure there was one. The peaches mixed with a rich, dry fabric smell, and her mind felt the vague channel that could be followed to know why this smell intruded, but she felt the lassitude, at least, of the dreamer, and she did not pursue it. She simply ate, peach after peach after peach, only these peaches were not dried, but great plump things juicy, with a texture something like the flesh of sailor-limes. She wondered, in her half state, if that was textural guess was accurate, but confessed that it probably wasn’t, for the dried peaches had neither pith nor peel. But it was a pleasant texture, so she did not mind the mistake, thousands of tiny capsules of peach juice exploding, so terribly vividly as she bit into them, the sweet, aromatic juices filling her palate, and leaving her lips sticky --
She started from the dream very suddenly, without quite knowing why. In the dark, she sat up quickly, her head meeting with… a skirt. Heavy brocade with linen petticoat wrapped around her face, and she pulled desperately at it trying to free herself, confused and frightened. The dress tumbled down, then, with the tugging, but she felt the press of other dresses even as she struggled her head free from this one. She gasped, and mewled very quietly.
No, Minnie Lefting, stop, breathe… remember… remember, where are we?
The dusty wooden planks beneath her… this was not the asylum floor! And the dresses… she remembered then, and relaxed, sank her face against a skirt next to her. She had not known where to go, so she had run here, the opera house, close enough onto the university, but likely to be quiet with the disaster the city was in. And beyond that, she remembered it, from when she was young - how she and Lanie had found it, with a broken latch-window leading into the basement. It had been a warm haven for a few weeks of winter days, one year.
The window was no longer broken, of course, all these years later. But in the general hubbub, she had (with terrible guilt) knocked a pane out with a heavy stone, to crawl inside, and hide from the cold and the Wave Guard. She’d crept through the empty theater, to here: a costume closet, heavy with dust and old gowns in a thousand gaudy shades. All the cloth in the room meant it was not so cold and she had found an old cloak to pull over herself for a blanket… yes, it was still on her knees, now. Everything was fine…
And yet…
What had woken her?
She held her breath and listened very closely. A rustling, outside the closet, a creak. More rustling. Then footsteps, and hands on the doorknob, it turned. Minnie pulled the cloak up to her chest, and her eyes went wide.
I knew I was not meant for the life of a fugitive.
The door opened, and all she could see were heavy sailor’s boots.
The Wave Guard.
The words sunk through her mind like a dark chill. She pulled the cloak up further covering most of her gaunt face, so that only her eyes peeked out. The man carried a light, but a dim one. A candle, perhaps, and it danced in the shadows.
He spoke, and his voice was low, gruff, “Who's 'ere 'en?”
And he turned, obviously looking about the room, so that his hand was visible, and in his hand, the glint of steel, long and slender - a sword, unsheathed, at his side.
Philomena whimpered and promptly, gracelessly fainted.
x
Zeltiva Opera House, Costumery
----------------------------------------
Minnie dreamt of peaches.
She had a (dried) peach only once, at a dinner party, with fresh goat’s-cream, and while certainly it had been delicious, it had not been particularly important to her. Her body, now, still much filled with energy, did not fully rest, and so she found herself in the queer half state in which one realizes one is dreaming, while still failing to have enough consciousness that dreaming changes to musing, or melts away entirely. And in this peculiar state, the odd return of the taste of peaches - something she had not perhaps thought of in 15 years, almost amused her. Why peaches? Why not… well, in the dream, she was not so cogent as to think of a more suitable alternative, but she was sure there was one. The peaches mixed with a rich, dry fabric smell, and her mind felt the vague channel that could be followed to know why this smell intruded, but she felt the lassitude, at least, of the dreamer, and she did not pursue it. She simply ate, peach after peach after peach, only these peaches were not dried, but great plump things juicy, with a texture something like the flesh of sailor-limes. She wondered, in her half state, if that was textural guess was accurate, but confessed that it probably wasn’t, for the dried peaches had neither pith nor peel. But it was a pleasant texture, so she did not mind the mistake, thousands of tiny capsules of peach juice exploding, so terribly vividly as she bit into them, the sweet, aromatic juices filling her palate, and leaving her lips sticky --
She started from the dream very suddenly, without quite knowing why. In the dark, she sat up quickly, her head meeting with… a skirt. Heavy brocade with linen petticoat wrapped around her face, and she pulled desperately at it trying to free herself, confused and frightened. The dress tumbled down, then, with the tugging, but she felt the press of other dresses even as she struggled her head free from this one. She gasped, and mewled very quietly.
No, Minnie Lefting, stop, breathe… remember… remember, where are we?
The dusty wooden planks beneath her… this was not the asylum floor! And the dresses… she remembered then, and relaxed, sank her face against a skirt next to her. She had not known where to go, so she had run here, the opera house, close enough onto the university, but likely to be quiet with the disaster the city was in. And beyond that, she remembered it, from when she was young - how she and Lanie had found it, with a broken latch-window leading into the basement. It had been a warm haven for a few weeks of winter days, one year.
The window was no longer broken, of course, all these years later. But in the general hubbub, she had (with terrible guilt) knocked a pane out with a heavy stone, to crawl inside, and hide from the cold and the Wave Guard. She’d crept through the empty theater, to here: a costume closet, heavy with dust and old gowns in a thousand gaudy shades. All the cloth in the room meant it was not so cold and she had found an old cloak to pull over herself for a blanket… yes, it was still on her knees, now. Everything was fine…
And yet…
What had woken her?
She held her breath and listened very closely. A rustling, outside the closet, a creak. More rustling. Then footsteps, and hands on the doorknob, it turned. Minnie pulled the cloak up to her chest, and her eyes went wide.
I knew I was not meant for the life of a fugitive.
The door opened, and all she could see were heavy sailor’s boots.
The Wave Guard.
The words sunk through her mind like a dark chill. She pulled the cloak up further covering most of her gaunt face, so that only her eyes peeked out. The man carried a light, but a dim one. A candle, perhaps, and it danced in the shadows.
He spoke, and his voice was low, gruff, “Who's 'ere 'en?”
And he turned, obviously looking about the room, so that his hand was visible, and in his hand, the glint of steel, long and slender - a sword, unsheathed, at his side.
Philomena whimpered and promptly, gracelessly fainted.
x