[ She knows that song. Clea knows that song. Her heart sinks into her now roiling stomach and she finds herself frozen in place. She should have known better. She'd spent too much time enjoying herself, like a foolish child that trusts anything put in front of them. There's too much: The anger constricting her in her body, the warm pulse of comfort in her heart that she can't deny, and the infuriating sting in her eyes as she remembers that piece being played in a different room and time and her brother's voice asking her opinion.
Forcing herself a step forward, Clea stops again, inhaling a breath when she sees who is behind the instrument. Who is not Verso, and cannot be Verso. And indeed, it isn't. It's worse. A copy of a copy. How it was done doesn't matter. They copied. Maman's. work.
She feels an urge to use the wine bottle in her hand as a cudgel.
Is this to taunt her? It will not work.
Instead of giving in to her anger and potentially satisfying someone who wishes to witness it, Clea sets the wine bottle down on a nearby table and begins to dance.
She hasn't danced since Verso died. Every step feels as though her feet are being impaled by knives, her chest constricting and making it hard to breathe. But even so, each movement makes Clea feel lighter, burdens easing with every outstretched limb, vision and focus narrowing only to the dance's execution. Everything falls away, and Clea turns her face up toward the ceiling, letting her burdens fall away and wash off the elegant line of her body to the ground.
For a few minutes, Clea is free. Clea is at peace.
Once the music, and the dance, are complete, Clea picks up the bottle of wine and resumes her walk across the room, intent on finding somewhere to rest for... perhaps 15 or 20 minutes. To drink water. Any more wine without a break and she would become inappropriate. ]
Quiet Song
Forcing herself a step forward, Clea stops again, inhaling a breath when she sees who is behind the instrument. Who is not Verso, and cannot be Verso. And indeed, it isn't. It's worse. A copy of a copy. How it was done doesn't matter. They copied. Maman's. work.
She feels an urge to use the wine bottle in her hand as a cudgel.
Is this to taunt her? It will not work.
Instead of giving in to her anger and potentially satisfying someone who wishes to witness it, Clea sets the wine bottle down on a nearby table and begins to dance.
She hasn't danced since Verso died. Every step feels as though her feet are being impaled by knives, her chest constricting and making it hard to breathe. But even so, each movement makes Clea feel lighter, burdens easing with every outstretched limb, vision and focus narrowing only to the dance's execution. Everything falls away, and Clea turns her face up toward the ceiling, letting her burdens fall away and wash off the elegant line of her body to the ground.
For a few minutes, Clea is free. Clea is at peace.
Once the music, and the dance, are complete, Clea picks up the bottle of wine and resumes her walk across the room, intent on finding somewhere to rest for... perhaps 15 or 20 minutes. To drink water. Any more wine without a break and she would become inappropriate. ]