He was a tall man who called himself Baptiste.
The left half of his face was white, and the right half was black.
Whether it was natural, due to illness, or part of his costu could not be determined, as everything above his nose was covered behind a fancy silver mask.
But those black eyes—unflinchingly staring into his patrons’ souls—felt ominous.
Yet his words and actions were gentlemanly.
"It is an honor to receive you, Ms. De Roschillian," he said, his ardent gaze on her fair cheeks as he leaned to kiss the back of her hand.
The linked arms caught his eye, and what a surprise it was to find a thin branch of a man.
"Oh, what a delight." His eyes were smiling, yet they felt judgntal. "You have brought a companion."
Marianne, with her heels crossed, kissed Charles on the neck.
"He is my fiancé," she said, massaging around the lipstick mark almost tauntingly.
"How lovely."
Throughout the conversation, Charles remained his usual lifeless self despite the slightly charged atmosphere.
"Allow to show you to your seats," Baptiste said, bowing slightly.
"You have prepared a private balcony, I presu?"
"But of course."
He led the pair up a few flights of stairs and through an entirely empty corridor. While he made small talk with Marianne, Charles studied the paintings on the walls.
So of them looked very familiar.
"Papa gifted a few of his works," Marianne whispered in his ear.
The balcony was neither large nor small. It had enough room for six people, although only Marianne and Charles occupied it.
"Do let the staff know if you need anything. Well, then, please enjoy the performance."
Baptiste closed the door behind him as he left.
Marianne took a seat, her legs crossed. She beckoned Charles, and like a trained animal, he followed, his gaze studying the seats below.
It was a beautiful venue. Stepping out of its walls were marble statues. Its drapes were red and golden, just like its pillars. The flowery fretwork of silver connected it all together.
Dressed immaculately in attire that could only be called a high-class imitation of The Belle Epoque, gentlen and ladies lounged about the audience seats.
They were grood and waxed, almost like pruned trees.
The scene continued with a back shot of the couple as Marianne stared at her engrossed fiancé, the cara slowly backing away.
One by one, the lights turned off.
On the wooden stage below, bathed in the dazzling lights, tall n and won dressed in Eastern fabric entered.
Their robes were flowy, and their masks were colorful. The play they began had an overly dramatic flair. It was all intentional, of course.
Averie was all too familiar with the scene.
Soon, the actors exited the stage with applause and subdued murmurs of approval from the audience.
The sound of taiko shattered their appreciation, followed by a tam-tam.
Averie watched the familiar scene with the nervous excitent of a boy on his first date. Never before had a role been so challenging. The fruits of his labors, he hoped to finally see.
The tempo rose as the audience looked up and around for the source of the unfamiliar symphony.
It was when the first string of the guzheng was plucked that Charles felt awfully excited.
Everyone, Marianne included, turned to the gallery facing the stage. A female guzheng player, her face covered in a thin white veil, sat there.
But unlike them, Charles kept his gaze on the stage. The strings played to distract him, but he couldn’t let go of this feeling he had. It felt like soone was there.
He blinked.
And there she was.
Who? He didn’t know.
Her steps were light, as if she weren’t of this world. Her dress was a fusion of different cultures. In her hand was a wooden umbrella. It hid the upper half of her visage.
Casually, she had sauntered onto the stage, yet only one man seed to have noticed.
Her richly red lipstick, thinning at the edges, accentuated her mysterious smile.
Caught in her charms, Charles didn’t notice the halted strings of the guzheng. He didn’t notice the silence or the audience’s singular attention on her.
’How beautiful,’ Averie thought.
In that mont, he looked elegant for a Hellion.
On the screen, The Lady shifted her umbrella to reveal part of her grace. Her hair was black; her eyelids foxy and painted red.
Everything she did, every gesture she made, caught the attention of the audience—the ones on screen and the ones in Berlin.
The flinching shadow of her rotating umbrella revealed a seductive glint burning through her only revealed iris.
Watching the scene, every single audience mber in Berlin felt the hairs on their arms rise, except for Benoit Durand, who had his eyes firmly closed. The poor man didn’t want to go through the heartbreaking experience again.
Emmanuel Echeverri and Thomas Corsini in particular couldn’t believe their eyes. If the cold chill on their arms were any worse, they would’ve had to shout for blankets.
The phenonon seen on the set occurred again. Every single person in the audience—actors and directors alike—saw the illusion of The Lady standing in the rain.
Emmanuel’s lips moved on their own. They produced no sound, but anyone could read them well enough.
’What the fuck?’
He had long given up on mushrooms. Then, why was he hallucinating?
Director Corsini, on the other hand, couldn’t stop rubbing his eyes. He kept wondering if his advanced age was creating these delusions.
’Have I gone senile?’
He would have thought himself unfortunately correct if not for every single audience mber acting the sa way.
They were in a trance, just like Charles on screen.
She had him and everyone in the room under her spell.
It felt like ti itself was moving slowly.
Awe and reverence ran rampant in the room, yet a single question ached the heart of these industry n and won.
’Who is that actress?’
But one hellish actor—Averie, of course—found it all extrely funny.
’Plato was right when he said, ’To till soil, employ bulls of great vigor. To seduce, find a man in the garb of a woman.’’
Plato never said that.
’It’s not gay if they don’t know about it.’
Such fanciful wisdom.
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