NaNoWriMo at 3 AM

[lesyeuxverts]

"She is the instrument on which God plays," Frommler said. From his pocket, he drew out his baton, and he rapped Catherine on the forehead with it. It stung, like a gentle bee, like the first prickle of frostbite, and she drew away from his touch.

"You know nothing of God, Monsieur. You'd do well to keep it that way."

The silence in the opera house was absolute. The echo of old music, the glitter of old, beautiful performances and the dazzling crowds of socialites speaking of scandals in low whispers hidden by the swell of music, the whisper of the past that threaded its way through the building – it seeped into Catherine's bones and was stilled. She drew a deep breath, turning back to her sister, but Isabella had turned away from her.

Monsieur Frommler was gone, and there was nothing more to be said to him. Catherine gathered her skirts in her fists, clutching the velvet costume with sweaty fists and pushing her dread of Tansy Gulliver out of her mind. She'd come straight from rehearsals in search of Isabella, she'd ruined her costume by the riverside, she'd no concern for it now. Skirts and velvets and fine satin sashes were set aside, and Catherine reached up to unclip her gemmy earrings. Like heavy stones, they dropped into her pocket and clunked against her thigh.

She laid a hand on Isabella's shoulder, the gentle curve of skin and bone, the gentle and relentless pumping of blood beneath the surface, the heartbeat echoing under her fingers. "Isabella?"

Isabella slipped her spindly fingers in her pocket, drawing out a beaded rosary. The wooden cross dragged along the floorboards with a series of raspy, stuttering clacks. It was paler than the beads, honey-gold and the same color as the floorboards. She turned her face to look at Catherine, and there was no blood in her face. She was paler than the music fanned out on her lap, paler than the lilies that had grown in the slow-moving summer river.

"For the love of God, Isabella," Catherine said, and Isabella turned away from her before she could finish the plea.

"Holy Mary, mother of God," Isabella said, her head bent over her rosary, her eyes half-closed. "Pray for us blasphemers, now and at the hour of our –"

"Isabella." Catherine wrenched the rosary from her hands, drawing her to her feet with a rough yank, and watched the sheets of music scatter at her feet. "Don't talk like that."

She pulled Isabella back to their room, fingers clamped around her wrist – she lifted Isabella over the door sills, she hauled her up the spiral staircase. "Don't talk like that," she said again, slamming the door shut and falling back against it.

Isabella, released, staggered to the nearest bed and dropped onto it. It was Catherine's bed, the covers left turned down and the pillows squashed into a comfortable nest.

The rosary dangled from Catherine's fingers, and she dropped it to the floor, kicking it under the bed. Isabella watched her and made no protest, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes wide open.

There was a bucket of melting ice on the nightstand, a plastic tumbler full of lukewarm water, a hotel Bible tucked away in the drawer. Isabella reached for none of them, but with slow and deliberate motions, she drew herself up until she was sitting ramrod straight, staring at Catherine.


Where is this going? I have absolutely no freaking idea. I had no clue that the two sisters had strong religious views at the beginning of writing this story, and I have no idea how that came about or, hey, about anything. I think I need more sleep. And possibly an extra jolt of coffee tomorrow, mmm. :)

Comments

[lesyeuxverts.insanejournal.com]

I'm sure yours sounds fabulous ... and you're making such brilliant progress! :D

I agree, it can be fun to learn about characters while you write them instead of planning it all out in advance. Somehow it works a lot better that way for me. :)