bait_backup | But if it's loudly sung and in a foreign tongue it's just the sort of story audiences adore (Reply)

*In an arched niche, surrounded by rather pompously opulent 18th century gilding, a statue of Musedora Barkwith, famed wizarding composer, stares out blankly over the lobby of her opera house. Occasionally, with the rumbling of shifting marble, she readjusts her ruff.

Far below her, the doors have yet to open and a slowly gathering throng mill about, some checking their cloaks, some exchanging pleasantries and some still gathering into tight circles off to the side, discussing politics in hushed and heated tones, as though fearful of being overheard. A scattering of ornate chairs on the far end have been claimed by a gaggle of well-dressed witches, two of which sit off to the side, exuding such a strong sense of propriety it's a wonder cardigans haven't begun buttoning up of their own accord.

Meredith Higgs, an imposing old croon, sits primly on her chair. Surrounding patrons avoid her gaze, as her taut lips and hard eyes somehow give life and sentience to her every wrinkle, creating the distinct impression they are growing deeper and twisting into perplexing angles out of sheer distaste. Beside her, sitting just as primly and just as silently, Victoria Higgs clutches a handsome brass pair of theatre glasses in her lap, fingers folded neatly around its awkward shape. Where other young women might be nervous, or perhaps even resentful of such an over-elaborate and formal courtship, Victoria is only confident. Mirroring her elderly escort, she awaits her suitor with a maddening, cruel curve of her lip.*