The Siren's Call

1: In which I first meet Cora Watson

Hers is a beautiful voice, perhaps the most beautiful in the world. Its cadence drifts across the otherwise silent theater, searching and raw. I cling to her haunting words, much like the rest of the rapt audience around me. She is the quiet ghost in the middle of a raging war, the song of peace in a deafening world.

She is the siren.

Her white dress flutters in an imaginary wind. I catch my breath at her magnificence. Her alabaster skin glows under the hot stage lights, with no sign of the sweat that coats the other actors’ faces. To her right and left, across the stage, masked warriors battle fiercely. The stage turns red with their blood and I find it difficult to imagine that it’s not real.

The siren sings on, for that is her duty. All around her the men fight for a touch of her hand, a brush of her golden hair. And all the while she sings them nearer, drawing them towards their deaths. I grip the edge of my seat in anticipation as she nears the song’s climax. The notes trip over themselves, faster and faster, stirring the men into a fever of insanity. Splinters pierce my palms, so intent am I upon the siren’s performance.

And then she stops. The silence is deafening.

The audience gasps and bursts into applause as the curtain comes crashing down. I join them, though somewhat belatedly. My mind is still caught in the whirlwind of the music, still entranced by the siren’s beauty. By her song.

The chandeliers above flicker to life, burning my eyes for an instant. I throw a hand up to block the glare, but soon adjust. The curtain squeaks as it parts just enough for the actors to step out for their final bow. I hastily yank The Call musical program from my suit pocket, flipping to the middle where the actors’ names are inscribed. It’s rather crumpled, as I have been sitting on it for over two hours now, but it does not take long to find her name.

Cora Watson. The siren.

She steps out into the spotlight last, smiling as she bows and accepts the audience’s adoration. They scream Brava, Brava, throwing trinkets and flowers for her to catch. She does so, grasping a single rose gracefully before lifting it to her nose. The masked warriors stand beside her, covered in blood and cheering just as loudly as the audience for Cora. She raises two fingers to her lips and blows them a kiss. A hundred hands reach out to catch it, as though it is a tangible thing.

Soon enough the audience begins to disperse. They discuss the musical, which is in its first run this month. From what I hear of the glimpses of conversation, the opinions are mostly positive. The Call will have a long run in this theater, they say, and Cora is a promising star for the future.

I wait until most of the audience has left the theater before grabbing my somewhat lopsided hat and brown suit coat. Donning them, I make my way towards the backstage doors, cutting through the rows and rows of red velvet chairs to reach them. The golden pillars of the theater rise above me, lit by the glittering chandeliers.

“Good evening, Mr. Tobias,” an usher greets me, cordial as usual. His silver hair and beard contrast his stiff red uniform and he has begun to hunch slightly with age.

“Evening, Gary,” I reply, tipping my hat.

“Off to speak with the players?” He fiddles with the tarnished gold buttons on his jacket as he speaks. One of them has begun to dangle, held by a mere string or two. I shall have to speak to him later regarding uniform upkeep.

“Not tonight, Gary,” I say with a smile. “Just checking a few details.”

“Right-o, Mr. Tobias. Got to run this theater right, eh?” Gary cackles.