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From behind the drawn silky curtains, he fixes his tie and straightens out the wrinkles of his wool coat. Soundlessly and carefully, he lifts the fabric a fraction of an inch and peers through the thin crevice. He was cautious enough to make sure that he was entirely hidden within the safety of the shadows that spilled from the towering curtains.
His eyes, two dark violet crystals, glitter with an unidentifiable gleam. The audience is excited, all waiting for the exceptionally anticipated show that has never failed to capture the attention of many. A ghost of a smile grazes his soft, red tainted lips. It amazes him, how awestruck and fascinated humans could get when they attain the chance to experience incomprehensible things. Humans are infatuated with mysteries. Perhaps they are in love with having the power of solving and understanding the impossible. But why do they spend so much time doing something like that when they can hardly understand themselves?
The crowd chitters amongst themselves, wildly buzzing with a certain kind of naive enthusiasm. Underneath the pale, dim yellow lights, all of their faces look the same. Glazed eyes and empty expressions. His amethyst irises glimmer as they flicker from row to row, in search of anything that caught his attention. Like usual, he doesn't find a single person who has a distinct spark in their eyes.
"You mean they're always going to be caught under your spell?" He asked naively, the disbelief clearly evident in his dubious expression. "That's impossible. There are thousands of people everyday. They can't all be..." His voice quickly faltered once he heard the single sound of her tongue clicking.
The lady lightly chuckled, before a cat like grin flickered between her blood red lips. Her eyes, two large black pupils flash as she glances up from the thread and needle in her nimble hands. "Yes, yes, my boy. No one can resist magic can they?"
He withdraws his hand from the curtain and it falls back to its position as he turns away from it. He makes his way towards the back of the stage, where the preparations are still taking place. As he does so, he does not bother to acknowledge the mad frenzy of performers who were getting ready for their scene in the show. The sounds of his footsteps are utterly silent. She's mad, but she's always right isn't she, he thinks almost regardfully. But he is not foolish to tell the lady to her face. Surely, she would mistaken his small token of respect as a weakness instead- and besides, the woman has the arrogance of a queen, there was no need to put her on a pedestal.
Barreling towards him is a tiny figure of a girl in pigtails, chaos and glee bouncing in her footsteps. She rams herself into his legs with a small oomph and falls onto her bottom with a light thump. Without a flicker of surprise on his face, he glances down to her and gives her a hand.
The little girl giggles for a moment before taking his hand and bringing herself back onto her pink flat studded feet. He notices that her hands are clammy and sticky. Displeasure flares in his system.
"Charlotte, I expect you to know better than to run around the set without a single ounce of cautiousness. Especially because you are the opening act." He says in an impassive tone as he takes out a piece of silk cloth and wipes his hand. Warily, he regards her giddy expression and dirty, sticky state.
