Strange Aeons [Book 1]

24. The Man with the Silvery Voice [part I]

He hadn't heard from the Concert Hall for the whole night since he had come back from the Pollos's house. His Sunday had been a perfectly normal one. At least, in Francesca's eyes.

They had spent the whole day in the family on the shores of the Cochituate, with Francesca basking in the sun while Garaham tried to come to terms with Michael running around and Joan begging him to teach her how to swim.

With the typical goofiness of someone not used to spending time with his kids, he had spent two hours inside the lake, thanking his British physiology for cold resistance, but still coming out freezing. Joan had barely learned how to float but was overenthusiastic. Michael had caught some crabs that Garaham had to convince him not to bring home with him, with a long and wordy speech about the importance of nature, the respect for life and especially the respect of Mum's nerves, shivering at the thought of Francesca finding crabs all over her precious white marble bathroom.

Of course, he hadn't breathed a word to his wife about the. She would have exploded in a hissy fit.

But he needed to do that. He needed some closure. He had faced his own pettiness and decided that he didn't care. He deserved to be petty, occasionally, before dedicating the rest of his life to a career he never wanted.

Once the family was safe and sound at home, Garaham teleported right in the Concert Hall, trembling at the thought of what Banshee and ten teenage mages could have reduced it to.

He couldn't believe his eyes.

Garaham was facing a perfectly oiled machine.

Three girls were hanging wonderful garlands of leaves and flowers. Two boys were putting gel filters on some of the floodlights. Three were apparently cleaning. The last two boys were moving around decorations on the stage. They were talking softly without stopping what they were doing, in a peaceful climate of concentration and hard work.

The room itself was gorgeous. Garlands and wreaths of green leaves and white flowers hang orderly in waves along the high part of the walls, covering the whole hall circumference. Lengths of emerald green cloth had been arranged in creases and folds as stand-alone curtains, disposed at a regular pace and tied with golden cords, around the columns.

The stage was simple but well organized. There was a wonderful forest at night with a perfectly painted moon hanging right on the black back of the stage. Leaves and white flowers had been used to create two bushes put right at the front. Two boys were moving around chairs, bookstands and mic poles, looking at the ceiling with a worried expression.

Nobody had noticed him entering. And that was strange. As strange it was not seeing Banshee anywhere.

«Good evening.» he greeted, maybe a tad too loud.

«Oh! Enforcer!» jumped up one of the guys washing the floor.

«Donaghue! Where the hell is your supervisor? And don't try to cover for her, I know the kind of natural...» he was launching in one of his usual speeches, but Donaghue looked at him quite puzzled and then simply pointed his index up in the air.

Before Garaham could connect the very simple information, he found the sight of Donaghue covered by a descending braid of red hair, followed by an upside-down quite pissed off, not to mention tired, Banshee. Magic was the only explanation why the tools in her utility belt weren't falling down.

«Ye never go fer the simple answer, aye? I always have to be an irresponsible idiot, not simply in the air trying to explain to Abbott and Costello there the simple rules o' symmetry!» she shouted, turning a menacing gaze towards the two boys on the stage.