22nd October, 1891 — De Montfault Theatre, Hogsmeade
Ishmael had heard some interesting things.
He had seen this interesting thing for himself, tonight, having drifted into an empty box in the theatre partway through the performance, keeping his cloak on and his appearance nondescript. The company from America. And, in the bright light of the stage, it had been profoundly strange to witness. Ishmael still wasn’t entirely certain he believed it.
So perhaps a closer look was warranted. He’d left the theatre, lurked out towards the slums until the audience had gone, and the building was half-darkened, and then drifted, in the shadows, to the back of the theatre, and the dressing room windows. He was one of their stars, apparently: he would probably be alone.
Ishmael might have gone back in the public way, but he had no intention of being noticed by the rest of this troupe even in passing, not when he was not fully apprised of the situation; instead, he had nimbly scaled the wall of it, and easily prised open this window from the outside. Ishmael, now perching on the thin sill of it, knocked against the pane for dramatic effect. Or to get the occupant’s attention, if the chill in the air had not. (The window might be open now, but the dressing room had an additional boundary, and Ishmael would be no threat at all until he was granted entry.)
“Excellent show tonight,” he offered smoothly, as if this was how the singer received all his admirers. “Can I come in?”
He had seen this interesting thing for himself, tonight, having drifted into an empty box in the theatre partway through the performance, keeping his cloak on and his appearance nondescript. The company from America. And, in the bright light of the stage, it had been profoundly strange to witness. Ishmael still wasn’t entirely certain he believed it.
So perhaps a closer look was warranted. He’d left the theatre, lurked out towards the slums until the audience had gone, and the building was half-darkened, and then drifted, in the shadows, to the back of the theatre, and the dressing room windows. He was one of their stars, apparently: he would probably be alone.
Ishmael might have gone back in the public way, but he had no intention of being noticed by the rest of this troupe even in passing, not when he was not fully apprised of the situation; instead, he had nimbly scaled the wall of it, and easily prised open this window from the outside. Ishmael, now perching on the thin sill of it, knocked against the pane for dramatic effect. Or to get the occupant’s attention, if the chill in the air had not. (The window might be open now, but the dressing room had an additional boundary, and Ishmael would be no threat at all until he was granted entry.)
“Excellent show tonight,” he offered smoothly, as if this was how the singer received all his admirers. “Can I come in?”
