February 12th, 1891 — Sonata #7 — de Montfault theater, High Street

Henrietta had been taught the piano since the age of five, and considered herself a lover of music. This was far from the first orchestra performance she had attended, but it was the first to have dancers on stage. She had only seen them perform for a few moments, but she got the distinct impression she shouldn't be looking at them. It was no wonder people thought acting and singing such disreputable careers, she thought, if it was considered perfectly within their job description to engage in such displays right in the middle of a theater, where everyone might see. Henri didn't even like to cough where everyone might see.

Enduring four hours of sitting still and watching them move like that was too much to be endured, but the alternative was equally distressing; Henri had agreed to come tonight (and to help purchase the better seats in the gallery) because she thought she could take solace in the musical performance and mostly avoid the crowd in the lobby. Going out and mingling with a bunch of perfect strangers with only the Scamanders to look after her seemed a recipe for disaster. How could she be expected to comport herself well amongst so many? She wasn't even out yet!

But nevermind; she couldn't stand sitting alone in the gallery seats any longer, no matter how good the music was. Perhaps she could go find Helga and hang on her sleeve all evening, as she'd done at the dueling exhibition, and not be expected to talk except once or twice. She rose and headed for the nearest stairs, passing behind a gentleman who was loitering in the hallway. Just as she moved past him, however, something caught her foot (his cane, she would later realize) and sent her sprawling towards the stairs.

August Echelon-Arnost Cassius Lestrange

  

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August didn't really know why he was here, except that there was not much to do in the winter months and he was, still, very lonely; and also, he needed to find things to do so that he could not spend time thinking about Freya and about the child she was expecting to bear, their child. So: Sonata #7. Balcony seating. Contortionists. He was here and he was still lonely.

Quietly, August headed out of his seat and into the hallway. He paused there. Maybe in the lobby, he would find someone he knew? Or - maybe he ought to get a drink? He was starting to understand, finally, why Thom and Leon thought that he should get married - neither of them ever found themselves at orchestral debuts alone, now. (Leon had never been alone even before he was married, and was probably rarely at events in a dark theater with Elsbeth, but that wasn't the point.)

He was still thinking on this, and not paying attention, when the girl tripped on his cane. The jolt to the object sent August unsteady, and with a bolt of pain to his right leg. His breath hissed through his teeth and he turned: "Are you all right, Miss?"

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Henrietta had practiced endlessly within the confines of the Pendergast School of Young Roses to ensure she was always graceful. The lessons had included walking, dancing, moving one's fan about, holding a parasol, eating, or lifting one's skirts out of a mud puddle. They had not included falling, and so Henri did that rather ungracefully. The first part of her to hit the stair was her right breast, which hurt terribly, and the rest of her was not far behind. Her corset jabbed into the top of her pelvic bone. Her fan went flying and was lost to the stairs somewhere below. She had been wearing a necklace, which had swung up and hooked itself over her nose.

"No," she said in response to the man's question, though she suspected that much was obvious. "I've fallen down the stairs."

Not the most profound observation, but he had asked... And Henrietta had too many things on her mind to spare a thought for how to tactfully answer a stupid question. Things like: how was she going to get up off the stairs? And... no, mainly it was just how she was going to get up off the stairs. She supposed if she scooted in a circle so that her legs were further down the steps than she was, she might be able to stand up. She was certainly never going to manage it while tottering on one step with her feet spread out above her, unless she could reach the railing from here — but that would involve some scooting, too, and having to scoot anywhere with a strange man watching was — well, it was not the sort of behavior Mrs. Abercrombie would expect from a graduate of the Pendergast School, suffice to say.

  

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"Right," August said, because he supposed that he ought to have known better than to ask. She had fallen down the stairs - and her head was facing the wrong direction - and he was not, necessarily, the most helpful of people to be here for this. He also was not actually sure what the appropriate course of action was - he ought to offer to help, but debutantes usually did not like to be in such undignified positions, did they?

He took a few steps closer to the stairs. "Would it be helpful," August said tentatively, "If you could sort of - reach my hand, and swivel?"

This was one of those situations where August didn't understand how he landed himself here.

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Henrietta's cheeks colored furiously as he moved closer to her. She didn't know what sort of view he had, since she was sprawled on the stairs. Were her skirts too high? Could he see her ankles? She had stockings on, but all the same, the prospect mortified her. She sat up straighter and reached to smooth her skirts, trying to ensure that she was entirely covered. Taking her hands off the step caused her to lose her balance, however. She wobbled, teetering between falling further down the stairs and ending up flat on her face at his feet.

What a mess! She threw her weight to the side and managed to slump against the wall instead of falling either forward or backwards, thank the stars.

"It would be most helpful," she said, voice so tense she was not entirely sure whether she had remembered to breath, "if you might look away for a moment. Sir."

  

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"Oh," August said. He felt an awkward heat set into his cheeks. "Of course, Miss." He looked up at the ceiling. Maybe this was why he should avoid places like the opera; he didn't know how to conduct himself here. The rules were easy to follow at balls, where August made conversation and did not dance and eventually accidentally flirted with married women and then impregnated them.

Maybe he should actually become a shut-in again, he thought, studying the ceiling.

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He had looked away, which in fairness was all that Henrietta had asked of him, but she was not entirely satisfied. In this position he might see her ankles with just a flick of his gaze, and she might never know. How utterly embarrassing that would have been — and if her mama found out, she might very well be disowned, Henri thought (a little melodramatically; Mrs. Cartwright was not so strict as that, though she could certainly expect to be berated for falling down the stairs in the first place).

"I meant," she said deliberately, fighting through her own embarrassment at the situation with each word. "— that perhaps you'd turn around?"

  

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August didn't spend a great deal of time around debutantes; or, the debutantes he'd spent time around were usually related to him, and Echelons tended to be a little feistier than other unmarried women. This is to say that August thought Hannah, even as a debutante, would have probably gotten herself off the stairs by now, and he debated idly whether or not this young lady was being a tad dramatic.

"Oh," August said, "Yes." He turned around and stared down the hallway, feeling fairly awkward.

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"Thank you," Henrietta said with a wave of relief, though beneath it there was a touch of annoyance that it had taken him so long to do something so basic. Diverting one's eyes from a lady's distress ought to be considered commonplace, shouldn't it? That, or helping, but with his cane he was clearly unable to offer her much in the way of assistance.

She scooted to the edge of the stairs, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one was coming up behind her, then reached up for the rail and pulled herself back up to a standing position. She glanced down the stairs at her fallen fan, a little wistfully — she liked being able to hide behind something — but thought she'd best end this interaction, formally, before flitting off to retrieve it.

"Um," she said, unsure how to alert the gentleman to her renewed presence on the top floor. "You can turn back around, now, if you like."

  

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August studied the rest of the hallway. He supposed he ought to be prepared to guard her from other onlookers should anyone emerge; she certainly wouldn't take kindly to anyone else seeing her, he suspected. No one else left their boxes, though, and August had actually nearly forgotten why he was staring at nothing when she spoke.

He turned around. This was probably where he should dismiss himself, but instead August said: "Your necklace. It's - crooked." Presumably it had been disrupted by her fall.

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"Oh," Henri said, surprised by the comment. It was good of him to say something, she supposed, so that she could fix it before she came across anyone else, but it made her vaguely anxious to think that he'd been looking that closely at her, all the same. She looked down at it (even though she had been told, in finishing school, that one ought to avoid looking down so sharply when gentlemen were around; it put one's chin in an uncharitable light) and then used both hands to try and nudge the chain enough for it to fall back into place.

"Uhm, thank you," she said, blushing. She desperately wished she had her fan to shield herself from him, but it was down the stairs and there was nothing to be done about it now. Still, she couldn't help but think that the position of her necklace was close to both her face and her chest; she didn't want him looking at either, particularly, and wasn't sure which was the lesser of the two evils. "I'm sorry if I seemed a bit rude, before."

  

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Her necklace was fixed, now, and August figured they could disperse soon, probably. The thing was his leg didn't necessarily make speedy retreats doable, and he was worried that if they walked down the hallway at the same time they'd end up stuck together, and he wasn't sure either of them really wanted that. So he was sort of - looming.

"Oh, not at all, Miss," August lied, because even he knew you didn't tell a young lady she was rude, even when she was. "And if you had been, it would have been understandable given the circumstances."

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He was lying, but that was alright. It was the gentlemanly sort of lie, and Henrietta certainly wasn't going to fault him for it. Particularly not if it meant they could both end this conversation all the sooner. She certainly didn't want to talk to anyone who had seen her with her necklace crooked and sitting on the stairs and might even have seen her stocking-covered ankles while she had been indisposed.

"Yes, well, thank you," she said again. It occurred to her that she ought to ask his name — Helga would have scolded her for having an interaction with a gentleman and not asking it, anyway — but she had no desire whatsoever to do so. She wanted, more than anything, to forget this had ever happened, and learning his name was antithetical to that goal. So instead, she said very shortly: "Goodbye," and made her escape down the stairs, to retrieve her fan.

  

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