Standing at the threshold of his rented rooms, Farrival sighed deeply, but not as deeply as he had yesterday. He gave himself last looks in a small vanity beside the door. Then he plastered on his mask – the companionable smile was somehow easier to wear than it had been yesterday and, moreso, the day before. And what was that? He twitched his facial muscles in sequence, probing to identify the precise emotion his face was projecting. No! Could it be? Faint optimism?! Incipient… confidence?!?! “Good, use it” he directed himself.
Farrival flung open his door and trod downstairs heavily. He left the rooming house with no particular destination. Farrival began his morning constitutional with vigor, arms bent at the elbow and pumping with each step, very much in the manner of a man with purpose. He called out greetings to other neighbors along the way.
Then, just as he was crossing the main road, his eyes caught those of Morthan Voss. Farrival immediately broke contact and quickened his step without acknowledgement.
He shuddered. As he continued walking, he thought aloud, “I suppose I could be grateful that Mr. Voss pegged those brigands at Chel’s Camp before I recognized them as a threat. And I should be impressed. But such terrible violence! I’ll not quickly forget the sight.”
“Farrival, hi!” A voice called out from across the road. Lora Selmer, clutching a notebook, trombone slung across her back, was waving madly at Farrival. Reflexively, he returned a weak, halfhearted wave. But as a particularly burly farmer walked by, Farrival matched his pace, hiding from his would-be collaborator, and then turned the corner to escape.
“And what of the bardic Ms. Selmer? Why does she strike me as so familiar? And why does she give me a slight case of the heebie-jeebies?”
“I know she travelled, as I did, before settling in Quillpond. Of course you meet a lot of bards in the business of show. Perhaps our paths have crossed?” Farrival pressed three fingers of each hand to his temples, massaging them as he pored over his memories. Sifting through the decades of professionals and aspirants, musicians and magicians, headliners and campfire storytellers, he tried but could not place her face.
“Bah!” He splayed his hands in frustration, releasing the problem, then dropped his arms to clasp them behind his back as he began to pace back and forth. “I’m shouldn’t be searching for a face. This familiarity is nothing in her appearance per se, but in her manner. Hm."
“The intensity of her mien. That keen, nearly feverish dedication to her craft. That single-minded… monomaniacal… DRIVE to create! No matter the obstacle! No matter who she may have DESTROY to manifest her great work! I’ve got it!” He stopped pacing. “She reminds me of EVERYONE whom I have EVER worked with in SHOW BUSINESS!”
Farrival smiled with a sense of resolution, feeling as if he had classified Allora Selmer into a particular box within his own prior frame of reference. He resumed his walk.
“Well that’s no bother at all! I haven’t forgotten how to work with possibly homicidal creatives. Nor does one become a renowned star of stage and screen without having sharp elbows of his own!”
Then Farrival muttered darkly, “For confirmation on that point, simply inquire of one Mr. Renaud Gadbois. Gadbois, you dastard! I wonder where you are now?”
Just as suddenly, his mood cleared, and he stopped in his tracks. “Well then, no need to avoid Ms. Selmer. Perhaps I can find her and–”
As he turned, he was very nearly bowled over by a beaming bard. “Farrival, hi!” Lora shoved the notebook into his chest. “I have notes!”