Harmony

Octavia was starting to get a new appreciation for the word “crowd” recently.

Her record, prior to departing Silver Ridge, most definitely had not exceeded fifty people at maximum in one place. Market day was already pushing it. Minuevera had been at least twice as severe, even in passing and with a fleeting glance of preparation alone. Octavia already knew Coda to be massive--to her, at least, by comparison. This was a solid reflection of that. It was still no less dizzying.

It was radiant, crowned by starlight in a way that was almost symbolic. It wasn’t quite that she’d expected the building to be small. Still, the stature up close was grand in a way she hadn’t expected. The evening glow did far more than simple justice to the affluent populace that speckled the entrance, and she felt out of place now more than ever. The din of conversation was steady, the wafting music was gorgeous, and she was just barely lightheaded. It wasn’t the most subtle combination, and it earned Octavia the worst flavor of teasing yet again. She was absolutely staring. It was her fault.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Viola teased. “The thing you do every time you see anything new.”

Octavia blushed. “I am not. I’m just...surveying.”

Madrigal got permission to fawn. Madrigal always got permission to fawn. She was jealous. The Maestra exploited the gifted joy of scrutiny for all it was worth--loudly. It was more than expected.

Harper whistled once more. “Fancy,” he reiterated.

Octavia dismounted from the carriage, stumbling slightly in the process. Settling to the ground in flats rather than boots was deeply uncomfortable, if not scathingly unnatural. She raised one hand aloft, taking Viola’s own into hers. The latter nearly tripped, and Octavia quickly caught her in full.

“Careful,” she chided softly.

Viola flushed, averting her eyes. “S-Sorry.”

Harper was having an easier time removing the artwork than he’d had loading it, apparently, for how he delicately tipped the frame to the ground with grace. “Where do we put this, anyway?”

“I can take that for you, ladies,” a suited man called, raising one hand from afar.

Harper narrowed his eyes. The man cleared his throat. “A-And gentlemen.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow at Viola, who nodded in turn. “Let him. He’s an usher. They usually wait for carriages to arrive.”

“I thought you said you barely knew about this kind of stuff,” Harper whispered, content to doff the heavy weight regardless.

Viola scoffed. “I know enough.”

“And what name should I put the item under, ma’am?” the usher continued.

Viola cleared her throat. “Vacanti. Same for the account.”

He smiled softly. “The Vacantis, then. It’s been quite some time. Please, make yourselves at home and enjoy the evening.”

Octavia absolutely could not feel less at home if she tried.

Madrigal pointed towards the entrance, barred by a rainbow-tinted trickle of colorful attire trailing in reverse. “Do we wait in line now?”

Viola nodded, falling into line accordingly. “There shouldn’t be any problem getting in,” she said.

Octavia did the same. “They know who you are, right?”

She shook her head. “They don’t know me, but they know the art of the Vacantis when they see it. There’s autographs in the corner of each painting for authenticity, anyway. It’s not that hard for them to verify.”

Octavia shifted the backpack on her shoulders slightly as she straightened up. Every step in Viola’s wake was as cautious as it was starstruck, although she battled to keep the latter in check as much as was possible. She was lucky she didn’t trip, largely absorbed in each of her five senses flooding with wonderful stimuli on every side.

“Hey.”

Harper’s voice, low and near, was enough to shatter her absentminded concentration and startle her fiercely. She jumped.

“You might want to adjust the bow a little bit. I can kinda see it from here,” he chided with a smirk.

Octavia flushed, stiffening in an instant. “I-I--”

He winked teasingly as he passed her by. Octavia gripped the straps in frustration and panic, fumbling with one hand behind her back for what feeble adjustments she could make without looking. She didn't have the luxury of formally resettling the violin. She still felt bad about evacuating it from the warmth of its case at all, stuffed into the humble confines of a little backpack instead.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Viola. She trusted more or less everything Viola said, frankly. Being without Stradivaria was simply too daunting, particularly given the events of the last several days. Trouble followed her. She didn’t trust her luck. If it never left her shoulders, she’d surely be fine. She didn’t dare think of Domino, for the exception that dilemma had been. Some part of her liked to imagine Harper would help her out, should she end up in a similar situation. Most of her was more concerned with hoping Harper would keep his mouth shut.

“Are you...sure they’re going to let us in with you?” Madrigal asked, fiddling with one curl absentmindedly.

“You’re my guests. There’s typically only a limit of about six guests, and we’ve only got four of us altogether. There’s no reason they shouldn’t.”

Harper’s sharp swearing was enough to outright startle Octavia the moment they neared the front. “Oh, God, I can think of two reasons they shouldn’t.”

She never formally got the chance to ask why. The voices that met her ears were shrill and mildly irritating enough, crowned by respective streams of blonde in differing fashions. It hardly mattered, given the way similarly-false formalities dripped from their lips and pamphlets slipped from their fingers. They were nearly blocking the doors outright. Harper’s expression was somewhere between miserable and exceedingly agitated. She had an extremely vague guess, if memory served.

“Is that…”

Harper’s heavy sigh was a solid answer. He flicked one finger between each girl respectively. “Holly. Ivy,” he droned.

“Are they friends of yours?” Madrigal asked innocently.

“I promise you, I would rather die than say yes. I just didn’t think they’d be right at the entrance.”

Viola earned the brunt of the two girls’ staring nearly immediately. Ivy, in particular, narrowed her eyes, rolling a pencil between her fingers slowly. Neither budged. It was almost impressive. “Name?” she asked firmly.

Viola cleared her throat. “Vacanti.”

Ivy raised an eyebrow, dragging lead far too harshly against innocent paper. “I thought they didn’t come to these anymore.”

Holly’s eyes flickered to the girl in turn. “Isn’t Vacanti that guy who--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Viola interrupted sharply, her voice low. “Vacanti. My contribution has already been secured by the ushers. Three guests.”

The two girls peered over Viola’s shoulder in tandem. Whatever venom she’d been privy to was absolutely nothing versus what acid splashed their eyes moments later. It was almost enough to make Octavia shudder, for how it crashed down sickeningly upon one person alone. She gulped anxiously.

“They really do just let anyone in these days, don’t they?” Holly hissed.

What acid they’d delivered, then, he offered back tenfold with his gaze alone. She’d never seen that look on his face, and it was mildly terrifying. Harper crossed his arms, making a mild spectacle of glancing either girl up and down judgmentally.

“Yes,” he replied coolly. “Apparently, they do.”

Ivy clicked her tongue in aggravation. “Aren’t you a little too poor for an event like this?”

“Aren’t you a little too obnoxious for an event like this?” he shot back instantly. “How much are they paying you to be annoying as hell, right out front?”

“He can’t come in,” Holly declared bluntly.

“If these two want to come in, I don’t care,” Ivy added, lazily waving her pencil in the remaining Maestras’ direction. “Dirty braids and all.”

Octavia didn’t get the opportunity to protest. Harper beat her to the punch spectacularly. “You are literally the last person who should be talking about fashion sense. You didn’t even get all the bugs out of your hair today, just so you’re aware. You’re welcome.”

One of Ivy’s hands darted to her ponytail instantly. Octavia snickered.

“So, here’s the thing,” Viola spoke sharply. “You don’t have the authority to deny entry to guests of a contributor. It doesn’t matter the reason.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Holly snarled.

Viola stepped forward slightly--just enough to leave the girl flinching. “Because I’ve been here far, far longer than you. And unless you want the removal of the Vacantis’ support from this auction house on your hands, I suggest you pass us each a pamphlet and let us be on our way.”

It hardly mattered that she’d never truly set foot in the auction house. The Maestra’s bluff was more than passable. Holly sputtered, side-eyeing the similarly-distressed girl at her side before finding her voice once more. “L-Listen here, rich girl. I’ll have you know we were specifically appointed to these positions. You’re threatening a staff member.”

“Sucking up is a little different than being appointed. Still, congratulations on getting real, honest work today. Good job, yaaay, so proud of you,” Harper deadpanned, applauding condescendingly.

“I’m sorry, was anyone talking to you, idiot? Important people are talking,” Ivy growled.

Harper made an elaborate and equally-condescending display of finding absolutely nothing to observe. “Sorry, where am I supposed to be looking again? Can’t find a damn thing! No, seriously, do I even want to know what you two had to do to get here? Because if it puts you anywhere near rich people, it definitely wasn’t legitimate. You hoping it rubs off on you or something? Not how that works. Sorry you’re finding out like this.”

Holly scowled. “You wouldn’t know rich if it bit you in the ass!”

“And you wouldn’t know class if it crawled up yours!”

Octavia struggled to stifle a laugh, clapping one hand over her mouth quickly.

“I’m kind of enjoying this,” Viola whispered. “He’s sassier than I thought.”

Octavia found her composure as soon as was possible. “I think this is our chance.”

“I found a pamphlet on the ground,” Madrigal offered in a whisper of her own, still battling her respective hushed giggles.

With the leafy paper in one hand and Viola’s wrist in the other, she made for the building with the argumentative Maestro still in her wake. He caught her in his peripheral with a knowing wink, rapid and fleeting. He didn’t follow, instead somehow content to beat the vicious girls back with his own relentless venom again and again. Octavia had half a mind to stay and watch. It was a shame.

It was resplendent inside in much the same way, enough to make her head spin a second time over. The crowd was worse, although she regretted not bracing for it further. One wrong move would surely leave her mingling with incorrect pockets of strangers, their general objective be damned. She clung to Viola for all she was worth, doing what she could to put her faith in the same gentle music and soft, silky atmosphere. It would keep her from tripping, hopefully. Madrigal was no help, for how she’d adjusted to the semi-packed auditorium almost instantly. She outright sprinted.

The Maestra more or less slammed into the balcony railing stomach-first, quick to a degree that Octavia initially believed she’d injured herself. She pointed below with fervor and elation dripping from her voice, pleading for Octavia’s hurried steps with her sparkling eyes alone. “Come on, look!”

She did as she was told. It was with gentler motions that she leaned over the balcony herself. It took a moment to recognize it as a balcony at all, given how incredibly deep the entire floor below ran. She hadn’t realized they were upon a second story, although the grand scale of the center stage cast downwards warranted its space without question. The idea of tethering herself to one of its nearest seats, plush and comfortable as they seemed, was somewhat terrifying. She’d never been claustrophobic before. This wasn’t a great time to start, foreign as the atmosphere was.

Viola delicately confiscated the pamphlet from between Octavia’s fingertips, flicking her fingertips across every page lazily. “It’s a bidding guide. Same rules as always. I don’t think we really need this.”

Madrigal’s face fell. “I kinda thought it’d be a list of items or something neat.”

“Well, I mean, I get it. We only just brought the painting in,” Octavia offered. “I guess they just keep all the items a surprise.”

Viola nodded with a smile. “That’s part of the appeal of these events, actually. You never know what you’ll find here.”

That was simultaneously promising and concerning. Octavia had had more surprises in the past week than she’d experienced throughout most of her life, and all had been born in unfamiliar places. This was no different. For how people were still steadily filing in and settling down accordingly, she wasn’t fond of the way her heartbeat was already stuttering. She’d assumed she’d had at least until they started to deal with that.

“Soooo,” Octavia began, “how exactly...do we bid?”

Viola raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning on bidding?”

“Well, no, not necessarily!” Octavia sputtered, waving her hands defensively. “I was just wondering, in case something happens! Or if there’s a lead, like you said, or if there’s Maestro stuff, you know? Like, in an emergency.”

Viola smirked. “If it does come to that, we can bid, actually. My family has an account for that. My grandfather’s artworks usually earn around 750,000 Gold a piece, so we would at least have somewhere around that range to our surplus at the end of the night. Otherwise, the Vacanti account that we use for auctions should still have somewhere around four million Gold from the last several.”

Octavia’s eyes widened dramatically. Madrigal was not immune to the same. “Four million?” they both exclaimed in baffled unison.

Viola shushed them, laughing as she cupped her hands over their mouths respectively. “I promise you, we are nowhere near the most well-off ones here. There are people in this room with wealth you couldn’t even imagine.”

“So this is how rich people live,” Madrigal murmured dreamily.

Viola met Octavia’s eyes once more. “If you want to bid, bid. Just tell them to bill the Vacanti account, and our family can verify the purchase at a later date. Altogether, that gives us about 4,750,000 Gold to work with, if my numbers are right. Can I trust you to stay within that range?”

Octavia nodded. Not everything could be scathingly expensive, surely--if it came to that at all. The idea of spending such astronomical amounts of money was still mildly horrifying, someone else’s or otherwise.

Viola smiled. “Good. If you want to bid, it’s easy. All you have to do is raise your hand and call out the price you’re willing to pay. They’ll be passing around little signs with numbers on them when the actual event starts.”

Madrigal tapped Octavia’s shoulder gently. “Have you never been to an auction before?”

Octavia winced. “Have you?”

Madrigal shrugged. “In Minuevera, we have them for livestock all the time. It sounds like the rules are exactly the same.”

Octavia flushed. Once more, she was the least-traveled. It was as awkward as it was embarrassing.

“Madrigal, are you planning to bid too?” Viola asked. “We’d all be sharing the same account.”

Madrigal shook her head, beaming happily. “I have lots of other ways to get information.”

Viola raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

Madrigal cleared her throat. Whatever stream of words she launched into was utterly lost on Octavia, the tone and accent foreign as they were. If she really tried, she could make out bits and pieces from the inn--almost.

“I, uh, forgot you could speak another language,” Octavia muttered.

Madrigal opened her mouth for a moment, and yet closed it just as quickly. Instead, yet more unfamiliar tones spilled from her lips, sharp and soft in a different manner altogether. Octavia blinked.

“Two languages?”

Madrigal beamed. She did the same once more. Every new word in yet a new accent was as fluffy and gentle as it was indecipherable and exotic. Viola, too, blinked with equal befuddlement.

“Madrigal, exactly how many languages do you speak?” the Maestra asked.

Madrigal proudly raised eight fingers. Octavia had to count at least twice out of pure disbelief.

“I learn something new about you every five minutes,” Viola mumbled.

“Madrigal, that’s incredible,” Octavia gushed. “How did you learn all of those?”

Madrigal poked Octavia’s forehead playfully. The latter flinched beneath her touch. “I’ve been working at the inn since I was little. We’re a trade town, silly! We see guests from all over the world. I had to learn to keep up.”

Viola’s hands settled onto her hips. “Well, that’s one extremely handy way of gathering information. Can I trust you to stay on your toes while you mingle?”

Madrigal saluted dramatically. “The Magical Madrigal will not let you down!”

By now, it was taking slightly more effort on Octavia’s part to dodge the throngs of passersby, fully settling as they were. She’d had her precious preparation time, if their solid movements were anything to go by. She tensed. At the very least, she had accomplices. It was one comfort. She inched closer to Viola, somewhat.

If the Maestra noticed, she said nothing. Viola offered her only a smile. “Then I guess that just leaves you and me, Octavia. It sounds like Madrigal can handle herself.”

The shuffling crowd was double-edged, in a manner of speaking. Octavia had her space, and the oxygen she’d hoped to find was slightly more accessible. Her line of sight was notably more uncompromised, by which she had her visual fill of sporadically-placed tables and accompanying beverages. They weren’t necessarily abundant, nor were they of the most interest to a crowd on the verge of the main event itself. Those that loitered regardless did so without urgency. There was exactly one drawback. He was slightly shorter than the rest.

She hurriedly fumbled through a mental checklist. She knew with absolute certainty she’d seen the hat before. She couldn’t place where immediately, and it was incredibly frustrating. When it clicked, so, too, did the knowledge of the inevitable consequence. If her line of sight was unimpeded, she was absolutely not the only Maestra free to look.

Octavia tugged at Viola’s sleeve, never once peeling her eyes away from the table. “I don’t know about that, actually,” she murmured.

She was correct. They, too, were able to follow her eyes. Madrigal’s exploded into stars. Viola’s burst into flames. She’d expected as much.

“No,” Viola muttered under her breath. “No no no no no.”

Madrigal had met his eyes long before either Maestra could intervene. It would’ve been a fruitless battle regardless, for how he abandoned his drink and made the first move. His grin from afar was just as Octavia had remembered it, dripping with a confidence and charisma that was still nearly irritating. Viola’s fingers made their own move well into her hair, tangling and tugging in relentless frustration.

“Y-You’re…here,” Madrigal breathed, euphoria splattered against every word. “You’re here again.”

His voice was as smooth as his grin. “I certainly am,” he murmured.

Once more was Madrigal’s hand in his own, his touch still equally as delicate as before. His tender kiss upon her skin, too, was just as gentle, his lips pressed to the Maestra’s hand for far longer than was necessary. It wasn’t necessary at all, granted. Had Octavia not physically hooked her arms beneath Viola’s shoulders when she did, the Maestra more than likely would’ve ripped his head clean off.

“Wait, Renato? What are you doing here?” Octavia asked, struggling to express her surprise and restrain a squirming Viola simultaneously.

Renato tipped his hat playfully. It didn’t clash as much with the tuxedo as she’d expected it to. “Tavi and, uh…Violet, right? Always a pleasure.”

“Octavia,” she corrected firmly.

“I want you to die,” Viola spat.

“And Viola,” Octavia offered on her behalf.

His grin spoke to disregard for her malice. “I’m thinkin’ I owe you girls an apology for my little training session back in the woods. You were right. I was making a mess. My bad.”

“And you’re only apologizing for the trees, after all that?” Viola growled.

Octavia cupped a hand over Viola’s mouth, stifling a laugh over the sensation of obscenities pressed against her palm. They’d found a Maestro already, technically. It was a bittersweet victory.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Octavia asked.

He winked. “I have my ways. What are you guys doing here?”

Octavia chose her words carefully. “Just…looking for something. Some stuff.”

Renato crossed his arms, freeing Madrigal’s hand at last. She didn’t seem pleased about it. “Some stuff, huh? I’m pretty good at finding things, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Renato gestured around the room with yet the same grin. “I found my way into this place, didn’t I?”

He snuck in. She should’ve seen that one coming.

“Who am I if not a man who likes a good party?” he continued. “Free drinks.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you even old enough to drink?”

“Does it matter?” he answered far too casually.

“Renato,” Madrigal asked delicately, her voice still tinged with bliss, “if you see anything related to Maestro stuff, can you help us?”

Octavia winced. Subtlety hadn’t lasted for longer than ten seconds.

He tilted his head. “Maestro...stuff. That would be...what, exactly?”

Octavia blinked.

Viola had wriggled out of her grip in full, still mostly seething. “Maestros? Really? Things related to Maestros, idiot.”

Renato was still. “I have no idea what that means.”

Viola growled. “I am so tired of you messing around.”

Madrigal was far kinder by comparison. “Do you...know what a Maestro is?”

Renato shook his head. It was enough to bring them to silence--even Viola, wrathful as she’d been.

“Are you actually serious, or are you joking around?” Octavia asked incredulously.

Renato raised his hands defensively. “No, I swear, I’m being serious. I’ve honestly never heard that word in my life.”

Octavia exchanged a fleeting glance with an equally-puzzled Viola. “But you’re literally a Maestro,” she continued.

Renato flinched. “Am I?”

“You know, the...stick...thing. In the woods.”

His hand slipped beneath the interior of his suit jacket, returning quickly with two memorable halves of cherry oak in tow. “These?”

Viola rubbed her temples with a grimace. “You did not seriously bring them with you here.”

Octavia’s hands were on his quickly, ushering the little sticks towards confinement once more. “Put those away! Don’t bring them out here! We’re at a musical auction, for God’s sake!”

She was being a hypocrite, given that the straps of her backpack scraped her shoulders with every hurried movement. She didn’t particularly care. He was far more unstable and infinitely more unpredictable.

Renato obliged, still baffled. “You have no idea how confused I am right now.”

Octavia winced. If Harper and herself were any indication, she could understand living ignorant to Maestro abilities in general--blessed as they’d been and still just as unknowing. The term alone was a reasonable mystery. Renato was an outlier, then, notably skilled and well aware of such prowess. It mattered little that Madrigal hadn’t known the details, given that her splendorous bond with Lyra’s Repose had filled the gaps. He was odd. She experimented.

“Renato,” Octavia began hesitantly, “what’s your Harmonial Instrument’s name? The...drumsticks, I mean.”

“Now, why would I name the damn sticks?” he teased.

She frowned. “No, seriously. Think carefully and concentrate really hard. What’s the name of your Harmonial Instrument?”

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Several tense seconds later, Renato shrugged. “I have...no idea.”

Octavia blinked. “What?”

He cracked one eye open. “Am I supposed to know that or something?”

Viola was equally as baffled. “You...don’t know your Harmonial Instrument’s name?”

Renato raised an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”

“That...shouldn’t be possible,” the Maestra muttered.

“You’ll find out eventually,” Madrigal spoke with a soft smile, gently claiming Renato’s hand once more. “It’s okay.”

Renato returned her efforts with a grin, poking at one of her buns playfully. “That means a lot to me, princess.”

Madrigal beamed, her face dusting the softest scarlet once more. Viola rolled her eyes.

Octavia tapped Viola’s shoulder delicately, dropping her confused voice to a whisper. “Is…that a thing that can happen?”

“I don’t…think so,” Viola whispered back. “There shouldn’t be any way for a Maestro to not know the name of their Harmonial Instrument--especially if they know how to use it.”

Octavia paused for a moment. “You know all that stuff your grandmother said? About the…souls of ice and the spirits of wind and whatever?”

Viola tilted her head. “Yeah?”

“So do you think it has something to do with whatever his...spirit thing is?”

Viola blinked. “You lost me.”

Octavia winced. “Like, you know, you have your ice, and…Harper has his fire, or whatever. What exactly does Renato have?”

Viola’s eyes widened, and yet her face clouded with confusion just as quickly. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve never actually seen any other kinds of Maestros before I met you. I mean, it’s completely possible that it’s related to...all this.”

Despite her best attempts as to the contrary, Octavia doubted she’d be forgetting the Maestros’ unfortunate forest quarrel any time soon. Every unhesitant boom, unseen and yet certainly present, had been blessed with astounding force she still hadn’t quite wrapped her head around. Her closest guess was a relative of Madrigal’s windy talents. It still left him incredibly and disorientingly different by comparison--fitting, given his eccentric tendencies. She groaned inwardly. Even conceptually, Renato was excellent at giving her headaches.

She didn’t get the chance to press him, given how he’d already more than made off with a Maestra beneath his arm. Madrigal, to both her credit and detriment, had not resisted in the slightest. Even from here, her oozing starlight was contagious, and her adoring eyes were locked with his alone. They were well into distant conversation, and Octavia vaguely feared for their mutual isolation. It was Viola’s turn to groan, burying her face in her hands.

“It’s just you and me now, I guess,” Octavia offered, patting Viola’s shoulder gently.

Viola groaned once more. “Madrigal’s flirting and Harper’s arguing. We haven’t even been here for twenty minutes.”

It was more or less solid timing, for how they’d both lost the crowd and caught its rising conversation. Octavia wasn’t ignorant to the sharpened atmosphere, and the hurrying ushers were an indicator in and of themselves. The little signs were as simple as they were effective, and it took her at least two tries to claim one for herself--young as she was, by comparison to the clientele at large. She’d needed to hoist herself to the tips of her toes to grasp a numbered placard from the top of a well-balanced pile, and she was at least mildly embarrassed. She was appreciative no one called her on it--Viola included.

“Seventy,” she read from the sign aloud, twirling the little handle experimentally. “Lucky number?”

Viola smiled. “Hopefully. Can I leave the bidding part to you?”

Octavia nodded, waving the small placard absentmindedly. “What am I looking for, exactly?”

“Anything Maestro-related directly, or…anything you think might give us a lead. I trust your judgment,” Viola clarified.

She winced. “And if I’m wrong and I accidentally spend a ridiculous amount of money on nothing?”

Viola patted her shoulder. “Then we at least tried to chase something. That would’ve been worth it. It’s not like my family does anything with it, anyway.”

The Maestra made to descend, already taking steps towards the stairs to the first floor. “I’m gonna go see what’s going on down there. You keep an eye out up here.”

“Wait, can I bid from up here?” she asked.

“This is technically the balcony. Why do you think you can see the stage from here?” Viola answered. “Just make sure you’re loud.”

Octavia nodded. Granted, she had companions that were far, far, far louder.

Viola had had a point about the balcony, given exactly how far she’d need to project her voice. Running in flats was most definitely not comfortable and more than likely not elegant. Still, when the railing nearly slammed into her stomach, it at least gifted her with the questionable blessing of an unimpeded view and acceptable volume.

The surrounding crowd was a burden by comparison, more than capable of crushing her with their abundant and shifting movements. She hunted for Viola with her eyes. She was unsuccessful. Her chances were limited, and further attempts were blunted by the commanding presence of the host striding upon the gaping stage.

“Good evening,” the man began, gesturing with wide arms to a broad audience beyond. “Welcome, once again, to another night of fast fortunes and treasures traded. Tonight, for one night only, we’ve prepared for you a luxurious assortment of exotic novelties from all over the world--this time, musical in essence and pleasing to the soul.”

Octavia was already bored. It was a great start. She’d been horrifically correct about the space concern, for how she nearly found herself squished by strangers against the railing. It took effort to angle her body accordingly, battling for personal space with her arms splayed at uncomfortable angles. It worked, mostly. The backpack helped, an unfortunate cushion that still left her somewhat concerned for Stradivaria’s safety. That was her own fault. She sighed.

The man clasped his hands together, more than ignorant to her plight high above. “Each item tonight is one-of-a-kind, and a spectacular addition to any connoisseur's collection. Perhaps you’ll find exactly what you’ve been looking for. Perhaps it may even find you, instead.”

For how much effort had gone into the past hour alone, she planned to scream if she didn’t find something besides another stray elbow in her side.

“Without further ado, we present tonight’s first item. From the collection of an artist in the far-off city of Whitebrook comes this luxuriously crafted marble masterpiece. You’ll find here a sweeping and elegant depiction of a lady of the opera, lost in song as the day breaks. Why, that is the title of this fine piece--The Aria of Dawn. This splendid work has traveled across the continent specifically for you. Feel free to welcome it as the newest addition to your collection, be it vast or new. If I may direct your attention to the--”

The sculpture was pretty enough. It very much was not for her. Neither was the experience of whoever had just stepped on her right foot. She rolled her eyes.

“Now, given the credentials of the original artist and the quality of the material, we will be starting our first bid tonight at a humble 450,000 Gold.”

She doubted she’d be able to raise her little sign into the air nearly as fast as a select few around her, for how well-versed in the art of the auction they seemed to be. Octavia got the gist quickly, simple as the premise had been described. Placards erupted around and below her in tandem, speckling the wealthy masses intermittently at a speed that was almost dizzying. The sheer heights of numbers being flung so casually from affluent lips were equally disorienting, and she still couldn’t wrap her head around the concept of spending such an exorbitant amount of money on such an average sculpture.

When it halted at last, it did so with the bang of a gavel upon an innocent podium--more than enough to make her jump. She’d hardly had time to blink, given how quickly the entire exchange had truly occurred.

“Sold, sold to the woman in blue! 600,000 Gold, what a spectacular deal for such a gem! Congratulations on your new purchase! What an excellent start to an excellent evening. The next item on tonight’s agenda, as you’ll find--”

Conceptually, the idea of participating was now mildly terrifying.

The pattern scared her at least three more times consecutively before she came to expect it at last. The moment it was no longer intimidating, she found comfort in focusing in full. The process was identical for the next hour straight, and Octavia scanned each and every item with caution and care. There was little of neither interest nor relevance, given their general objective.

The man did an excellent job of embellishing the moderately-mundane, and it was honestly a talent. The harp was utterly average, by comparison to one far more splendorous with which she was acquainted. The tapestries were useless. The garments were appealing, the rugs were acceptable, and all that came in between could generally be appreciated. It did utterly nothing for her cause, and it wasn’t long before she was hanging over the railing in exasperation.

Viola’s carefully-contributed painting did well, at least, and they’d stoked their own funds with yet another 810,000 Gold. It was enough to earn a smile. It was all she could cling to, for how her hopes steadily dwindled with each passing moment. She wondered if Viola was having better luck, and scanned the room below with her futile eyes yet again. Octavia liked to imagine the latter half of the auction would be promising, lest this entire experience have been more or less fruitless. At the very least, she thought, they’d found Renato once more. It wasn’t necessarily the greatest discovery.

“Up next, we present to you this fine concert grand piano, brought to us by a retired master musician in Ardenfall,” she heard half-heartedly, disconnected as she was. “This is truly an instrument that has withstood the test of time. Weathered by the winds of fame, this antique look is impossible to replicate, unique in its appearance and with a story in every scratch.”

It was an elegant way of saying it looked questionable, at best. The keys were there, granted. It desperately needed varnish, if not sanding and general touch-ups overall. It was almost amusing to think someone would genuinely spend money on such a worn-down instrument. In some sadistic way, the thought made her smirk.

The stranger colliding gently with her forearm was her retribution for the thought, then. Octavia was running out of space to preserve her fragile breathing room, curling in on herself yet more as she became flush with the railing. She rolled her eyes, straddling an apology and righteous silence. She never got the chance.

“Sorry, ma’am, my mistake.”

She sighed heavily, not so much as bothering to raise her head. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“Crafted by artisans with deep respect for the art of woodworking, this mahogany piece is accented by stunning ivory keys in immaculate condition. If I could draw your attention to the pedals, here--”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “That’s not mahogany.”

“What was that?” she heard at her side.

It was a reflex spurned by her woodworking blood, and she hadn’t realized the irritated words had left her mouth until it was too late. She winced. “Sorry, just talking to myself. My bad.”

“No, what was it you said?”

The man at her side was insistent, peering down upon her gently. When she raised her eyes to him, he didn’t back down. He’d apologized moments before, and yet was so near to her once more. “What did you say about the mahogany?”

Octavia blinked. “I-I mean, it’s not mahogany. I don’t know why they’re advertising it as if it is.”

The man paused briefly. “How can you tell, miss?”

Octavia pulled her eyes away from him warily, leaning back over the railing in full. “It’s not dark enough. Even if the varnish is faded, mahogany would still absorb color better than that. Everyone assumes piano wood is mahogany all the time, but mahogany is supposed to have this kind of…deep and rich color that lasts. Look how light that color is instead, see?”

The man moved closer to her still, his face more than enraptured. “Interesting. What could it be, then?”

Octavia gestured to the piano once more, doing what she could to block out the continued discussion onstage. “I think it’s maple. I’m not completely sure from this high up, but maple could still hold varnish for that long. It’d just be…lighter. Besides, Ardenfall doesn’t usually export mahogany. Even if they did, the craftsmen there apparently prefer working with cheaper wood like maple in case they mess something up.”

The man hummed in approval, nodding slowly. “And how do you know all of this, miss?”

Given the spontaneous realization she’d been ranting to a complete stranger, Octavia stammered. “I-I...my father is a woodworker by trade. I’ve picked up some of his knowledge over time. A-Again, I’m not completely sure it’s maple, that’s just my…guess.”

His smile was gentle all the same. “Tell me, do you think that piece could be repaired?”

Octavia shrugged. This conversation was more interesting than anything she’d encountered in the past hour. “I don’t see any reason it couldn’t be. The keys look fine, and ivory is a lot more of a pain to repair than wood. It doesn’t look like anything is chipped. Just a little bit scratched, I think. It could probably be sanded pretty easily and just given a new coat of varnish. Maybe a nice finish and shine. The legs look okay, too.”

Whoever had opted to illustrate its functionality onstage was doing so with grace, gifting the room with a soft and delicate melody. Octavia nodded approvingly. “And it works. It sounds fine, so the actual piano itself is alright. It’s just the wooden parts that need to be fixed. If the keys are dirty, there’s still probably a way to clean them up if you try hard enough.”

“True, true. Ivory yellows naturally over time, but there are most definitely ways to make it sparkle once again. You have an impeccable eye for quality,” the man praised with a smile more brilliant.

Octavia blushed beneath his praise, somewhat. He was engaged the moment the bidding erupted, and his volume so near to her was startling. His voice carried splendidly. It was as impressive as it was jarring.

“700,000 Gold!” he bellowed, thrusting a placard well above her own head.

“700,000 Gold, I hear 700,000 Gold,” the man onstage repeated. “Do I hear 725,000 Gold? 725,000--why, 800,000 Gold, 800,000! Do I hear--”

“950,000 Gold!” the man declared, equally loud and equally confident. The way by which he stood his ground was captivating, and Octavia watched as his offers rose ever higher. Over a decaying piano, of all things, he was unflinching. It was as admirable as it was somewhat confusing. She cheered him on silently, foreign as he was.

“Sold, sold!” she finally heard, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Sold for 980,000 Gold to the man on the balcony! An excellent purchase you won’t regret, sir. Our next item of the night is one which--”

Octavia eyed him incredulously. He beamed brightly. “You’ve helped me make a fine purchase. I look forward to restoring that piece to its full glory.”

“Oh, please. You’ve bought another piece of garbage,” Octavia heard, shrill and not so distant. “And on a whim. Unplanned. Compulsive.”

She had little room to turn, given how tightly compressed she still was against the railing. Her newest stranger met her gaze opposite that of the man she’d been captivated by, battling her way to his side. She countered his smile, for how she offered none. She fixed him with sharp eyes, harsh and unpleasant. He took it well.

“Portia,” the man scolded gently, “there is always room for more. I have been offered guidance that I believe has led me to a solid business decision. Given sound advice, who am I to refuse such an opportunity?”

The woman’s eyes flickered downwards to Octavia leisurely. “From a child?”

The man frowned. “From a friend. Be polite.”

She eyed Octavia up and down far too slowly. Octavia flushed.

“You, girl,” the woman began, her voice low, “what month were you born?”

Octavia blinked. “September?”

The woman scoffed. “That explains it.”

“Portia,” the man interrupted, his tone notably more firm, “why don’t you go have another drink? I’m sure there are still plenty left.”

The glances they exchanged were loaded, albeit silent. It took time for the woman to find solace in her beverage, sipping softly as she made for yet more beyond the crowd. Octavia watched her disappear. The man sighed, leaning against the railing beside Octavia once again.

“I apologize on her behalf,” he offered. “She can be somewhat…judgmental of my business practices.”

Octavia tilted her head. “Is that your wife?”

The man laughed heartily. It was enough to make Octavia jump. “No, no! I could not so much as begin to imagine! Portia is one of my prime business partners. A bit crass, you’ll find, and yet her sharp eyes are second to none in the world of appraisal. She is very much an asset.”

“What kind of business do you run?” Octavia asked.

The man straightened up, offering her his hand calmly. “I apologize for not introducing myself. Alessandro Drey.”

Octavia returned his smile, extending her own hand in turn.

Don’t.

She’d only brushed her fingertips against his own before she recoiled sharply. It was loud and soft all at once, fleeting and yet echoing. It was internal. It was blindingly unfamiliar. It was enough to curl her fingers and widen her eyes, her heart skipping several beats consecutively. Her eyes darted about without revelation. It was far more disorienting than it was terrifying, and she tensed.

It was one word--no more, no less. Octavia awaited more, and still found nothing. She knew her inner voice. That wasn’t it in the slightest.

“Miss?” the man asked, his hand still extended and his face clouded with concern.

She was cautious, albeit hurriedly. She pinched the skirt of her dress on either side with trembling fingers, dipping into an anxious curtsey as she stammered. “O-Octavia. It’s nice to meet you, Drey.”

She realized her mistake instantly, clapping one hand over her mouth with a blush to match. “Mr. Drey! I meant Mr. Drey, I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to be rude!”

Instead, he only laughed. “No, no, dear girl, it’s perfectly alright. Please, call me Drey, then. I have always believed formalities to be more than unnecessary, regardless.”

Octavia smiled weakly, still struggling to regain her full composure. “It’s nice to meet you, then, Drey,” she offered.

He smiled, slipping one hand into the linings of his suit. “Likewise. Here.”

Octavia accepted the little card he offered up with false calm, fighting to focus on the glossy paper. “Solenford...Institute of Architecture and Restoration,” she read aloud. “SIAR?”

Drey nodded. “Our business specializes in restoring artworks and pieces from around the world. Some are resold, but most proceed to find homes in museums and collections for scientific or artistic endeavors. Money is no object.”

That much was clear. He’d spent nearly one million Gold on a worn-down piano.

“That’s very noble of you,” she offered anyway. “It sounds like you work closely with the community.”

Drey’s face lit up. “We strive to do so, but we are always looking for more ways to assist. We have attempted to straddle the line between business and charity for quite awhile now, but there is always room for improvement.”

Octavia chanced a brief glance to the stage once more. She’d lost count of exactly how many paintings had come through the building tonight. There was always room for more, apparently. She rolled her eyes. One conversation with this man was more interesting than nearly every item she’d witnessed in this entire auction.

“Are you and Portia the only ones who work there?” she asked.

“Heavens, no,” Drey answered swiftly. “My business employs dozens, perhaps hundreds. Portia is simply one of my top advisors. It can be a very lively company.”

“Did you come here to buy things to restore tonight?”

He beamed. “But of course. We have attended auctions in Coda numerous times, and tonight is no different. Portia aids me in choosing promising pieces in need of repair, and we make our choices from there. Once again, I must commend you on your keen eye for craftsmanship. I very much look forward to seeing that piano in its full glory once more.”

Octavia smiled softly. “Happy to help.”

“And now, we present a well-loved and timeless piece. You’ll find before you a rosewood clarinet, lovingly curated from a skilled musician of Solenford. Arriving now on stage, this item is certain to--”

“Solenford,” Octavia mused. “That’s where you come from, right? Where is that?”

Drey leaned slightly more against the railing. “The far north. Dreadfully cold in the winter months. I would not recommend ever moving there, but it can be a lovely place to visit.”

It wasn’t an usher. In fact, it was the first time throughout the entire evening Octavia had seen anyone short of the position cross the stage at all, let alone anyone slightly adjacent to her own height. As to what a girl, instead, would be doing at its center, she had no guess to offer. It was definitely rosewood, if she squinted. They’d been honest this time. It didn’t make the person carrying it any less jarring, given how her bland, uniformed attire left her strikingly out of place in a room so splashed with luxurious color. She drew eyes and mumbles of confusion. Octavia, too, was not immune to staring at her every unhesitant step.

Drey caught Octavia's gaze, puzzled as it was. He took the scene in stride with a curious smile. “I wonder what this could be,” he murmured.

“What can we do for you, ma’am?” the man at the stage’s center asked, his own smile never quite faltering. “This is an immaculate instrument you’ve brought for us today.”

“It’s…more than that. I’d like to play it, if that’s alright with you,” she spoke coolly, her clear voice betraying her size. “As a demonstration.”

The man paused. Still, he found his composure soon after. “But of course! It would be a pleasure to hear that rosewood sing.”

“I suggest you back up a bit.”

He didn’t resist. Octavia smirked. She was sassy, then, if her song warranted so much room for her splendor. She almost respected the self-confidence. There was a part of her that thought to pry at the clarinet with her eyes, for how she’d almost come to enjoy dissecting each compromised piece of wood that graced the stage.

It didn’t look poor at all, and "immaculate" had genuinely been a strong descriptor. Still, given its supposed owner, it was more than likely at least well-loved. Appearance and sound were two entirely different concerns. Even disconnected as she’d been, she could’ve sworn she’d already seen at least one other clarinet pass through center stage at least once. Blessed by a musician’s touch or not, this one was no different.

The lightning was new, at least.