Solo Log: Karakuri

**Fall, 497 AOV**

He notices her during the second show of the week. Tiny and *bright green* with a wild pouf of hair haphazardly looped into two braids, the gnome is hard to miss. The light catches on her unusual skin tone and uncommon features, and he knows this must be a repeat visit as she is occasionally whispering along to the script. It’s distracting enough that he nearly misses his cue to receive Tatyana’s letter as it’s delivered. Instead of taking it in hand, he’s nearly hit in the face by the nursemaid’s grandson passing it to him; Gideon recovers while flipping through the sheets of parchment and hopes nobody notices.

~~~

At their midday show three days later, his co-star receives flowers in his dressing room that are…well, they are *nice* flowers, if unconventional. A small handful of marigolds and daisies with a small note that he doesn’t really mean to read after it’s been discarded but Marcel does leave it out in the open. It’s from the stranger in the front row from the other day, enthusiastic praise in meticulously neat handwriting. At this point, Gideon can’t decide which other day the casual reference to the gnome is truly referring to, considering she’s been in various seats in the front row for the last several days.

Marcel is unimpressed, or at least acting as such. “They’re weeds, Gideon,” he states boredly, though he does still stuff them into a glass of water as he heads off in a huff to change. Gideon tries to ignore the other’s attitude, and returns to preparing for curtain up.

~

The next time he notices her is during pre-show hours, working at the bar. It’s a sight, a toddler-sized barmaid delivering drinks that she looks neither old enough to consume nor strong enough to carry, though she’s managing well enough. When he asks the bartender about her, Gideon is told she took on work to earn a seat at the nightly performances.

“Something about not having seen any performances in years, some nonsense like that,” Piers answers boredly. “She’s been poking about since the first night she showed up. Plays the flute or clarinet in the afternoon sometimes, people like it. Earns us a little extra and she’s not in the way.”

Gideon taps his glass on the bar and shrugs, watching her hand another drink to a customer across the bar and engage in idle chatter. She seems friendly enough, but when he thinks about trying to flag her over she’s off to another patron before he can even raise a hand to catch her eye.

~

She has now been to eight consecutive shows and even the most unobservant of the company has noticed. It’s easier to try and catch her at the bar than in the chaos after the show, so he gets to the tavern early and settles away from the bartop itself, casually flipping through his script to remain otherwise occupied.

“Hello, sir.”

He hadn’t even seen her approaching, and can’t help the surprised quirk of his eyebrow as she stands on tiptoe beside his table and peeks at the script. “You play *Onegin*,” she adds with thinly veiled enthusiasm. “Your singing voice is lovely.”

“I was hoping to run into you,” Gideon replies, brushing over the compliment entirely as he surveys her. This close, he realizes she’s older than he originally thought. “You’ve been to every show for more than a week.”

Her flush spreads over her cheeks, nose, and ears as she shifts her weight sheepishly. “I–um, I r-really enjoy the m-music. I’m usually t-traveling, so I don’t usually get to see many stage p-performances, is all. I hope you don’t m-mind.”

“I don’t mind. I was just curious, is all. Piers mentioned that you were working here in exchange for a seat every night.”

“Oh? Y-yes. I, um,” she twists a stray curl back into the neatly braided crown of hair atop her head and glances away. She does, after another few seconds, offer her hand. “I’m Karakuri. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ambrose.”

~

The older docker sighs. Emphatically, casting a long-suffering glance at his young acting partner. Marcel, undoing tedious lace and buttons from his elaborate gown, either does not or chooses not to notice, focus remaining on removing his costume.

"She's been at the cast exit every night all week."

"Yes, well, she'll have to keep waiting there, because I'm not going to meet some lunatic who has come to see the show every night for two weeks straight."

Gideon can't help his repeat sigh. “She’s working at the bar so she can keep coming.”

“Point stands.”

~

Seventeen shows.

This afternoon, Karakuri is perched in a tree outside the bar, which Gideon only realizes when he hears the chiming of a flute several feet above him. He has to admit that Piers is a decent judge of skill, considering the quality of her impromptu performance.

"I'd ask how you got up there, but I doubt I'm going to believe any explanation you give me anyway."

The lilting music stops abruptly, smothered by an off-color note signifying her surprise. A few seconds later, the now-familiar blue eyes peek out through the leaves of the tree to watch him.

She is upside down. Gideon tries not to think too hard on how *that's* working.

"Would you believe me if I told you I hopped out from the window?"

He glances at the bar, then the tree, the second-story window and finally the eyes watching him before shrugging nonchalantly. "Maybe."

From above, he hears fabric shifting and the clink of metal against metal; a few leaves rain on his head with the movement. Finally, the gnome appears free from the foliage entirely, sliding down the trunk of the tree with her flute strapped over her shoulder. "Why is it Mr. Sterling still won't t-talk to me?"

Gideon stuffs both hands deep into his pockets to stifle his instinct to reach for her lest she fall; when she lands at ground level again she swipes brush and leaves from her overalls with a discontented frown. "I'm n-not trying to be annoying…but I would like t-to ask him a few questions, is all. You're the headl-lining actor, and even you'll t-talk to me."

He huffs, plucking a leaf from her hair. "Don't worry. I think I have a plan."

~

"I'll make you a bet."

This gets the young bard's attention, gaze flicking up from his dulcimer as he tunes the instrument. "For what?"

"Perform without using any magic tonight." It will be the twentieth performance Karakuri will have sat through, but Gideon's not concerned. She's been at every show since he first noticed her, and isn't inclined to think she'll be stopping *now*. "I'd say that I'll use a little bardic inspiration myself, but I don't think that would be fair, so I'll go without as well."

"Don't be so cocky," Marcel quips, plucking irritably at an out of tune string. "What are we even betting on?"

Sometimes, he thinks it's too easy, egging the teenaged performer on. Oh, well. "If you win, I'll tell your one-member fanclub to shove off. If *I* win, you at least go say hi to the poor kid."

Marcel considers this for several seconds before setting aside his instrument.  "You're on."

~

Wesley Beaumont is really not in the mood for anyone's shenanigans tonight, and he has the distinct impression that that is what's going on.

"Let me help you with that," the composer suggests, reaching for the intricate lacing of Marcel's gown without waiting for an answer and beginning to carefully loosen them. The only real response he gets is the near-imperceptible sinking of the younger's shoulders. After giving the other a few moments to speak, he gently presses on. "I have to admit, this wasn't your best performance."

Silence.

"It wasn't just the lack of magic," Wesley adds calmly, winding the delicate lace around his fingers before setting it aside. He rests his hands on his son's thin shoulders, offering a gentle squeeze.

"Something just wasn't as…" he considers his words, trying to catch Marcel's eye in their reflection, very aware of the other's attempt to avoid his gaze. "...as intense. As authentic. You and Gideon have had excellent chemistry on stage, but tonight it was like you couldn't be bothered to look at him."

Nothing. Sometimes, Wesley muses, it is *impossible* to get a read on his son's expression. It's no leap to recognize that Marcel's acting skill traces back to his younger years and outperforms even his own recognized talent. When the boy wants to remain impassive, he can do an excellent job of it.

With a sigh, he pats the boy's shoulder once before removing his hands and stuffing them into his pockets. "You know I'm not saying your performance was bad," he chides gently.

"It's fine. I was just a little tired."

This, Wesley knows, is a bold-faced lie. It ties somehow into the overarching 'shenanigans' he still suspects, and thus decides calling the young actor on his bluff will be pointless.

"Well then, let's get you home."

~

The agreement was to talk to the weird gnome. Gideon made no condition of when or for how long, so he chooses mid-afternoon at the tavern the following day. It will be an easy escape if she's as strange as she seems, and a short conversation if she's working as she has been.

He's surprised, then, by the rich, low tone of a clarinet coming from inside Piers' bar. Marcel finds the stranger sitting on a table at the far end of the room, playing for a small audience of customers who watch attentively with drinks in hand.

"She's pretty good, eh?" Piers asks nonchalantly from the bar, wiping the counter before placing a pale ale on it and nudging it in Marcel's direction.

"She's *okay*," Marcel answers boredly, taking the offered drink and irritably placing a copper piece in its place.

The bartender chuckles lowly, "heard you lost your bet with Gideon."

"I didn't lose anything," he corrects, tone sharp. "I just decided I'd save her from being so obviously desperate."

"Whatever you say, kid." Marcel chooses not to reply, and Piers leans against the counter and whistles shrilly, "all right you lot, you've distracted her long enough. Off you go."

Groans of general displeasure amongst the audience *almost* cover the swearing under Marcel's breath as he replaced the other patrons at her table. Up close, she seems even smaller if also a bit older. He's not met a gnome before and doesn't know what exactly to make of the vibrant green skin and hair, of the unnaturally large eyes that widen even further when she realizes who's approached.

"M-mister St-Sterling!"

Karakuri fumbles with her clarinet as she pops up to her feet, enthusiastically offering a small hand to him to shake. "It's an h-*honor*--your performances of Tanya have been *amazing*. And you have a lovely, clear singing voice. Your range is incred-dible--"

He shakes her offered hand; silently, he wonders how it is she manages the dexterity to play her clarinet with such tiny fingers. It didn't seem to hinder her considering whatever she'd been playing sounded just fine before, though he sincerely doubts she can reach all of the keys. As he muses, she continues to nervously chatter away, oblivious to his thoughts.

"--your *acting* yet, t-that's something else entirely, and--oh, I'm sorry, when I get n-nervous sometimes I just k-keep talking and I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Karakuri!"

He does have to admit, however reluctantly, that the praise is nice to hear. That, and though she's a little overenthusiastic she seems both sincere and also not like a lunatic. Points in her favor.

"You can call me Marcel," he corrects, finally. "'Mr. Sterling' makes me sound old."

~

Altogether, he has to admit that Karakuri is charming, if awkward. In spite of her initial focus on showering him with praise, he was eventually able to engage in actual conversation. She explains she's a traveler, having just returned from time abroad studying mechanical engineering (and being terrible at it, she adds with a laugh), and stopped in Flint to visit an old friend when she heard about the Beaumont production of *Onegin*. She'd been so taken with the initial performance that she took work at the bar so she could watch again. And again, and again--eventually, she'd wanted to try and meet members of the cast, and he had resisted until the last possible moment. In hindsight, Marcel thinks this was not his best decision.

A week after meeting she's convinced him to teach her a bit of the dulcimer in exchange for a few lessons on the flute, and it's an easy afternoon activity even if she struggles stretching her arms across the length of the instrument. It *is* a little bit adorable watching her try, though he wouldn't be caught dead saying so.

"I've been traveling alone for most of my life, now," Karakuri explains as they take a break from practicing. "Mostly, I try to study from experts and learn whatever I can from them. I'm never an expert when I'm done, but I still love learning a little bit about so many different things."

"I can't imagine being out of Flint. The farthest I've gone is the Cloudwood," Marcel replies, absentmindedly plucking at his dulcimer to ensure it's still in tune. "Having a place to come back to…it's too nice to give up, at least for now."

She flops back into the soft grass, close enough that he can feel the fuzzy fabric of her sweater against his side. Her tone, as she answers, is unusually somber. "It's nice to have a home."

Fingers suddenly poke into his side, teasing. "But you should travel! See the world outside of Flint. It's good for you." Karakuri laughs, pulling her hands back and folding them under her head. If the laughter is just a touch forced, he doesn't say anything.

~~~

Flint doesn't get terribly cold in the winter, but Marcel looks forward to the coming spring anyway. The warmer weather is always pleasant, but his excitement at their production moving to Dawn Square in the spring is really what drives him. Karakuri is still lingering around Flint, though she's been working with a local healer during the colder months and stopped attending every single performance. It can be hard to track her down, but she appears now and then. He now owns a small peppermint plant (*it's good for your throat!*), and a growing collection of unusual dried flowers she gives him when she does come to a show.

In return, he's helped her learn to play the dulcimer better and provided company on her occasional off day. She's pleasant company, even as strange as she can be, full of unusual information and stories that Marcel thinks she's making up at least half of the time.

"I can't impress upon you how big a deal it is to be performing in Dawn Square, Kuri. We'll never be in the Navras Opera House, but this is *huge*."

Karakuri nods absentmindedly, pressing the keys of her flute instead of watching Marcel's enthusiastic explanation.

"I know you've stopped coming to the show since you started working for that healer, but you should come to at least one performance at the Square. I'm sure we can get you a ticket, no problem."

The keys click louder, until she finally drops her arms and the instrument from her lips, clutching it in both hands as if it's for protection instead of music. "I have to leave before the spring, Marcel."

He doesn't answer right away, prompting her to anxiously press on. "I had asked a b-botanist just outside of Slate, ages ago, if I c-could study with her in the spring. When all the fl-flowers bloom. She told me no a b-bunch of times, but just sent me a l-letter saying if I st-still wanted to learn I had to be there before the f-first of the year. Or…or n-*never*, if I wasn't there by then."

Still nothing. So Karakuri continues. "I've b-been asking for *years*, Marcel, honest—I w-wouldn't skip your b-big show otherwise. And—and she said only for a little while, s-so if I c-come right back then I can catch one of your l-last shows—and if I d-don't it's—I st-still saw your b-bea—"

Marcel clears his throat, loudly enough to interrupt her outright. "Breathe, Kuri. It's *fine*."

She distinctly thinks that this is not the truth, and though he's trying to get her to stop. "A-and—and I'll write! I'll send you a b-bunch of letters. I'll s-send so many you'll wish I stopped sending them. You'll th-think it's just like when I c-came to every show for a whole m-month, and—"

"I *said* it's *fine*," he repeats, sternly. Across from him, her shoulders sink. "It's the same show, just in a different place. It's *fine*."

"Are you s-su—"

"*Yes*, Karakuri. I'm *sure*, stop asking!" He flips the case of his dulcimer shut with a decisive click, a bit harder than necessary. "Look. I have to run lines with Gideon's understudy, I forgot to tell you. I'm already late."

"M-Marcel—"

He doesn't answer, slinging the strap of the instrument case over his shoulder and getting to his feet. Across from him, Karakuri shifts uncomfortably before doing the same, setting her flute aside. Before he can interject again, she's wrapped her arms around his waist, far tighter than any grip of hers has any right to be.

"I love seeing you p-perform, and listening t-to your dulcimer, and sp-spending time with you, and, um—" she fidgets uneasily, loosening her grip just enough so she can look up at him, "and you t-too. It's like having a l-little br-brother, and I never *had* a brother, and it's n-nice—"

She hiccups, the start of a sob, and he sets his shoulders because Marcel *will not cry now*, not for this. Instead, he pats her head as gently as he can manage before wriggling himself loose from her arms and stepping away.

"Have a safe trip, Karakuri. I'll see you next time you're back in Flint."

If she tries to answer, he's not listening anymore.