The Birdwatcher
The night had turned cold and fog covered the street.
Peter, now covering his stage hand clothes with a thick jacket, scrambled across the street in front of the opera house.
In the cover of darkness a carriage waited. Its carved black exterior and gold accents indicated wealth and power. A family crest was stamped on the doors side but it was unreadable in the fog, creating a sense of clearly planned mystery.
Pater tapped on the nearest window and the door opened. A strong perfume flooded his senses, causing a small recoil. But he pushed the oncoming headache out of his mind, claiming inside; Not caring to look around.
The carriage was dark, only the faint glow of the street lights shined in, so Peter could hardly see his visitors. But he knew who they were.
“And how was the show?” A woman's voice spoke from the dark. Her voice sounded rich and heavy, as though she expected the person listing to bow at her feet.
“It was… well it went well…” Peter whispered.
The woman scoffed. “Anything else?”
Peter swallowed the feeling of unease rising up in his throat, threatening to lose his dinner. “The people loved him. A lot. I don't think the new owners don't seem to be eager to replace him. And their patron, Mary McDonled-”
The woman tensed and tapped her finger heavily on the window next to her. “That little rat. I should have dealt with her when I had the-”
“Mother.” The man next to her whispered. Peter knew his voice too well, Noyade d'eau.
The woman clicked her tongue. “You were saying?”
“Oh yes. But Mary McDonald, she's pouring money into the opera. And she and Sirius seemed to have reacquainted.”
“Are they enjoying each other?” The woman prompted.
“Well, I can't say for certain. I knew Mary wrote for him after the show, but I don't know if Sirius returned the same… passion.”
A moment of silence followed and the tension began to rise.
“Is that all?” The woman spat.
“Uh…I...” Peter stuttered.
“What good are you if you can only tell me that a letter was sent?” The woman snapped.
“Well… uh.” Peter cleared his throat. “I do know after some time, some sort of chill possessed the walls. And a rose was delivered to Sirius with a black ribbon. The black ribbon.”
Noyade d'eau. Leaned forward from his seat, the dim light shining on his pale skin. “The opera ghost?”
“It is believed so, yes.” Peter spoke, voice on the verge of quivering.
Noyade d'eau leaned back and heaved a heavy sigh, resting his chin on the back of his hand.
“Another point for him.” He muttered.
“And how does this information help me?” The woman snapped, clearly oblivious to the infamous opera ghost.
Peter wasn't prepared for the question. In truth he had no idea why it would be helpful. It must have shown on his face because the woman leaned forward, her sharp features shining in the darkness.
“For too long you have brought me useless information. You speak of ghosts but explain nothing. You tell me a letter has been sent but not what it contains. I will not continue to give you your spotlight if you do not play your part.” She spat.
Peter sank back. For the past few months he had been trading his friends' secrets for the spotlight in a high society club. There he was somebody. And as not going to go back to being on the side lines.
“I will find more. And deliver it to you-” He nodded towards Noyade d'eau. “at the next club.”
Noyade d'eau glanced towards the woman, as though asking for approval, and tightened his jaw.
The woman eyed Peter carefully. Her mouth firm and her eyes turning.
“Do not make it your last visit.” she threatened.
The carriage door swung open, seemingly on its own, and Peter took that as his sign to leave.
When he exited the carriage the night had grown colder, and when he turned his visitors were gone. As though they were never there.
So Peter snuck back to the opera house, careful to take the hidden door that led to the chapel.
The birdwatcher looking for wounded feathers, careful to not let his true nature show.