The fire in the fireplace flickers. Nancy recognizes it by the twitching shadows that glide across the walls and the breath of air that brushes her hand. The soft wool blanket envelops her, giving her emaciated, cold body the strength she so desperately needs after roaming London penniless for so long, only to collapse half-dead on the doorstep of this house. But her heart, her heart does not feel the warmth. Sad, tormented, her soul caught in a vice, she looks over at Florence, who is still tirelessly poring over some papers – perhaps Ralph's speech for a socialist rally, perhaps the CVs of some of the women she is helping. The fire gently and warmly illuminates her face, making her cheek shine rosy, her red lips glowing. Her blonde hair falls in soft cascades onto her slender shoulders. She is still a natural beauty who doesn't need frills to shine and make the butterflies in Nancy's stomach dance. But the warm glow of Florence's eyes does not fall into Nancy's darkness. No glance crosses over to her, no word leaves those lips of hers. Nancy lets herself sink back into her lair on the couch, the inaudible clanking of breaking hearts and lost desires in the air. Her eyes fixed on her savior, silently chasing a hopeless dream and pleading.
The ease of your pose
The grace of your silhouette
The way that your shoulders meet your slender neck
Where would we be without all the distance?
You know I'm already just a skeleton
What had she actually expected? The pretty neighbor in an old life, who Nancy had confused about her gender with a changing wardrobe from men's to women's fashion from window to window - she had hardly known her. They had gone out together just once. One afternoon only, Florence's ears and eyes had belonged to her before she fled to avoid having to tell her the truth about herself, that she earned her money by sexually pleasing gentlemen who thought she was a young boy. One afternoon, followed by years, in which their paths diverged. What did she know about what happened during those years? A fiancé, rings exchanged at the altar, a child, a new house and a new address for the young family. It is probably the script of every woman's life in 1890s London. At least every honorable woman who did not follow the corrupt paths she herself had taken or shamelessly followed the call of another nature of feelings instead of denying them like Kitty. She does not belong in this idyll of normality. One afternoon, just one afternoon, is all she has left. A gray memory, doomed to fade in the light of the present because she, Nancy Astley, is not a man.
I don't have the heart to match
The one pricked into your finger
All things made to be destroyed
All moments meant to pass
And yet... and yet something in her refuses to accept this reality. Nancy Astley, the former oyster girl, had always been a little rebellious, a little stubborn and persistent. Otherwise, she would never have ended up backstage at the music hall out in the provinces to shake hands with and befriend Kitty Butler, the drag performer who had stolen her heart. Otherwise, she would never have followed Kitty to London against the better advice of her family, first as a dresser and then eventually as a show partner on stage. Otherwise, she would have returned to her parents like a repentant sinner, begging for forgiveness on the doorstep of her father's oyster restaurant instead of making a living on the streets ,after Kitty had cheated on her with her manager Walter and abandoned her to her fate in this metropolis. She would never have spoken up against Diana, who had found Nancy there and kept her for her personal sexual pleasure for years, in front of the whole circle of her friends, all rich, lesbian, lustful ladies, only to be beaten up and coldly thrown out the door. And she would never have followed the trail of an old neighbor and last resort to the other end of London.
If there is even the slightest chance that she was not mistaken about Florence when she saw the sparkle in her eyes that afternoon when they went out together. If there is even a small chance that her heart also beats for women. If there is even the slightest chance that there is something more to Ralph and the baby than meets the eye, Nancy doesn't want to leave this house without a fight, however weak she is. Her heart has been broken too often to give in so easily to the first setback.
Don't wanna live without teeth
Don't wanna die without bite
I never wanna say that I regret it
Never wanna say that we grew apart
And never wanna say that the feelings changed
Change. Change in the soul. Change in the heart. Change means fear and it means betrayal.
Florence blushes and immediately looks down when Nancy's eyes meet hers by chance. She still feels heat on her cheeks as she sees only the black letters of the flyer in front of her instead of Nancy's dark eyes. She regrets a little bit about giving the young woman, the old neighbor, who is lying wounded and exhausted on her sofa, the cold shoulder. It's not really her nature, and in her bottom of her heart, she would rather do the same as her brother Ralph and shower Nancy with all the favors she can imagine. But Florence can't do it. The danger is too real. Nancy's eyes look too deep. The gleam in them shimmers too much. Her lips are far too tempting. Florence cannot, must not allow it! She swore she would never love anyone but Lillian. Lillian, who died in her arms while giving birth to the baby. Lilian, who never loved her back in that way. And yet Florence holds on to her memory and her heart. It must not be destroyed by a new passion. Destroyed by Nancy's seductive voice, which lures her far too much. Destroyed by the longing that is reflected in dark eyes. The memory of an afternoon that happened years ago must remain a distant memory.
I don't have the heart to match
The one pricked into your finger
All things made to be destroyed
All moments meant to pass
How did Nancy even find her in this huge city? How could Nancy remember her of all people, after she once disappeared so suddenly from her life? Florence dares only a cautious glance at her maltreated guest, when she is sure that Nancy has not noticed her gaze. She has just closed her eyes and is sleeping lightly. Despite her tattered clothes and the scars on her skin, she looks incredibly beautiful. Ever since Nancy revealed her secret, Florence has been fascinated by this androgynous beauty and her determination to defy gender boundaries and explore London as a woman and a man. It's almost socialist. For a moment, Nancy finds her imagination going on a journey, pondering Nancy's versatility and the thousand roles she might have slipped into. Would she have ever met her without realizing it? The young lad selling the evening papers. The girl with the fruit cart at the market. The fine gentleman on the steps of the Opera, the lady at his side. Nancy, Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. How would she have ever recognized Nancy?
Goose bumps run over Florence and she hastily averts her eyes from the peacefully sleeping face. She chews her fingers nervously. When she is face to face with Nancy, her mask is firmly in place. A cold, iron cloak, studded with pins to keep everyone at a distance, envelops her. But here, alone with herself, her nails are splitting. What would Lillian think if she saw her like this, secretly casting her eyes on the shadow of another woman?
Chipped nail polish and a barbed-wire dress
"Is your mother proud of your eyelashes?"
Silicone chest and collagen lips
How would you even recognize me?
No, thinks Florence, and she throws the pile of papers noisily into the basket next to the table. She must be stricter with herself, take better care of herself. Whatever Nancy may see in her, whatever her presence in this house may promise her, it cannot and must not be. Tomorrow Nancy will leave. One last look at her before bed and her guest will be nothing but a memory.
I don't have the heart to match
The one pricked into your finger
All things made to be destroyed
All moments meant to pass
There, suddenly Nancy opens her eyes, awakening from the sleep that Florence is considering sinking into. And their gazes meet again. They meet and remain fixed on each other. Again a hint of heat rises, a hint of a blush in Florence's cheeks as she sees the hope and longing in them, but also determination. Determination not to give up on a heart. Determination to tear down walls and build bridges to a new, different future. Florence swallows the lump in her throat while trembling grabs her. Deep inside she calls for Lilian, calls for the memory, the old pact. But for a moment and for the first time since her death, Lilian is silent. And only a small butterfly stirs and flies towards the light. The light in Nancy's dark eyes.
I don't have the heart to match
The one pricked into your finger
No more troubled sleep
There's a brave new world that's raging inside of me
I don't have the heart to match
The one pricked into your finger
This too will soon slip out of reach
This too will soon come to an end