Liberi Reader

Stage lights peek through the gap between the backstage curtains, outlining the Caprinae's horns as she raises her baton.

She saw only a silhouette.

Under the slanted cellar lamps, the reflections off the drinking glass faded and reappeared as the figure moved.

Liesel wanted to approach the figure; perhaps they were lost and in need of directions.

But she only took one step before the other turned in response and quickly moved past the shelves.

As the two brushed shoulders, the light revealed towering horns atop a black hood.

The blinding stage lights shine down on the floor where Paula fell, the spilled wine pooling glaringly like fresh blood.

Her mother's lips, which were smiling and praising her, are now dyed a shade of ominous wine red.

The bright lights cause Liesel's vision to blur, yet Paola's lifeless eyes fail to capture any of it.

Timpani pulls Liesel onto the sofa in the middle of the rehearsal room, then sits down next to her, awkwardly patting her shoulder.

His back is straight, but his bloodshot eyes betray his effort to remain chipper.

Trombone stops Timpani from continuing his onslaught of expletives with a tiny pinch, and gestures with her eyes for him to show some consideration to the girl on the sofa.

Liesel opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out as she notices everyone's red eyes and tired expressions.

She manages nothing, and ultimately shakes her head weakly, refusing Trombone's offer as she gets up to leave.

In the hallway outside the room, she leans against the wall, listening to the vague murmurs from inside.

Liesel does not manage to make out what the rest say in response, nor does she have the will to listen further.

She only feels her head spinning, her eyes stinging, her entire body heavy like lead, she only wants... to fall into Paola's embrace.

*creak—*

Liesel does not return to her own bed, and instead opens the door to Paola's room.

Paola forgot to shut the window tight on the day of the Championship, and the rain from last night had soaked the nearby stack of music sheets. Even a day later, the paper remains wrinkled.

The tears she tried her best to hold back for the sake of the meeting with the Kazimierizian businessman and the orchestra now burst forth once more.

Liesel gathers the sheets by the window, trying to smooth out the wrinkles on the paper, but even her fingers appear to her as blurry as the notes soaked by the rain.

She knows how dreadful and silly she must look. If Paola saw her like this, she'd join in the crying too.

Paola had been accompanying Liesel to her parents' graves when they overheard a lady performing a foreign melody nearby, and she cried the same way Liesel is crying now.

The trombone player was startled by the red-eyed Paola, but later became part of the family, just like Bassoon, and even Timpani—

Paola had been standing at the pier when she discovered Timpani driving piles into the ground with a steel drill. You have a good sense of rhythm, she said; so why not join my orchestra as a timpani player?

Liesel asked Paola before why someone as talented as her would leave Leithanien.

Paola only tilted her head in response then. She didn't fully understand herself—

Why didn't her countrymen understand that she only wanted to perform the pieces she liked—why couldn't they accept even that?

Liesel gently picks up the crimson dress, her fingers tracing the gold thread on the neckline. The fabric is somewhat old with dye fading at its fraying edges, but the elaborate embroidery work is as brilliant as ever.

Next to the dress hanger is a staff, standing in silence.

The streetlights outside the window flicker to life, and passing headlights flash in and out of her vision, blurred by her overflowing tears.

Light. A flash of light.

The flash of light reflected off the drinking glass.

Liesel's fingers freeze. A blurry fragment surges forth from her memories like ice on a lake suddenly cracking from all the suppressed water—

The slender, hooded figure, half-hidden behind a shelf. The spotlight shining down, illuminating the glass in his hand.

Towering horns under the light.

Liesel looks up, her gaze fixed on the photo on the headboard of Paola's bed.

A formal group photo of the Schwarzervorhang Orchestra after a performance. Other than a few Elafia, the other members, numbering a dozen or so, are all Caprinae.

Once she joked to Paola, asking if she intended to recruit every Leithanian in Siracusa into the group, and Paola laughed, saying it would be wonderful.

Liesel bites her lip, trying to stop herself from voicing her thoughts, but they only remain stuck in her head.

The exhaustion, shocks, pain, and fear from the past few days have squeezed her into a tiny ball, primed to blow.

Her tears no longer flow. She only feels cold.

She has barely managed to drift off when a shrill ringtone interrupts her sleep.

Liesel cannot decide if the caller's description of what happened or the resulting scene taking shape in her imagination is more devastating.

Her heart pounds violently as she puts on a coat before heading outside.

Perhaps because it is late at night, or maybe because a murder just happened, she fails to find a cab for hire. In a moment of desperation, she starts sprinting towards the nearest police station.

The night wind whispers to her like background noise leaking from an old stage. Liesel runs as fast as she can, even though her foggy thoughts only get noisier the more she tries to calm herself down.

The wind stings her eyes, but she runs even faster, her balance nearly slipping.

Liesel gasps for breath like a bellows about to burst as the night wind slips into her arms, sending her into shivers.

She notices a few passers-by ahead, looking at her as if they have spotted a lunatic.

She does not care, all she thinks is to go fast, faster—

But the closer she gets to the police station, the more the greyish-white building seems to slowly press down on her like a huge, unfeeling stage curtain.

Liesel slows down. She stands on the street corner, and spots an officer smoking outside at the gate in front of the lit-up station entrance.

For a second, she seems to want to turn and run.

She hates herself for doubting them.

She hates how her first reaction upon hearing 'Famiglia Bellone' and 'detained', was not to defend them, but to freeze as she recalled those towering horns.

The wind seems to have stopped.

Liesel slowly but surely drags her heavy feet into the building.

Bassoon pinches Timpani hard, who yelps and looks up to see Liesel's ashen expression.

Liesel is rendered speechless as she looks at both pairs of Bellone mobsters and Columbian businessmen.

In the middle, Timpani and Bassoon are huddling in fear like fowlbeasts caught in the rain, their pitiful gazes aimed at Liesel.

At the pier, faced with Paola's invitation, Timpani shook his head in confusion, and ignored the two to resume his hammering.

With his rhythmic hammering in the background, Liesel saw Paola suddenly straighten herself and her collar.

The foreman was clearly shocked by Paola's actions. Her words stunned Timpani.

Behind Paola was Liesel, tugging on her mother's sleeve with an expression both amused and annoyed.

Everyone stayed awkwardly still for a moment, before the foreman quickly grabbed the florin from her, as if afraid she'd change her mind.

The foreman turned to yell, and left the trio, depriving Timpani of a chance to respond.

The fiery sunset clouds from that day come back to life inside Liesel's mind.

The dumbfounded Timpani, the satisfied and smiling Paola, and her resigned self shaking her head were all bathed in a warm sunset glow, in the shade of a beautiful future.

Timpani's bold declaration to pay the price for his actions is interrupted by Liesel's sudden request.

He exchanges a glance with Bassoon, and even meets eyes with the Bellone mobsters and Columbian businessmen.

But the undeniable authority in her voice sends Timpani's hand involuntarily tapping on a metal bar.

With his rhythmic tapping in the background, Liesel straightens her back as well as her collar, looking toward the Columbian businessman.

Next to the Columbian businessmen, Timpani and Bassoon are still as statues.

Only when the police officer waves them away do they both mutter something as if just jolted awake.

In the dressing room backstage, Liesel is seated, surrounded by the joyful sound of her orchestra chatting.

Next to her is a stack of slightly yellowed scores—Paola's untitled quartet, with some edits noted in the corners.

Meanwhile, Paola's favorite composition has just won a standing ovation from the entire audience on the Columbians' magnificent stage.

Liesel runs her hand over the slightly faded ink, then stands up to face the orchestra.