Headed for heartbreak (well, maybe)

[Maestro]

Alone in her room, Iseabail paced, deep in thought. When had this happened? Sure, Iseabail had acted opposite Armand before, but she had never reacted this way, until now. Or perhaps she had just never noticed it before. Well, either way, it had been brought to her attention now; what was to be done about it? And what was “it,” anyway? The woman wouldn’t be able to do anything if she didn’t fully know what she was trying to do something about.

And for that matter, did she even want to do anything about it? Thinking over the past few days, Iseabail shook her head. No, she didn’t want to try to “fix” herself. To do that, she’d either have to try to never think of or talk to Armand again (a feat which would be impossible, at least for the rehearsal period and run of Tosca) or she would have to leave the Opera House. Iseabail sighed, sitting down at her desk.

“What should I do?” she muttered, knowing that both of the options she had just presented herself with were useless.

“Och, I canna do this alone,” Iseabail sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. “But I canna talk to Julien; he’s no exactly an expert when it comes to things like this.” She smiled wryly, a bit amused that her heroic, tenor-always-gets-the-girl friend was the one that knew the least about matters romantic. That wasn’t to say that Julien was unromantic, merely that, as it had taken him such a long time to realize that he had fallen for October, he was probably not the best person to talk to for advice.

Dismissing the thought of talking to Julien with a shake of her head, Iseabail stood up, ready to start pacing again.

“Weel, if I canna talk to Julien, who shall I talk to?” she asked out loud, her pacing resumed. “I could go talk to Annie, but she’s probably getting everything sorted out for next season and I dinna want to bother her with something like this,” Iseabail sighed again, feeling slightly discouraged. “Weel, I suppose I’ll just have to be as charming as possible an’ see what happens.”

Only partly satisfied with her decision, the singer sat down at her desk again, ready to get back to work on her character sheet. Pen in hand Iseabail began to write, doing her best to try to distract herself. For once, she hoped that someone would interrupt her; unfortunately, with her luck, she’d end up brooding until tonight’s rehearsal.

Iseabail closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself one final thought to touch on the subject. Opening her eyes, she bent over her character sheet, attempting to concentrate.

[Miss Jack]

This was embarrassing. He'd hunted every inch of the castle (not a small piece of architechure, if anyone cared to know) looking for his script, and then he hunted every place it might be in the opera house. He'd found one script, but it wasn't his. He'd scrawled numerous notes into his own script and this one was neat and pristine.

There was only one possible option. He'd gotten his mixed up with Iseabail's during their first rehearsal. He stopped in front of her door and paused, berating himself for possibly the twentieth time. What was he supposed to say. Sorry, will you switch scripts with me? Yes, I know they're exactly the same, but I need mine. It sounded childish even in his head.

He knocked anyway.

[Maestro]

Hearing the knock, Iseabail looked up. Ah, blessed distraction. Laying her pen on her desk, the woman stretched, quite glad to have something other than Tosca and Armand to think about.

She made her way over to the door, hair down for a change. Though she normally wore it in ringlets, when Iseabail was by herself, she didn't bother.

In a disheveled state, then (well, what SHE would call disheveled), "Aye?" she asked as she opened the door, not quite giving her brain time to register just who was on the other side of that panel of wood.

As soon as she saw Armand, Iseabail's heart skipped a beat. Oh, God (she mentally crossed herself), it WAS just her luck to run into Armand when she'd just spent at least an hour trying not to think about him.

[Miss Jack]

"Hi," he said stupidly. "I apologize if this is a bad time," he continued slowly, noting her appearance. She looked fine to him, but he knew some women were self-conscious about those types of things. (And some women were his mother.)

"I believe our scripts got mixed up," he admitted, with no small amount of embarrassment. He presented hers, not so much as a dent in the paper.

[Maestro]

"Och, no!" she protested, quite thankful that she wasn't blushing (well, she wasn't blushing enough to be noticed, anyway). "No, it's quite all right," she told him, even though she was slightly embarrassed that he had caught her just after her brooding spell.

Glancing at the script he presented to her, she actually did blush. "Aye, it appears they did," she murmured, not wanting to admit that she had discovered that the day before. She'd read his notes; he had an excellent method of practice.

"I'll get yours for you then," she told him, smiling. Stepping back from the door, feeling more nervous than the first time she sang her first note as lead soprano, she asked him, somehow managing not to stutter, "Would ye like to come in?"

[Miss Jack]

Armand did blush. "I, well-- if you don't mind." They were not living in the 1800's, by any means, but he still felt a little awkward about going into her room with just the two of them. Likely it was the fact that she was the lead soprano and she was a bit out of his league for something so.... friend-like.

He stepped into her room. It was quaint, and neat, not overly gaudy like his mother's, and had a pleasant, lived-in feel. He glanced at her desk. "What were you writing?" he asked, tilting his head in curiosity before he could stop himself. He held up a hand as if excusing himself. "Sorry, you don't have to answer that."

[Maestro]

"Och, no at all," she smiled, opening the door further. "Do feel free to come in." Was this really happening? she asked herself, watching as Armand stepped through the door. Yes, it was; if she was dreaming, Armand wouldn't look so awkward and she wouldn't be so nervous, herself.

Glancing around, quite glad that she had just cleaned yesterday, Iseabail smiled again. "Feel free to make yerself at home, Sionadh Ira," she murmured, not feeling quite bold enough to call him 'Armand' when they were alone. While Julien was around, certainly, but it felt slightly ... off to call the man by his name when he had not asked her to.

She smiled at his question, half-glad and half-nervous that he was taking interest in what she had been doing. "Och, it's no a problem," she told him, walking over to her desk. "I was merely figuring out who Tosca really is." Glancing at her papers, she impulsively offered them to Armand. "Feel free to read them, if you like." With a shrug and a smile, she added, "Who knows? Perhaps it will help give Scarpia a look into her mind; he seems to be able to do that, anyway."

[Miss Jack]

He gave her an odd look at the title, though the gaelic version did have a nice sound to it. "Armand, please," he said softly, a little bewildered.

He took the papers from her with a fascinated reverence, poring over her character sheet and personal insights. He arched both brows and glanced up at her from where he'd been reading. "This is incredible," he said. "I should have done something like this for Scarpia. Though I suppose no one cares for the villian. I will tell you he's going to have a hard time reading her mind now..... She's... complex." He couldn't think of a better way to describe her; it sounded a bit flat for what he really thought.

[Maestro]

Well, now she didn't have an excuse for not calling him by his name. "Aye. Sorry, Armand," she murmured, a bit of a smile on her face. Being Scottish, she couldn't help but roll her rs, so coming from her lips, his name sounded more like "Arrmand." Even though her pronounciation was off, Iseabail loved his name; it just sounded beautiful.

She watched as he looked over her sheets, slightly nervous as his expression changed. Biting her lip, she waited for the verdict, laughing as she realized that he was actually impressed with her humble method of getting to know her character.

"Weel, you've still got plenty of time to really figure Scarpia ou'," she commented. Blushing slightly, she added softly, "Oh, never assume that no one cares for the villan; someone will invariably be madly in love with him." Laughing slightly at her own daring, she contined, "Besides, this particular villan's got an amazing voice."

And now she really was embarrassed. Turning away from Armand, she made a show of looking about her room, trying to find his script. She didn't want to find it too quickly; he'd likely just leave. At the same time, she didn't want to just keep talking and appear as though she didn't care that Armand currently didn't have a script. Oh, it would be really nice if they could talk like this outside of the Opera House, but Iseabail was too (old-fashioned? shy?) ... something to see if he wanted to try the whole conversation thing over a cup of coffee or the like.

[Miss Jack]

He gave a soft sound of amusement, setting her papers back down gently on the desk.

"I should hope that no one falls in love with the villian," he said with an arched brow. He ignored the compliment. His voice was rather pale next to Iseabail's and Julien's. He smirked thoughtuflly. "I wish you'd keep your accent for some of the pieces. It gives the lyrics such a nice flavor."

He watched her search and thought about offering to help. But he didn't think she'd want him searching through her room. "I'm really sorry for barging in on you like this," he apologized again, switching the subject.

[Maestro]

"Aye, weel," she began softly, amused herself, "It's been done." She paused for a moment, thinking of a good example. Smiling, she found the perfect model, knowing Julien would be proud of her for turning to Mozart immediately. "Take Don Giovanni, for instance. He was technically a villan but he had women in ceanalta just abou' everywhere he went." Yes, she sometimes threw a little Gaelic into her speech, but most of the time, she didn't notice that she was doing it.

She shook her head again, smiling. "It really isna a problem," she insisted, laughing a bit. "I was just asking meself whether or no it was rude to just stand abou' talking when you came looking for your script." Well, she had just surprised herself; she didn't want Armand to leave yet and she had basically told him just that.

[Miss Jack]

"Ceanalta?" he asked curiously, hoping he didn't sound like too much of an idiot. He smiled at her sort-of-invitation, glancing to the side.

[Maestro]

"Och, did I slip into Gaelic?" Iseabail asked, putting a hand up to her mouth, embarrassed. "I'm sorry abou' that," she murmured, coloring slightly. "I tend to do tha' sometimes withou realizing wha' I'm saying," she explained, laughing.

She stopped for a moment, going back over what she had said. "Och, ceanalta means love," she told him, translating her words in her head. "Aye, Don Giovanni had women falling in love with him everywhere he went."

Laughing, this time at herself, she told him, "If I ever go into Gaelic, feel free to stop me." She smiled, "I just love the language," she murmured by way of explanation. She sat down in a chair, just enjoying Armand's company. He hadn't told her that to just talk would be rude, so she was going to talk. Maybe she'd have worked up the courage to invite him somewhere by the time he left.

She hadn't realized what he had said about her accent until it suddenly hit her like a dropped piano. Blushing a bit, she smiled. "Thank you," she murmured, a bit embarrassed. "But, I dinna ken wha' the directors would think if a proper Italian lady suddenly had a thick, Scottish brogue." Although, she was thinking about trying it at a rehearsal, just to see what happened.

[Miss Jack]

He laughed harshly. "I assure you that, even as Scarpia, I wouldn't have women falling in love with me everywhere I went."

He sat backwards on a chair opposite her, growing more comfortable now that they were easing into conversation. "I think Gaelic is a unique and truly beautiful language," he told her honestly. "I can barely get by with miserable French." He frowned in self-digust.

"Trying certainly wouldn't hurt. Where are they going to find another leading lady on such short notice?"

[Maestro]

She smiled a bit, preferring to simply let that comment slide. He wouldn't believe her even if she reassured him that such was not the case. After all, he had grown up with Julien around was thus rather oblivious to some things.

Ah, he was relaxing. Excellent. True, they had played opposite each other before, but this was really the first real conversation they had had, with no one else around, that is. It was refreshing; they'd have to do it again.

Quite pleased at his praise of her native language, she smiled. "Weel, you truly have the best pronunciation I have ever heard from someone that doesna speak Gaelic." She wasn't flattering him; it was true. Over the years, people had tried to mimic the way she said things in Gaelic, but all of them fell far short of Armand. To tell the truth, she was actually really pleased about that.

Laughing a bit, she raised an eyebrow. "Och, I suppose your right." Then she remembered that Pia was not entirely gone from the Opera House. "If I annoy them enough, they might just recruit yer mum." Which wasn't quite fair, in Iseabail's mind. Pia was excellent, true, but the Scot had worked her way up and she didn't like being overlooked every time Pia said she wanted a part.