Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once upon a time…

The door slams open, bouncing off the wall with a crash that shakes most of the class awake and even startles Mr Porter, whose pen jerks in his hand, leaving a jagged line on the whiteboard. A tall, imposing figure is silhouetted in the doorway, someone Adaine can’t quite make out against the low, bright sun through the window behind him.

“Kristen Applebees,” he hollers, voice all too similar to the posh accents Adaine has grown up around, “I call you to your duty.”

A mousy girl sitting in the front row tilts her head. Adaine thinks she might recognise her - from registration, dimly, and as someone who tends to drift towards the uber-Christian clique, but then again she’s also seen her sitting on her own fairly often. “What duty?”

“Raise your trumpet once more,” yells the boy who Adaine has figured out by now is definitely Fabian Seacaster, one of the vaguely annoying jocks on the rugby team and in her homeroom. “Fanfare your prince!”

“I already said no,” Kristen sighs, “I don’t want to be in the production this year.”

Adaine finds it truly incredible that Mr Porter is just allowing this commotion to happen, but then again he’s never seemed like a terribly good teacher, so she supposes he’s raking in the drama as much as any of the students. It’s possible that he also actually knows Fabian and Kristen, in more than the abstract and detached fashion that Adaine knows anyone at Aguefort, and so might find the drama interesting rather than annoying.

Adding to the disruption, a short girl with dyed hair and piercings all around her ear Adaine swears is also in her homeroom stands up on her chair. Gorgug - one student Adaine does actually know, from registration and then only by virtue of the fact that they’ve wound up sitting together a few times when they’ve had no one else to sit with - tries to tug the girl down, but she just bats his hand away. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t want to be in the production,” Kristen repeats, fixing a quizzical gaze on the punk girl. “Why?”

“How can you say that? How can you possibly say that? The production is so much more than a school play,” punk girl enthuses, “it’s a passion. It’s a way of life. It’s a chance to become more than yourself! To find the parts of yourself that are missing! It’s the opportunity to step into the woods and come out a different person! And it’s missing a trumpet according to Goldenrod so we really really need you.”

Some geeky boys in the corner of the room actually applaud that. Adaine buries her face in her hands.

Vice Principal Goldenhoard is acting as musical director for the production this year, as Aguefort’s last music teacher stepped down, and he’s already run into some problems with the band - problems Adaine is also acutely aware of, considering she’s been promoted to first flute. The only other flute - a dorky little freshman who despite being the same age as Adaine has somehow never progressed beyond grade 3 standard - is tragic, so Adaine is in charge of her, and by extension the woodwind section, as the singular clarinet and bassoon players have never played for a musical before, so need near-constant help in counting bars and figuring out which section they’re in.

Gorgug is playing percussion for them, but has only ever played the drum kit, so the glockenspiel, timpani and bells parts are stumping him. They’re lacking a trumpet, so the only person playing the fanfares is the sophomore clarinet who still squeaks when she plays any note in the high register. Goldenhoard has to split his attention between playing the piano part, cueing in the different sections, and beating the incredibly complicated complex time that most of the pieces are in. On top of all of that, the band can’t currently rehearse with the singers, so almost all of the pieces sound tuneless, and they have no way of knowing if their timing is right at all.

Adaine would very much like a trumpet, if only to drown out the sound of the second violin’s attempts at Opening Part 4’s tremolo when the band is warming up. However, if Kristen is bad at playing trumpet, she would also very much like to brain her with her own muffler.

“I’ll ask Goldenrod for the music,” Kristen says, voice flat, “but I make no promises.”

The punk girl presses a hand to her heart, swaying on top of her chair. “The play is saved!”

“My regal entrance is saved!” Fabian whoops.

“That’s another chair for the band, then,” someone mutters behind Adaine. She swivels a little in her chair, confident that Mr Porter is focused on the loud teenagers shouting about the fanfares and not her, and squints at the row behind her.

Jocks: incapable of whispering. Gossipy girl draped over jock: not a boy voice. Small boy in a flat cap: Adaine’s only potential suspect.

Him, she does know. He’s Riz Gukgak, son of Captain Sklonda Gukgak, and she’s not to interact with him, ever, no exceptions, Adaine Abernant you will obey me.

Well, maybe Adaine doesn’t want to obey her father. “Are you working on the production too?”

“Yes,” he says, looking mildly surprised. “Too? You don’t really seem the theatre kid type.”

Adaine mimes raising a flute to her lips, immediately hates herself for it, and cracks a terrible smile. “Band.”

Riz nods, thankfully brushing straight past Adaine’s awful awkwardness. “I’m doing set design and props management. Let me tell you, clearly nobody thought about the band when they gave me the designs for the set, because there was nowhere for you to sit until I figured out a space we could give you.”

“Ugh,” Adaine groans. “I believe it. No one seems to think the band is important at all, considering the performers won’t even deign to give up a lunchtime a week to sing while we play so we know when to come in.”

“It makes everyone look bad when you don’t have the cues right,” Riz agrees. “I have a cue sheet for the lighting changes and sound effects - not sure if it’d help with your parts, but I could send you a photo. And do you have a script?”

“No,” Adaine rolls her eyes, “because why would we need one, right?”

The pair of them share a moment of solidarity against the mind-numbing egotism of actors, before Riz pulls out his mobile. “I’ll text you the stuff I have, you text me if there’s anything you come across that could be useful?”

Adaine types her number into Riz’s phone, vaguely aware of Mr Porter trying and failing to quieten the class. “No problem!”

She turns back around in her seat as Mr Porter valiantly returns to his diagram on the whiteboard, mulling over the myriad problems associated with texting Riz, the highest one being that her father does routinely check her phone.

In her pocket, it buzzes with a notification, and Adaine surreptitiously pulls it into her lap to see. It’s a text - from an unknown number, which definitely means Riz - containing nothing more than a smiley face emoji.

She saves the number as “Set design and props management”, realises that it’s entirely too long as a contact name, and renames it “The Ball”, because she’s ninety percent certain that’s a nickname of Riz’s.

Fabian is long gone, the punk girl is back in her seat, and Kristen has gone back to laying her head on the desk in abject boredom, but the thrum of adrenaline still runs through Adaine’s veins.

“I heard that the band finally found a trumpeter,” Aelwyn says, not bothering to turn around, despite the fact that she’s driving and Adaine is in the backseat. “I suppose you might sound slightly more worthy to accompany us now.”

“We’re not accompanists,” Adaine fires back immediately. “It’s a music-al. That means the music is the important thing, not just the singing.”

Aelwyn sighs. “Do you want me to stop the car? It would be such a shame if I had to call in late and tell everyone that the reason I had such trouble getting to school was because of you, Adaine.”

Adaine has a sense of self-preservation, so she shuts up. Aelwyn is stone-cold and actually will turn the car around, because everyone would believe her, that Adaine had poured sugar into the petrol or slashed the tires or whatever lie she decided on. The rest of the journey to school passes in relative silence, as Adaine physically holds herself back from sniping at Aelwyn.

The moment Adaine gets out of the car, though, the noise and bustle of Aguefort hits her hard. It’s always, always difficult, to force herself to join the incredible loud of school in the morning, and Adaine swings her flute case to the side so she can grip onto it while she presses through the throng of people, head down and hair falling in front of her face.

“Hey! Flute girl!” Adaine’s head shoots up, and she sees Kristen of the trumpet, bright and easy to spot in a colourful tie-dye t-shirt. “That’s you, right? Adaine Abernant?”

“Yes,” Adaine says, gripping the strap of her flute case and pressing her back against the wall to try and lean out of the way of the flow of student traffic. Kristen navigates the corridor with less difficulty than Adaine, and joins her against the wall.

“Hey. Goldenrod said you were pretty much leading the woodwind section so I thought I’d ask if you’d help me catch up on what stuff you’ve already done in practice.”

The thick folder containing the flute score sits heavy in Adaine’s bag. In orchestra rehearsals, they have gone through all the openings, Stay With Me, and the curtain music. In Adaine’s rehearsals at home, she has worked through the entire flute score, got the triplet bits in It Takes Two near perfect, and has filled in as many cues as she can from the scans of the script Riz texted over. She’s not entirely sure what she ought to tell Kristen, considering she’s largely ignored the trumpet section.

“I can play you the flute part for you to play the trumpet part along with?” Adaine suggests. “When are you free?”

Kristen blinks blankly at her. “Um, after school, I guess?”

Practising with Kristen after school will mean sacrificing Adaine’s ride with Aelwyn, because there’s no way in hell that Aelwyn would agree to wait after school for her. Adaine does some quick maths in her head - it’s just a little bit too far away to walk safely, considering it’s October and the sun sets about an hour after school finishes, but they do live in a nice neighbourhood. It’ll reflect badly on the whole orchestra if the trumpet sounds terrible. “Yes, I’m free after school.”

“Cool,” Kristen says, slowly starting to smile. “Cool. Okay. I’ll add you on Prayer Chain?”

Adaine has never heard of Prayer Chain. She can feel her breathing start to speed up a little; she averts her eyes from Kristen’s gaze. “What’s Prayer Chain?”

“Oh, it’s a messaging site!” Kristen might sound a little embarrassed? Adaine’s never really sure. “I’ve got a bunch of the other band members’ contacts already cause loads of them get the bus with me but Goldenrod definitely said that you were the one to talk to.”

“Goldenhoard,” Adaine corrects absentmindedly. “That’s kind of him. He gave me detention on my first day but he was actually really nice about it.”

She’s talking way too much, she can feel it, but all Kristen does is raise an eyebrow, and doesn’t call her out on it. “Anyway, my contact is kapplebees. With a K. So yeah.”

“Cool,” Adaine says, inanely.

“Cool.”

For a moment, they just stand staring at each other. Adaine slowly begins to turn, then realises that she and Kristen do actually have homeroom together, and freezes. “We should head to class?”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Kristen says quickly, “hah, homeroom with Daybreak. Yes. A class you are also in.”

“Gotta go… get registered!” Adaine says with forced cheer. “Oh, if you’re collecting production members, then those people from yesterday are in our class, aren’t they?”

Kristen snorts. “Yes, Fabian and Fig are in our homeroom. Do you not… know them?”

“Okay you don’t pay attention in class either, I’ve seen you sleeping,” Adaine says cuttingly. “And I knew Fabian’s name.”

They begin to draw attention, with the way Kristen bursts out laughing, and Adaine has to tug her through the corridor, cheeks blazing red. Daybreak seems pleased to see Kristen when they finally make it through the door, and Adaine slinks off to her seat under the window as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible.

She pulls her phone into the lap of her skirt, and stares out of the window while Prayer Chain finishes downloading. Through her window, she can see to the other side of school, and every flash of blond hair catches her eye. Aelwyn’s own homeroom isn’t even on that side of school, but Adaine’s brain still tricks her into thinking that every blonde is Aelwyn.

Prayer Chain has a stupid logo, when it finally downloads. Adaine has no clue how she’s going to get this one past her father. But she’s in for a penny, in for a pound now when it comes to getting real people’s contacts, so she signs up for a free account, firmly declines to receive emails from them, and looks up kapplebees.

Adaine… would not have guessed how popular the teen forums are on this site. None of them even seem that religious. She shoots Kristen a friend request and within the span of a minute, in which Adaine pretends she’s not refreshing her phone or staring down Kristen, who’s fiddling on her own phone - in full view of Daybreak - her friend request has been accepted and she’s been added to a chain called little red support group.

kapplebees: hi adaine!

the ball: Hi adaine?

abernant2: Hello.

She slips her phone back into her pocket, deliberately doesn’t pay attention to the soft laughter from the direction where she knows Riz is sitting, and tunes into what Daybreak is saying.

Lucky for her! All he’s doing is discussing tactics with Fabian, and from the looks of it, stoically ignoring the buzzing coming from Fabian’s pocket. Buzzing which is disturbingly homophonous with the buzzing from Adaine’s pocket.

If Adaine has been added to a groupchat with Fabian Seacaster, known jock, then she thinks she might hurl.

She dares another look at her phone. Her lock screen is already covered in notifications, and she watches them pop up one by one.

The main perpetrators are: figgypudding (possibly Fig? Who may or may not be the punk girl?), the ball (definitely Riz), kapplebees (already established as Kristen), and as Fabian sits back down and doesn’t even bother with subterfuge, just pulls his phone out - sprogofseacaster.

Adaine drops her head onto her desk.

Kristen, as it turns out, is semi-decent at trumpeting. Adaine had heard that she hadn’t played in a few years and had nearly had a panic attack at the thought of Aelwyn hearing a band that was anything less than perfect, but as Adaine plays the flute part and Kristen soldiers valiantly on, Kristen improves.

The trumpet fanfare is very difficult, Adaine isn’t going to claim otherwise, and seems to be the part that Kristen is getting stuck on. By the time they make it to Cinderella At The Grave - where the trumpet fanfare is played exactly the same as before, but rubato - Kristen is bright red and looks worn out.

It’s also, Adaine notices, almost an hour and a half after school finished. The sun has set, Adaine didn’t bring a coat to school this morning because she was rushing out of the door, and she doesn’t really have a way to get home.

“Do you want to try a different part?” Adaine asks, mind occupied with her travel dilemma as she flips through the score, photocopied from the original, which had been liberated somewhat illegitimately from Goldenhoard’s office by Riz at lunchtime. “Hello, Little Girl has a good trumpet bit I think.”

There’s silence from Kristen, so Adaine looks up. Instead of standing by the music stand with her trumpet ready, Kristen is standing by the window, frowning at the paltry illumination provided by the streetlights.

“Is everything okay?” Adaine asks, checking her watch again. She’s stayed at school far longer than this before, so she knows it’s allowed, but Kristen might not know that. “We can stay here for as long as we need.”

“Nah, I need to get home, I usually help with dinner,” Kristen says. “Fig’s mom normally takes us both home cause my place is on the way to hers, and Fig’s band practice ended half an hour ago, so I don’t know where she is.”

“Wouldn’t she have gone home already?” Adaine asks. That’s what Aelwyn normally does. It’s a kindness for Fig’s mother to offer Kristen a lift, it only makes sense that if Fig needed to get home earlier, that’s what Fig’s mother would do.

Kristen frowns again. “No, she’s probably just waiting somewhere else. She wouldn’t leave me with no ride home, it’s cold out. And dark.”

“Oh,” Adaine says. Somehow, she’s not surprised that a friend of Kristen’s is nicer than Adaine’s own sister. “Right! Then… we should pack up and then you should find Fig.”

“Sure,” Kristen says gratefully. “Hey, how are you getting home?”

Adaine’s bent over to meticulously clean and polish her flute, so Kristen definitely can’t see her wince. “Walking probably. I don’t think there’s a bus going to my house at this time.”

“What?”

Her hands still, and Adaine realises that they’re shaking. She quickly puts her headjoint down into the case, and resolves to polish the pieces when she gets home. “What?”

Kristen walks over to lay a hand on Adaine’s case. “Hey, Adaine, I can ask Fig’s mom if she can take you home too. I’m sure she’d be fine with it.”

“No, I live over in Clearbrook,” Adaine insists. “It would be out of her way. I really don’t want to be an imposition.”

“Let me at least ask,” Kristen says stubbornly. Adaine pulls the strap of her case over her neck, feeling a flush creep up her neck. Kristen’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out, accepting the call. “Hey, sorry, I’m- oh, hey Fig! Yeah, I’m in the music block with Adaine. Abernant. Listen, can your mom drop her home too? She lives in Clearbrook.”

While Kristen listens to whatever Fig’s saying, Adaine gathers up her score and flute part, shoving them carelessly into her school bag. She has plenty of papers unbound in there that are probably getting squished, but right now she can’t really bring herself to care. Her hands are still trembling.

“Fig says we can drop you off too,” Kristen relays, giving Adaine a half-smile. “Yeah, thanks. Bye. See you soon.”

“I really-” is all Adaine has time to say, before the door slams open and Fig appears in the doorway, appearing in as dramatic a fashion as Fabian the day before. Adaine startles, dropping the music stand she’d been holding, and it clatters loudly.

“I have arrived,” Fig declares, smoke rolling from a lit cigarette in her hand. Adaine is immediately wary of getting in an enclosed space with her. “Adaine Abernant! Whereabouts in Clearbrook do you live?”

Adaine, surprised to be directly addressed, stutters while she fumbles with the dropped stand. “Um, just past Oakshield Middle. Right at the north of Clearbrook, I guess, but still sort of suburban, not rural yet.”

Fig tilts her head, making the fluorescent lighting of the music block play over her ear piercings. “Near Ostentatia’s house?”

“Just by it,” Adaine promises. “Is that alright? I really can just walk, I don’t want to put you out.”

“Nah,” Fig drawls, “I’ve been meaning to visit Gilear anyway, I’ll ask my mom to drop me off at his place instead of home.”

Despite it clearly being time to leave now, Adaine stands stock still, running frantic mental calculations. Is Gilear a boyfriend? Do people Adaine’s age have boyfriends? Who else could it possibly be? But why is Fig’s mom going to be okay with Fig staying somewhere else when it’s a school night?

“Dude, won’t your mom be mad you’re going to his place? He doesn’t have custody, right?”

And Kristen has filled her in. Gilear is Fig’s father. Fine. Totally fine. Fig just laughs. “We both agree he needs some support this time. And besides, I haven’t seen my oyster in ages!”

Adaine hadn’t actually thought that Fig and Kristen were very close friends, but she supposes carpooling for more than half a term would force normal people to be on friendly terms. “Let’s go,” Adaine says, cutting into the burgeoning argument, seemingly over Fig’s pet oyster.

“My mom is waiting in the carpark. She’s super nice,” Fig promises, “plus your flute is tiny, she’ll be glad it’s not an instrument the size of mine.”

“Oh, you play an instrument!” Adaine exclaims, gripping her case strap as the three of them head towards the car park. “Why aren’t you in the band?”

Fig pulls a face, and Kristen groans. “C’mon, Fig, don’t start this again.”

“It’s just stupid that they don’t think a bass would be a good addition to the orchestra!” Fig yells, voice echoing against the brick walls. “I signed up to act instead, since they wouldn’t write a part for me. I’m playing Little Red Riding Hood.”

Adaine’s fingers automatically twitch into the high high F fingering of the screechy part in Hello, Little Girl. Little Red actually doesn’t have songs that are too difficult to play - after the triplet runs and the ridiculous compound time that some of the other songs offer, Little Red and the Wolf are walks in the park when it comes to the flute part. 12/8 is a dream - it’s just counting in four - when it compares to trying to count in two for the 6/8 section in A Very Nice Prince or On The Steps Of The Palace. It’s a bit of an odd compliment, though, so Adaine stays quiet.

“Who’s playing the Wolf?” Kristen asks, swinging her trumpet case by her side. Adaine has to side-step a little to avoid getting whacked with it, but doesn’t say anything.

Fig sighs dramatically. “Well, when I heard Fabian was auditioning, I was hoping he’d get the Wolf - I’ve heard that he’s a hit in drama soc, and he seemed pretty competent when we read together. But he’s ended up as Rapunzel’s Prince which is fine, I guess, so I’m stuck with some guy called Zayn as the Wolf.”

“Wait, tall goth with a pet rat?” Kristen asks, suddenly insistent. Adaine looks up from where she was staring fixedly on the road markings, surprised by Kristen’s intensity.

“Yeah, why?”

Kristen sighs, aggravated. “He’s my neighbour. My parents hate him a lot.”

“Ouch,” Fig laughs, not sounding sorry at all. “Here, my mom’s waiting.”

Together, they load up Fig’s mom’s boot and all pile into the backseat. Kristen, shoved into the middle seat, snorts and shoves at Fig. “Why didn’t you call shotgun?”

“We’re hanging out!” Fig proudly proclaims, reaching over to ruffle Adaine’s hair. Adaine swiftly fixes it, running a hand through her bangs. “But if you’re too squished I can move.”

“Thank you for offering me a lift,” Adaine says over their bickering, offering Fig’s mom a small smile. “It’s very kind of you and I’m sorry to be an imposition.”

“Adaine, please, this is getting tragic,” Fig moans. “It’s not a problem at all. Hey. I really have no problems dropping you off at your house especially since you and Kristen are working to make our singing sound good. Are you planning on staying late anytime else?”

In all honesty, it was surprisingly nice to rehearse with Kristen instead of at home. Rather than her parents sniping about her intonation, her sound, or even just her rate of progression, she got to actually practise with somebody - and somebody who kept stopping to tell Adaine how good she thought she was.

So Adaine pauses before telling Fig the truth. “Yes, probably. It was surprisingly fun. But rest assured I can make my own way home - while this is a kindness I don’t resent, it’s unnecessary with any frequency.”

“Honey, just give Fig your number,” Fig’s mom sighs. “Text her when you need a ride, okay? Any time.”

And who is Adaine to directly disobey an authority figure? She silently types her number into Fig’s phone, and then sits on her hands to try and stop them from shaking.

“Now we’re friends,” Fig declares. “No take backs.”

When they reach the Abernant house, Adaine is reluctant to leave the warmth and chatter of the car, but she does so anyway. Compared to the buzz from the Faeths and Kristen, her house is a mausoleum.

“You’ve got to give me your number so I know when you don’t have anyone to sit with,” Gorgug sighs, “Fig and Kristen are coming over.”

“That’s kind,” Adaine says, blinking. “Why?”

Gorgug sets his handmade lunchbox down on the table, sliding onto the bench next to her. “I thought you guys were friends now? It was all Fig was talking about in the car this morning.”

Adaine’s head hurts from the bright, loud lights in the cafeteria. Lunch Lady Doreen always gives her dirty looks when she stumbles over her words while ordering. Her parents were particularly snappy yesterday about her getting in later than Aelwyn, and she has a maths test last period. She is not going to try and parse Fig’s commute right now.

“I thought Fig shared rides with Kristen,” Adaine mumbles. She’s saved from Gorgug having to answer by someone else slamming their backpack onto the table. Unsurprisingly, it’s Fig - who does nothing but laugh at Adaine, the traitor.

“You know I spent last night with Gilear,” she says. Adaine doesn’t look up, but she can hear the eye roll. “Gorgug lives right next door to Strongtower. Gilear doesn’t have a car, so Digby dropped me off with Gorgug.”

If Ostentatia Wallace’s father offered to drop Adaine off at Aguefort, her father would probably take it as a deathly insult to Aelwyn’s driving or his own capability. A lifetime of snubs at dinner parties is likely. A blood feud isn’t even out of the realm of possibility.

How are these people such close friends already? Maybe this is normal. Maybe Adaine is the weird one.

The next time she bothers tuning into the conversation, looking up from her whole grain crackers, Kristen is sitting next to Fig, across from Gorgug. Adaine has missed a whole entire conversation but as she catches Fig’s impassioned argument about the merits of yoghurt’s texture, she decides that she’s glad about it. In fact, she’s almost about to chip in with her own scathing opinion on yoghurt when she hears heavy boots approaching the table.

“Milky White is dead,” Riz declares, with all the defeated gravity of a sacked president. Having been given a scan of the script, Adaine is aware that this is one of Jack’s lines. Presumably, Riz has once again been confused for Biz, who’s actually playing Jack. “Decapitated, in fact.”

That, however, is not one of Jack’s lines. “I didn’t know we had a Milky White,” Adaine says. “I feel like that probably constitutes animal cruelty?”

Riz rolls his eyes emphatically. “Milky White is the hardest actor to work with on set. So far a list of Milky White’s problems have included: stuffing falling out despite being secured with duct tape, ears falling off despite being secured with duct tape, udders being secured to the wrong place and not coming off to be fixed due to the aforementioned duct tape, and now the head is missing.”

What most impresses Adaine about Riz’s entire demeanour is that he can enunciate colons. “I commiserate,” she says, and pats his hand. “Is this social interaction now complete?”

“No,” Riz says, and Adaine would almost be tempted to label his expression a pout. “You and Kristen were the last people to be in the music block. I checked on the props like I normally do when I got in this morning, and her head was gone. Thus as an _unlicensed private detective, you two are my main suspects.”

He can also enunciate subscripts, apparently. Adaine can see a career as an orator in his future.

“Dude, we were in a practice room,” Kristen says, “so first off we didn’t see anyone. And secondly what the hell? We didn’t take your cow.”

Adaine can clearly see Riz holding back from saying something quite rude and she nearly laughs. “The cow head,” he gets out, teeth gritted. “I didn’t really think you two had anything to do with it, actually, but I was hoping you’d have a little more evidence for me.”

Kristen has the grace to look mildly apologetic. “It probably just got put down in the wrong place. Who’s the one handling Milky White?”

“Me,” Riz snaps. “I’ll be on stage making a disconnected head and wooden frame covered in white tulle look like a moving cow and unfortunately, that’s just not going to work if there’s no head. And I assure you, I know exactly where I’m supposed to put it.”

“The Director,” Fig announces, voice dripping with disdain. “I’ll bet you anything Mr Pepper moved it.”

Riz’s face morphs into a mask of pure hatred for a moment, long enough for Adaine to decide that she probably really doesn’t like Mr Pepper, but it’s gone in a flash, and Riz is back to his normal unflappable equilibrium. “People shouldn’t touch props that aren’t theirs.”

Adaine mentally agrees. Incredibly firmly. If someone were to so much as touch her flute without her say-so, she’d hit them. She’s sometimes so glad that the orchestra rehearses away from the actors, because she’s certain that they wouldn’t respect the sanctity of a performer’s instrument. “Do you want to go look for it? I’m done with lunch.”

“Number first,” Gorgug says quickly, and Adaine doesn’t miss the dubious look he shoots towards the remnants of her crackers. She types her number into his phone, and tolerates his squeezing her hand with a disturbing squeeze in her chest.

“Let’s investigate,” Riz says, with a disturbingly enthusiastic glint in his eye. “And so help me God, we will find her head.”

“I can look in the practice and prop rooms, you look in the theatre and costume cupboard?” Adaine asks tentatively when they get to the music block, and Riz nods firmly, spinning on his heel towards the heavy double doors of the theatre. Adaine stands immobile for a moment, held in time and silent space, before she turns in the direction of the first practice room.

To no one’s surprise, it’s not too long before Adaine’s phone buzzes.

The Ball: I found it in the costume cupboard next to jack’s waistcoat and the beans

The Ball: Where are you?

Adaine: I’m in the prop room. Are the mic packs supposed to be in here rather than the tech booth or have they also been misplaced?

The Ball: Misplaced

So when Riz gets into the prop room, cow head complete with bulbous eyes and fragile ears under his arm, Adaine’s already gathered up all twelve mic packs and the mic sheet, and is prepared to walk them over to the tech booth. However, rather than thanking her and leaving her to the task, Riz bundles up half of the mic packs himself, making the unwieldy load quite a bit easier for Adaine to carry.

“Thank you,” Adaine says while Riz inspects mic #11, the one reserved for Biz as Jack. “I just wanted to make sure they were put back in the right place.”

“Thank you,” Riz says. Despite the fact that he doesn’t look up from where he’s investigating the elastic waistband attached to the mic pack, Adaine can hear the genuine care in his voice. “Hey, do you have the door code for the theatre? It might be good for you to have if you ever want to rehearse with the right acoustics. Set’s nearly all up, so no worries there, just remember that the blackout curtains will be closed when we do the show, so they’ll alter the sound a bit.”

It’s so thoughtful - Riz is so thoughtful, Adaine is constantly forgetting that he isn’t a musician himself. “That would be lovely, thank you so much.”

Riz looks up to her, assessing her with a critical eye. “The code is 4691, but actually would you mind if I sat in on a rehearsal? Run through lighting cues, time them with the music? And actually keep you company?”

“That would… also be lovely,” Adaine says, painfully aware of how hard she’s blushing. “Really lovely. I’ll get Kristen to rehearse some more. And Gorgug! We still haven’t nailed the first two bars of I Guess This Is Goodbye, and it might be useful to have a smaller rehearsal group while he tries to get it down.”

“I Guess This Is Goodbye,” Riz mutters, scrunching his eyes shut as if he’s running through the script in his head. “Oh, I’m on stage for that bit, Skrank’ll be running lights when I’m doing Milky White. Still, I should probably annotate the cue sheet for him. That all sounds great, Adaine, when do you want to run it?”

Seeing as she’s just managed to rope Kristen and Gorgug into their impromptu rehearsal, Adaine fishes out her phone and opens up the Prayer Chain app - one she really hasn’t had cause to use yet.

Kristen has added her to a group that currently consists of Kristen, Adaine, Fig, Gorgug, and Riz, entitled ‘Performers Against Actors’ Stupidity’, and so Adaine just fires off a message on there, asking about availability for a rehearsal with just them.

Fig comes back enthusiastically saying that they’re all free after school, and then Kristen says that seeing how late they’ll be her mom will be free to drop them all off in her minivan, and then Gorgug starts asking who Riz is, and eventually Adaine just switches her phone off to avoid dealing with it.

“After school today,” she says firmly. “But right now we should get to homeroom.”

The day drags on, but when Adaine walks into the theatre after last period with her flute case over her shoulder, time begins to fly.

Gorgug’s skills on the timpani have increased by leaps and bounds. Fig doesn’t hesitate to sing along to any of the songs, so they finally have an actual tune to rehearse alongside. Riz runs lighting until they need someone to practise dropping the beans to nail the timing of I Guess This Is Goodbye, and then to time the fanfares that precede Agony, and soon enough Riz and Fig are blocking the entire show for them. Kristen finally cracks the fanfare - quickly and slowed down, for Cinderella at the Grave - and tackles the rest of the score with a newfound determination.

Adaine has the most fun she’s ever had playing her flute, and starts to believe that she genuinely has friends.

The door to Adaine’s room slams open, bouncing off the wall with a disturbing crack. “We need to practise making out,” calls an imperious voice.

Does Fabian have a habit of entering rooms like this? Adaine is beginning to think he must. Also there is no reason at all for them to practise making out. “There is no reason at all for us to practise making out,” she tells him.

“Oh,” he says, sounding disappointed. “You’re not Aelwyn.”

Adaine is jumping off her bed and lunging at him before she realises what she’s doing. “Ew! Why do you need to kiss my sister!”

She’s dimly aware that her voice is possibly a little shriller, a little louder than it should be, for being a) inside and b) at her house while her parents are home. Fabian winces, holding his hands out in a gesture that’s maybe supposed to be pacifying, but just looks condescending.

“For the play,” he whines. “I’m playing her prince, and Mr Pepper keeps complaining that we don’t have enough chemistry in Finale Part 1 when we reunite, so we need to practise making out.”

“You categorically do not,” Adaine says. “In fact, what you need to practise is your baritone in Agony, because Cinderella’s Prince is really showing you up, and he’s being played by Dayne, who is thicker than a plank of wood. If you need vocal coaching, please ask someone like Fig before you ask Goldenhoard; he has enough on his plate with the orchestra’s failures.”

She slams the door in his face, realises what she’s just said, and sinks to the floor, eyes blown wide and breath stuck somewhere on its way out.

Maybe this is what a heart attack feels like, but the impending sense of doom of Fabian Seacaster running off to tell on Adaine to his very rich and important dad is a terrible garnish to add on top of what is quite possibly a myocardial infarction.

Rather than hearing the delightful sound of Fabian screeching at a parent, Adaine just hears a snort, and her door crack open an inch.

“Adaine,” Fabian says, sounding both amused and put-upon, “you wound me. I am far superior to Dayne. I don’t know what drivel Fig has been telling you about my singing skills but I assure you, she’s exaggerating for dramatic effect-”

“It wasn’t Fig, actually,” Adaine says, getting up off the floor and trying to look dignified. “But I’m not a narc so I’m not going to tell you who told me that you sing like a wounded squirrel.”

Fabian’s eyes narrow. “The Ball.”

“No,” Adaine says unconvincingly. She can hear the waver in her voice, even to her own ears. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Fabian echoes, rolling his eyes. “I had been planning on asking Fig to help me practise, actually. Anyway, seeing as you’re here, I ought to ask you about Kristen’s trumpeting-”

“It’s coming along,” Adaine says quickly, “she’s actually getting really good, she’s a lot better than she was when she started. Just because she’s not perfect yet doesn’t mean she isn’t trying really hard.”

Rather than brush her off, or laugh derisively, Fabian just shrugs. “We can’t all be as perfect as me, Adaine. So long as she sounds worthy to announce my presence, I can’t complain.”

Adaine nods stiffly. “Well. She does. She’s very good.”

“Good.”

From downstairs, Adaine can hear the muffled sounds of her parents fighting over something. The only words she can really make out are “Highcourt” and “goblin”, but even from that she can tell that they’re arguing over the investigation again. Adaine compulsively pats her pocket, reassuring herself that her phone is still there. Her father still hasn’t figured out that she’s routinely hanging out with the son of the woman who’s investigating him and his daughter - he’d have to actually care about Adaine to work that out, and he clearly doesn’t. Although if he insults Sklonda one more time in Adaine’s earshot, she’s going to make him start caring about what she has to say.

“Have you practised with the music yet?” Adaine asks, almost absentmindedly. Aelwyn’s in the house, so she hasn’t started practising the curtain music even though that’s the next one on her list, and she’s getting antsier the longer she goes without making sure that her playing is perfect.

Fabian is a lot softer, a lot kinder than Adaine is used to seeing at school. In fairness, she’s a lot more neurotic at home than he’s probably used to seeing, too. “Well, I’ve practised with the backing track, but it’s been terribly edited to be within the realm of useful for the school version. It’s not worthy for a toddler to listen to, let alone myself.”

If all Fabian has to practise with is one of the awfully edited “backing tracks” the school has provided, Adaine doesn’t blame him for singing like a wounded squirrel. She’s still not entirely sure on how the others feel about Fabian - Riz has whined about his singing before, but they discuss each other far too much to not be friends - but she’s fairly sure that they’re not the kind of people to exclude someone who needs their help.

“Rehearse with us,” Adaine says, looking up at the way Fabian holds himself aloof from everyone else, the way he stands like he has something to prove. It’s like looking in a terribly distorted mirror, but for the fact that Adaine stands in a shadow, while Fabian has to shine with light of his own. “I’ve been working on the music with Kristen and Gorgug, and Fig and Riz have been helping us. It’s actually quite good practice despite being fun? I’m sure no-one would begrudge you joining in. It’s really in our best interest for you to be good,” she tacks on hastily at the end, just in case he thinks she’s trying to flirt or something.

“That sounds…” Adaine holds her breath, waiting for awful or beneath me or ridiculous, and instead hears “wonderful. I shall grace you with my presence, uh…”

Adaine nearly twists her ankle in her haste to thrust her phone towards Fabian. “We’ll probably end up practising again tomorrow night considering no-one other than me seems to ever have any homework-” she says, a little cross.

“-oh, they do get given homework, they just never do it,” Fabian cuts in.

“Well!” Adaine says, huffing. “Well. Anyway, like-I-said we’ll probably end up practising tomorrow night, but nothing is a certainty when dealing with the theatrical, so if you put your number into my phone I can let you know when we’re rehearsing. I don’t think it would be ethical to add you to the ‘Performers Against Actors’ Stupidity’ group, you see, considering you’re a stupid actor.”

Fabian snorts. “I’m brimming with joy,” he says. “Listen, Adaine, my mother’s allowing me to host a bit of a bash in a few weeks’ time - a sort of celebration, shall we say, not quite an after-party, but in that sort of genre - just to mark the end of the show and all that. Now I’ve not quite reached the stage of issuing invitations yet - but do you think a show of my goodwill and a gold-plated invite a-piece would be enough to prove me as a little more than a stupid actor?”

“Stop trying to make out with my sister,” Adaine says immediately.

Just as prompt, Fabian nods curtly. “Done.”

Adaine smiles to herself as Fabian passes her phone back to her. He’s labelled his contact as ‘Fabian Aramais S-C’, which means Adaine doesn’t even need to change anything because that’s perfect.

Somewhat reluctantly, she opens Prayer Chain (-Adaine, did we raise you like a commoner? Is there something attractive in following the masses in a mindless, ridiculous fairytale? What has God given you? We have put a roof over your head, food on your plate… you would rather respect a bedtime story than your own parents?-) and adds Fabian’s account to their little group.

figgypudding: wtf adaine he cant sing whats he doing hereeee

the ball: Fabian’s already on the main chain for the production

abernant2: I offered for us to help him rehearse; he needs the practice. I think he’s alright.

Amused, Fabian pulls his own phone out of his pocket. “Oh, I’m alright, am I?”

sprogofseacaster: Fear not! I have a bribe to secure my entry!

As Fabian explains his party idea and the chat starts flooding with requests to disinvite certain members of the cast (“NO ZAYN”, from Kristen, “no dayneee” from Fig, and “Absolutely under no circumstances can you invite Biz” from poor Riz), Adaine slips her phone into her pocket and reaches onto her bed for her flute.

“I can’t really run Agony with you myself,” she says, apology colouring her voice, “because the flutes only get little sections here and there, but Riz nicked the score off Vice-Principal Goldenhoard, so I can switch between violin, clarinet, and flute, while Kristen plays trumpet. That might be easier?”

Fabian looks mildly impressed, something Adaine’s not used to seeing on him. “You can transpose clarinet music in your head?”

Adaine shrugs. “I’m really not great at solo playing, so I needed to find something to be good at,” she explains. “I’m first flute, and our violins suck, so that sort of makes me leader of the orchestra. Ish. Which means ensemble playing needs to be my top priority. And also means I need to be able to help out my section. So yeah, in a pinch I can play the clarinet part.”

“You’re a better flautist than I’ve been hearing,” Fabian declares loudly. Adaine beams, for once not caring about what her family thinks of her. Fabian’s praise is another axe chipping at her icy cold impression of herself, joining Gorgug and Riz and Kristen and Fig. “I’m glad you’re our first flute.”

Raising her flute to her lips, Adaine lets it sing out the flute part of The Potion Part II. Fabian recognises the tune, jumping in with the Baker’s words. “The cow as white as milk, the cape as red as blood, the hair as yellow as corn, the slipper as pure as gold!”

Eyebrow raised, Adaine lowers her flute. “Why are you Rapunzel’s Prince and not the Baker?”

Fabian sighs. “The problem is that I’m a tenor really, not a baritone or a bass - I would have made a far better Baker than Rapunzel’s Prince. But no, they had enough tenors, they needed someone to fill a baritone part.”

“The Director,” Adaine mutters under her breath. “Oh well. At least it’s not your fault. Come along tomorrow, you can play the Wolf for Fig and that’ll make her like you more.”

“I can hardly hold back my excitement,” Fabian says - the words are sarcastic, but he’s still smiling. He raises a hand, as if saying goodbye without actually saying it, and flounces out of Adaine’s room.

Later, as she’s lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, her phone buzzes on the bedside table.

Fabian Aramais S-C: Goodnight, Adaine!

Adaine: Goodnight, Fabian.

It seems like Adaine’s been working on the show all her life. When she wakes up in the mornings, her fingers are playing the triplet runs without her. When she tries to play a normal piece, written in a nice normal ¾ time, she realises she’s counting three quavers to a beat instead of two. Even when she has her head to the ground, headphones clamped firmly over her ears, and the world is screaming around her, she finds herself humming the tune to Rapunzel.

Rapunzel - number 14 - is the best part of the show, in Adaine’s opinion. There are no triplet runs, no stupid time signatures, and better yet, the singing is only over the clarinet section. The only thing stopping Rapunzel from being a flute solo is the Narrator’s lines at the beginning, and then Fabian’s lines at the end. Adaine plays it perfectly and she plays it very loud and she gives it the care it deserves and it’s the best part of the show.

Fabian talks a little too loudly for it to be perfect, but other than that, it’s Adaine’s favourite part. She can just relax and play perfectly and enjoy the (metaphorical) spotlight.

It seems like Adaine’s been working on the show all her life, so as the days crawl closer to show week, she begins to worry - or at least, to worry more than usual.

“What are we going to do when the show’s over?” Adaine asks Fig one lunch time, fingers trembling in her lap. Her crackers lie untouched on the table in front of her.

Fig tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Rather than Adaine having to reply, Gorgug reaches over to lay a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Adaine, you know how Fabian renamed the groupchat to ‘Intrepid Heroes’ instead of the old name?”

She does indeed. The six of them had broken into the theatre late at night last Saturday - a few of them had been drunk, not naming names but it was Kristen, Fig and Fabian - and they had all been giggling the entire time, having a wonderful adventure. Fig had kept calling them questers and Riz had said it was a stupid name and if anything they were all rogues because they were sneaking and then Gorgug decided they were all heroes instead. Fabian had been delighted and they had woken up the next morning with a new name for the groupchat.

“Yes,” she says, reaching out to nibble at the corner of one of her crackers. She feels a little ill and she really doesn’t want to be eating, but Gorgug gives her a disappointed look whenever she skips meals, so she tries to eat something for lunch to avoid him being upset with her.

“Well, that means the groupchat is for us as friends, rather than performers, right?”

“Right.”

The lunch hall is always pretty busy - despite Lunch Lady Doreen’s evil eye, even she can’t corral the entire student body - but on their table, it seems quiet.

Gorgug smiles at Adaine. “That means we’re going to stay friends and always be friends, even after the performance.”

Adaine sits straighter in her seat, surprised to find that while she’s been absentminded, she’s finished her cracker. Win for autopilot. “So we’ll still eat lunch together and muck around in the theatre and sing off-key when no one’s listening?”

“Promise,” Gorgug says, knocking their knees together. “And I promise to stop singing if anyone ever does try to listen, ‘cause God knows I can’t sing on-key to save my life.”

“I make no such promise,” Kristen chips in. Her hair is gleaming red under the cafeteria lights, making her head look wreathed in fire. “I’m dedicated to being consistently flat. You’re going to cry every day for the rest of your life listening to me bothering you with my flat singing.”

Riz bumps shoulders with Adaine. “I’ll actually learn Giants In The Sky to sing for you.”

“I’ll make a bass part for the whole show to play with you!”

“You’re never getting rid of us,” Gorgug says plainly. “Unfortunately.”

Fabian bristles. “I’ll show you unfortunate, you-”

As the table devolves into brawling, Adaine makes eye contact with Fig, who’s looking at her with something inscrutable in her gaze. Fig is - honestly, Adaine doesn’t know why Fig hangs out with them, she’s so cool. Her fingertips are calloused in ways Adaine’s never will be, but there’s a certain strings/wind enmity that they seem to have skipped right over. In the same way that Adaine reigns over the high register, living in ledger lines and floating over the rest of the band, Fig rules below. She’s the queen of hell - that is, bass clef - and if Adaine is the tremulous, terrified top line, Fig is the foundation. She’s the support that all of them work off, the one holding down the fort.

“Stuck with us,” Fig repeats, under the noise of the others. “Yeah? After the show, that just means we have more free time to do whatever we want. Who knows, you might even rope some of us into doing our homework once or twice.”

“All the time,” Adaine fires back. “I can’t be friends with delinquents, you know.”

Fig pulls a face, her eyes crossed and squinty. “Didn’t I hear from Kristen that Goldenrod gave you detention literally on your first day?”

Adaine shoves her. “Shut up! And it’s Goldenhoard, dammit!”

Monday is tech. Tuesday is the dress. Wednesday afternoon, and then Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evening is the show, leaving Friday night for Fabian’s afterparty - which, after all of their guest requests, has been whittled down to just the six of them - and the weekend for recuperating and catching up on some much-needed sleep.

Monday comes sooner than Adaine could ever have expected. The band has to jump around songs, playing Opening Part 4 about a million times to get the witch’s lighting right, but skipping right over the majority of I Know Things Now because Fig is pretty good at knowing where she’s going. Adaine can’t see Riz or Skrank from her chair unless Riz is onstage puppetting Milky White, but she can sense their mounting frustration as the rehearsal drags longer and Riz is still having to yell for scenes to be rerun to get lighting or sound cues perfect. It’s almost painful how long The Potion Part II takes to get right - Ostentatia, as the Witch, is in costume to practise her quick change, and it’s nearly bringing both her and the Director to tears - it just won’t go right.

Adaine’s tiny little area is clear - her folder is open on her stand, her pencil perfectly sharpened, her hair tied back to keep it out of her face. Unfortunately, it also has the double effect of showing off her pointy ears, but no-one’s looking at the band. No-one’s staring at her, judging her, laughing at her. Adaine is in her element. Her case is under her seat - the rest of the band has snacks tucked under their chairs, but Adaine physically flinches at the thought of playing her flute with sugar in her mouth - and her water bottle is tucked neatly out of the way by her stand.

The music stand lights keep blowing out, but Adaine’s has been working fine all day. Whether it’s luck or the hasty, embarrassed prayer Kristen said over it, Adaine’s grateful - the lighting changes would have made it hell to try and read her music without a steady light, and although she mostly has the flute part memorised, she needs to be able to see her cues.

When tech finally - finally - ends, and the Director, Goldenhoard, and Riz’s team are all satisfied, the performers are all allowed to leave and make their way home. Adaine gets into Kristen’s mom’s minivan, along with all the others, and they celebrate the hell of tech with a sleepover. It’s allegedly a movie night - Fig suggests Magic Mike and grins salaciously until Kristen reminds them that her parents are very, very Christian, and her little brothers are home. Gorgug picks out the Princess Bride for them to watch, and it turns out it’s a good thing that all of them have seen it before - because despite the smell of burnt popcorn, the blaring volume, and the undeniable thrill of companionship, all of them are asleep before Westley and Buttercup enter the Fire Swamp.

Tuesday dawns with thunder and calamity. No sooner has Adaine walked through the doors of Aguefort Academy - head down, headphones on, flute case tucked into her side - than she’s whisked away by a very antsy Goldenhoard.

“No time to assemble the whole band,” he says anxiously, “but I’ve found you and Miss Applebees - I’ve pulled you out of your morning lessons for an emergency rehearsal.”

Adaine’s soul falls out of her body and falls, crumpled, to the floor. “Are we doing something wrong?”

“What? No. No.”

Adaine’s soul miraculously returns to her body, kick starting her heart. She starts breathing again. “Oh! Wonderful. What’s the emergency rehearsal for, then?”

Goldenhoard steps aside, letting Adaine walk further into the staff room. Looking very sorry for himself, Carie Zatrial is sitting on a sofa, swollen ankle propped up on a coffee table.

“Oh, no,” Adaine says slowly. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It’s a really rainy day!” Carie defends himself, crossing his arms. “It’s not my fault! Our house has a step and it was really wet and slippery… I don’t think I can be the Baker like this,” he says. Adaine’s a little worried he’s going to cry.

Kristen sticks her head around the corner. She’s holding a steaming mug of what is presumably coffee - Adaine thinks she’s probably going to need it. “One of Riz’s set boys, Hargis, is filling in-”

“-oh God no no Hargis is not the Baker-”

“-for Fabian,” Kristen finishes, and Adaine shuts her mouth abruptly.

“Sorry,” she says, “for Fabian?”

As if summoned, Fabian bursts through the doors of the staff room. Goldenhoard pinches the bridge of his nose. “Feast your eyes upon your Baker,” he declares loudly, flapping a hand at Carie. “With apologies to the artist formerly known as the Baker.”

“So we have to do an emergency rehearsal to catch Fabian up on the part of the Baker, and catch Hargis up on the part of Rapunzel’s Prince,” Adaine surmises, nodding sharply. “Oh, oh, oh, no one tell Aelwyn, I want to be there to see her face when she realises she has to stage-kiss Hargis.”

Carie pouts. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Hargis! He’s hot and vulnerable.”

Adaine waves a pacifying hand in his direction. “Look, I know that. But she’s going to freak, it’ll be perfect.” A thought occurs to her, and she has to sit down suddenly. “Someone please tell me we’re not going to have to do a rerun of tech. Please.”

“It’s chill,” Kristen says, sipping at her mug. “Hargis desperately wanted a part, he’s been watching obsessively since the very first rehearsal. He’s all good to fill in, hardly needs any help. Singing’s a little harder, though, so. C’mon, grab your flute, Fabian’s got a bunch of songs to go through, and we need you and your freaky score-playing skills.”

“Not It Takes Two,” Adaine moans, but acquiesces, getting to her feet and beginning to unzip her flute case. “Ugh, Fabian, you’d better appreciate this.”

As the school day starts without them, teachers keep entering the staff room, milling around while trying not to look like they’re listening, and leaving with backwards glances thrown at their strange assembly. Adaine has the real, official score spread out, brows furrowed in concentration as she skips from violin to flute to piano back to flute. She only dips into clarinet when she feels she absolutely has to, because she can transpose on the fly - and it’s easier because she knows the pieces - but that doesn’t mean she likes to. Kristen is using the coffee maker as an impromptu music stand and keeps having to move to let various staff use it. Fabian is standing in the centre of the room and belting his little heart out, and he sounds so much better as the Baker than as Rapunzel’s Prince. Hargis and Carie are curled up on the sofa together, until Hargis has to get up for Agony, and he wows them all with a genuinely lovely singing voice.

By the time recess rolls around, they’re actually sounding pretty good. Goldenhoard dismisses them somewhat reluctantly, and Adaine has to go back to class for all of three hours, restless and antsy the entire time.

“Dude, is Fabian serious about being the Baker?” Riz hisses in her ear as he catches her on the way to lunch. “Because that’s his dream part. Like, all his dreams are coming true.”

“He’s serious,” Adaine says, and explains the situation.

Riz sucks a breath in through his teeth. “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to leave us with one less stagehand,” he groans. “Hargis is the strongest one backstage, he’s been so useful in moving set around. I don’t know what we’re going to do without him.”

When he bemoans his loss over lunch, Fig brightens. “Hey, if you need someone strong to move props around, I can always ring up Jawbone!”

“No,” Riz says immediately. “Jawbone is a random adult you’ve met like, twice. We are not bringing Jawbone into school and asking him to be a stagehand. There are safeguarding implications. We can’t pay him. He is, and I cannot stress this enough, a random man and you have no connection to him whatsoever. You know what, go ahead and ask! There is no way he’ll say yes.”

The dress rehearsal goes awfully. Set gets left onstage, Biz loses the beans, Milky White’s udders - a stuffed pink plastic glove - fall off again, and it turns out that “Rapunzel’s hair” is actually just a plaited rope. Aelwyn throws a fit, backed up by her little posse.

“You can’t expect Aelwyn to seriously wear that,” Penelope Everpetal whines, tossing her own plait over her shoulder. She’s only wearing one shoe - the Cinderella shoes seem to go walk-about more than anything else on set - and there’s a thunderous expression on her face as she stands in front of Aelwyn.

“Yeah!” Sam Nightingale chips in. “It doesn’t even look like hair!”

Despite being cast as the Baker’s Wife, Sam has been skipping rehearsals to hang out with her motorbike-riding boyfriend. Fig is obsessed with the drama of it all; Adaine is just mad that it means they need to keep redoing It Takes Two.

“If you have a better solution, I’d love to hear it,” Mr Pepper says nastily, thrusting the “hair” into Aelwyn’s hands and storming off. The girls clamour and complain, but eventually disperse. Goldenhoard drags the band through one more run-through of the curtain music, which is probably the most tuneful piece they get to play, but he can see that everyone is exhausted and fed-up, and sends them all home.

Adaine gets into the car park just in time to see Aelwyn’s car pulling out, windows down so she can see Penelope, Sam, and Penny giggling in the passenger seats. Suddenly bone-tired, Adaine slumps down and sits on the curb, watching cars peel out of the car park until it’s just her left.

abernant2: Do you think it would be possible for anyone to pick me up? I’m still at school and I don’t have a ride.

She stares down at her phone, the words on the screen blurring until she can hardly read them anymore. She’s shocked out of her fugue by a buzzing, and she blinks quickly to see what message she’s received.

figgypudding: were on our way anyway lollll GUESS WHO WE’RE BRINGING TO THE THEATRE

Adaine doesn’t have a chance to respond before she sees a massive Jeep tearing into the school car park, tires squealing as the driver brakes hard. It ends up across three different parking spaces, and then the driver side door opens. Fig cheerfully jumps out, grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Adaine! Hey, c’mere, girl!”

Starting to smile against her will, Adaine gets up and goes to intercept Fig. The ensuing hug is more of a death squeeze, and Adaine pulls away beaming, certain her ribs are broken. “Fig, what are you doing back here? Were you driving? Wait, were you texting and driving?”

“Yep!” Fig declares, her smile showing off her pointy little canines. “Jawbone has a sick car but his licence expired, so I offered to drive instead!”

“That is more illegal,” Adaine says, then Fig’s words actually catch up with her. “Wait. Jawbone?”

Staggering out of the passenger side and looking nauseated, a very tall hairy man eventually stands up straight and waves at Adaine. He’s wearing a threadbare cardigan and trousers patched at the knees, and even from across the road, a mild smell of wet dog follows him.

“That’s Jawbone,” Fig chirps. “He’s my neighbour! Ish. Anyway, I asked if he would help us with our set dilemma, and what do you know? He agreed! We decided we should show him the ropes tonight, so he has a chance to familiarise himself with everything before the matinee tomorrow. Riz owes me ten dollars,” she says, eyes crinkling with the force of her smile.

The aforementioned Riz emerges from the back of the Jeep, green tinge to his face. “Did you guys know that Fig can’t actually drive?”

“Technicalities,” Fig says breezily. “Everyone ready for some serious rehearsal time?”

Adaine can’t help but laugh and keep laughing. She must look like she’s gone mad, but she doesn’t really care. Even here, in a dark, freezing cold car park, she feels like she’s on top of the world.

“Lead the way,” she says, amusement colouring her voice. Fig obeys gladly, leading on through Aguefort’s prissy golden gates.

Jawbone makes a surprisingly good addition to the team. Set changes finally start running smoothly, and Adaine can tell how much it matters to Riz by seeing the weight lift off his face. Suddenly, he’s smiling again.

Before the first performance, Adaine is running hot with nerves. From her chair, she hasn’t been able to catch any of her friends except Kristen and Gorgug, and the three of them have been trading glances and thumbs-up for a while. When the first audience members start to trickle in, she has to face forward - Kristen’s gaze is hot on the back of her neck, but Adaine’s eyes are fixed on Goldenhoard’s baton.

They’re finally managed to drag someone in to play the piano, so Goldenhoard is just conducting for them - a thankless but necessary job. The entire band would play so much better if they would just look up once in a while, or recognise that an upwards beat of the baton means an upbeat, or even if they could count.

Alas. Adaine feels like Atlas, holding the world (the orchestra) on her shoulders (her impeccable flute skills). There’s a disgusting blend of fear and panic churning in her stomach like the world’s worst smoothie, and seeing the steady stream of featureless faces does nothing to help her.

Her breathing is coming quick and fast, which is just about the worst thing for a flautist, and Adaine is screaming at herself internally that she needs to calm down, that the audience aren’t staring at her they’re just staring at the band in general, and she needs to be calm right right right now or she’s going to lose her breathing control and she’s going to sound breathy or crack or drop down an octave in the too-many-ledger-lines section in A Very Nice Prince-

The lights dim. There’s an audible intake of breath from the audience, who fall suddenly silent, and with the strange peace comes an even stranger equilibrium. Adaine catches her breath, sighing slowly, and feels her heart calm down.

The lights are low. No one’s looking at her. Hand perfectly steady, Adaine reaches forward to flick on her stand light.

In the soft glow, Goldenhoard’s baton and the sheet music are the only things in Adaine’s eyes. Everything else narrows down to unimportant, background noise. Her world is just her stand and her conductor and her music.

Goldenhoard has an encouraging smile directed just at her, like a private joke, and then makes sure the rest of the orchestra are looking at him. When the Narrator steps on stage, his expression turns stern, though there’s still the hint of a smile playing in his eyes, and he raises his baton.

“Once upon a time…”

B6! two, three, four, one, two, three, D⌒ E!

Opening Part I races through, leaving no spare energy for Adaine to worry. She’s counting bars like her life depends on it - 12/4, at least, not the abominable time signatures Cinderella forces them into - and soon enough she’s reached her ten-bar rest at the beginning of Opening Part II.

The ten-bar rest means she gets to watch Fig play an annoying preteen, who’s probably got pink-eye, scamming the Baker out of his bread (it’s not for me, it’s for my granny in the woods- please…). It’s always hilarious to watch Fig - Fig, the king, the insolent, the rebel - turn into Little Red, the brattiest kid in the show.

Fabian is actually so good as the Baker. He’s properly acting, putting his heart and soul into the role - after the “knocks” in Opening Part 4, Adaine thinks he actually full-body flinches - and he doesn’t trip over his words once, despite having had to cram the entire script just the day before.

It’s not as if the show goes by without any hiccoughs. The trumpets are a little late for their fanfare entry - but so is Hargis, so it’s not as bad as it could have been - and the other flute doesn’t manage to come in for almost any of the difficult parts, leaving Adaine to handle the triplet runs on her own. However, there are also things Adaine is very proud of - Rapunzel, for one, and the high part of A Very Nice Prince, when for once her fingers work properly, and she practically dances through the C6-E6-A6-B5-D6-F6 midnight chimes.

Rapunzel is a stunning success for her, because Hargis, for all his charms, is not a very loud speaker. That means that the flute solo at the end of the piece - the echo of the Rapunzel theme, the gorgeous lilting-vibrato-slurred four bars of glory - are allowed to shine out, Hargis’ words quiet and unimportant in the background.

Riz, to his credit as Adaine’s best friend and not as a stage manager, doesn’t raise the levels on Hargis’ mic.

At the conclusion of the bows, when the band have stood and bowed and sat back down again and the audience has clapped for Riz’s team and the performers have all taken their praise and left the stage, Adaine sets her flute down in her lap and begins, methodically, to clean it.

“I’m gonna go find Fig,” Kristen tells her, squeezing her shoulder. “You did such a good job, Adaine, you’re crazy good. Get some rest before the evening show tonight, yeah? I think I’ll be here once everyone’s left if you want to practise the fanfare timing with me.”

“I do,” Adaine said, relieved that Kristen had been the one to suggest it. “Thank you. Thank you, I’ll- I’ll be there.”

With another kind smile, Kristen bounces off. The rest of the band has mostly dispersed, taking their instruments back to their cases or rejoining their friends, and Adaine is left with Gorgug, who’s carefully folding his sheet music back into his folder and setting down the glockenspiel sticks.

“I hope it’s that good every time,” he remarks casually. Adaine’s breath hitches, and she gently clears away a sudden teardrop that’s landed on her headjoint.

Laying her flute pieces into her case, Adaine zips it up, puts her case on the seat of her chair, and runs into Gorgug’s waiting embrace.

“I hope it’s better.”

After the first show, things almost relax a little. It’s not like there’s much more they can do - there aren’t any more official rehearsals, just whatever practices they can snatch in stolen moments - so the teachers aren’t yelling at them or reminding them of anything they’ve done wrong. It’s turned into just a bunch of school kids having fun, putting on a show.

Adaine floats through lessons, not taking in anything her teachers are saying. She’s already got a perfect GPA and she’s on top of all her homework - show evenings won’t affect her grades, not the way they might challenge anyone else - and everyone in the production has special dispensation from Goldenhoard to get extensions and miss lessons during show week. Adaine can’t bring herself to focus on trig transformations or conjugating the French subjunctive when there’s music to be thinking about and cues to be memorising. She keeps catching her friends’ gazes, with the sharp, sudden smile of conspirators who’ve been thinking the exact same thing.

The shows go by faster than she would like. Trying to capture the feeling of when she’s playing is like trying to catch the wind - when she’s lying in her bed at night trying to feel brave, she tries to conjure that impossible adrenaline rush, the invincible-on-top-of-the-world-unbeatable Adaine. Somehow it’s always just out of reach - like her heart is racing towards it but can’t quite cross the finish line. She desperately craves that feeling, a break, a pause in the way she normally feels. In the show, she gets about an hour to not hide away, not make herself as small as possible, to live life without cringing away from it.

Then they bow, and the feeling’s gone. It’s just Adaine, with the world looking in. Fragile Adaine, shoulders hunched, trying not to be seen.

Try as she might, she can’t seem to get that bravery back.

There’s a tide of melancholy washing at her heart, creeping higher and higher. The night of the final show, Adaine sneaks into the dressing room Fig’s sharing with the other girls, ignoring Aelwyn and her friends, and curls around her, tugging at the stupid pigtails she has to have to be Little Red.

“Hey,” Fig says, impossibly fond. “Band all set up?”

“Not my problem if they’re not,” Adaine fires back, although they both know it is absolutely her problem if they’re not. “Feeling ready?”

Fig wiggles a hand. So-so. “I’ve got a little extra to worry about tonight.” She gently lifts the edge of a plastic shopping bag, showing Adaine a quick glimpse of an instantly-recognisable Maltesers box. “Fabian’s handling the flowers, I’ve got the chocolates and the wine.”

“You bought some wine?” Adaine asks, momentarily thrown.

“Yeah, I’m super good at getting middle-aged men to think I’m an adult,” Fig says proudly. Adaine personally doesn’t think that’s as good a thing as Fig clearly thinks it is, but it gets them results, at least. “Wine is for Goldenrod and Mr Pepper. Maltesers for the students in charge, so… secret, y’know?”

She wiggles her eyebrows with impressive dexterity. Adaine nods, miming zipping her lips - she won’t let Riz know. “I should probably get back, warm up before the audience gets in.”

Fig kisses her forehead. “Go, be free, my pretty flautist friend. I’ll see you on stage!”

Adaine gets up, grinning at Fig, but she’s stopped from leaving by Aelwyn’s casual drawl. “I’m sure Mother and Father will be just delighted to hear what you’ve managed to achieve.”

“Wait,” Fig blurts out. “Your parents are coming?”

“Yes,” Adaine says. “To watch her play Rapunzel.”

Fig’s eyes narrow, and she gets up too, linking arms with Adaine. Combined with the pigtails, the knee-high socks and Mary Janes, and the plaid skirt, she looks every inch the eight year old. “C’mon, Adaine, I gotta talk to Riz.”

They split up pretty soon - Adaine takes her flute to a practice room, running through some scales with practised ease before tackling the trickiest flute parts. She’s powering through The Potion Part II when Kristen sticks her head round the doorway.

“We’re sitting down - Goldenrod wants to talk to you.”

Adaine goes with trepidation, tucking her flute away first before she walks up to the conductor’s stand. Goldenhoard looks stressed as always, his slender fingers white from the force with which he’s clutching his baton. “Ah! Miss Abernant.”

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Adaine asks, knotting her fingers together to stop them from trembling.

He nods. “Adaine, we’d like it very much if you were to stand up to play your little flute solo… the one in number 14.”

“Rapunzel?”

“Yes, that’s the one! If you could stand up when you play it, just let everyone appreciate those wonderful flute skills…” he trails off, looking expectantly at her.

She could play Rapunzel blindfolded. She could probably play it with no feeling in her fingers, so ingrained is it in her muscle memory. Playing it standing up is not a technical problem whatsoever - it’s a bravery problem.

With a start, she realises that Goldenhoard is still waiting on an answer. “I- yes. Yes, that sounds great,” she stutters. “I will - yes. Thank you.”

He offers her a warm smile, and turns back to the score. Adaine recognises the easy dismissal and scurries back to her seat, breathing slowly to try and even out the pace of her heart. She takes her flute into her hands, running her thumb lightly over the keys. When her parents had first presented her with the flute, she’d been so impressed. It had been so shiny, so perfectly silver, so exquisitely created - she remembers asking if the elves had made it, remembers thinking there was no way a mere human could have put such a gorgeous creation together. Her father had laughed at her - a real laugh, not one of his mocking laughs that would later become so omnipresent. He had taught her how to form her embouchure, how to make the right fingerings for B, first, then all the notes from middle C to the C two octaves above that. He had enrolled her in lessons at Hudol, signed her up for every orchestra, encouraged her to play in every concert.

As much as they’ve argued, as far as their relationship has degraded, he’s never once threatened to take away her flute. Maybe he still remembers those good times, Adaine puffing uselessly at the headjoint, cheeks bright red, and him losing himself in laughter at her cross little face.

When she looks up, he’s staring at her. Her mother has already taken a seat in the audience, but her father is standing up, sightline fixed on the band - on Adaine with her flute. When their eyes meet, when he realises she’s seen him, he tears his gaze away, turning to talk to her mother. Adaine can’t bring herself to do the same, staring up at her parents, feeling all of nine years old.

“Hey, Adaine,” Gorgug says, lightly tapping her shoulder. “We’ve not got long before Riz is going to dim the lights.”

She gives him a thankful smile, breaking out of her reverie, and opens up her sheet music, clicking on her stand lamp. Adaine takes a deep breath, adjusts her headjoint slightly, and raises her flute to rest on her left shoulder, in easy reach to pull to her mouth and begin playing.

Gorgug is right. It doesn’t take long before the Narrator is stepping onto the stage, and Adaine’s brain calms.

Maybe it’s because it’s the last night, but everyone is running on top form. She hasn’t noticed a single mistake - well, the second flute is as useless as ever, and things have never been exactly perfect any time they’ve run it - but it’s certainly shaping up to be the best performance yet.

Kristen gets the rubato fanfare in Cinderella At The Grave perfect, and Adaine nearly cries. It sounds so good, and Adaine has enough time that she joins in with the applause, heart bursting with pride for Kristen and the way she’s progressed so much, her incredible perseverance.

Fig shines in Hello, Little Girl, and the wide-eyed innocence fixed on her face isn’t an expression Adaine knew she could even make. Poor Zayn is supposed to be the one shining out in this song, but everyone knows it’s Fig’s, knows that he’s her supporting actor, rather than the other way around.

Gorgug absolutely nails the beats at the beginning of I Guess This Is Goodbye, and watching Fabian doing his best to ignore Riz and interact with just the cow is probably the funniest thing in the world. Riz looks like he’s trying so hard not to look grumpy, but Adaine knows how much he hates the cow-puppetting part of his job.

In the corner of her eye, she can see him start sprinting as soon as he gets into the wings, and can’t for the life of her figure out what he’s so desperate to get to. Rapunzel is coming up next, but Skrank’s got a pretty good handle on fixing the spotlight on Aelwyn. Riz really isn’t that needed, as mean as that sounds.

Adaine starts Rapunzel with an equanimity she didn’t know she possessed. The first five (and an upbeat) bars are technically flute solo, but she knows well enough to back down out of the way, let the Narrator be heard. Then comes Aelwyn’s singing moment - much as Adaine squints into the audience, she can’t see her parents’ faces - and then it’s Adaine’s turn.

Miraculously, as she rises to her feet, there’s not a trace of panic. She’s been genuinely enjoying herself since she started playing, and though she knows she can’t play with a smile, on the inside she’s beaming.

Adaine stands up, and the spotlight moves. Hargis is still picked out in light, but the other spot has swivelled quickly from Aelwyn in her tower to Adaine. As she plays out her solo, letting her vibrato ring through the quiet theatre and feeling the perfect sound in her soul, she’s lit up. Every eye is on her.

For once, Adaine doesn’t feel like making herself small. She’s playing perfectly. She has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be worried about. She’s just doing what she does, and the world is looking on, and appreciating it.

She’s never felt so invincible.

Adaine sits down at bar 17, picking out the staccato notes with a cheerfulness she doesn’t have to feign, and she doesn’t think anything could ever bring her down.

During I Know Things Now, she gets a seventeen bar rest. Gorgug’s rest is almost as long, so she turns as subtly as she can, and grins widely at him. His big black eyes are glossy, and there’s such overwhelming pride on his face - pride for her - that Adaine thinks she’ll never be sad ever again, with such joy and love in her heart.

Fig hated that I Know Things Now was cut down so much for the junior version, but she makes it an incredible performance - far better than any original could have been, in Adaine’s professional opinion.

A Very Nice Prince goes perfectly, then so does Fanfares, then Agony, and then - against all expectations - so does It Takes Two. Adaine comes in at the right bar in Stay With Me, a minor miracle, counts the 6/8 bars correctly in On The Steps Of The Palace, remembers all six flats in The Potion Part II, and then they’re into the finales and it’s easy sailing.

When they’re performing the curtain music, Adaine thinks she sees her mother crying. The lights are all funny and she can’t be sure, but it strikes her like a discordant note all the same.

The actors bow. The band stand up and bow. The stage crew presumably bow, from wherever they’re hidden. The actors bow again - Adaine can’t spot Fig or Fabian anymore, and wonders when they ducked out - and the lights don’t come back up.

Fig and Fabian run back onstage. Riz - very helpfully - fixes the spotlights onto them. It means everyone can see the plastic bags they’re trying and failing to hide behind them.

“Before we let you lovely people go,” Fig starts, her mic turned on and carrying her voice throughout the theatre, “we just wanted to say a few thank yous. This production wouldn’t have happened without so many wonderful people, and we can’t just let them leave without showing them how much their work has meant to all of us.”

“First, the Director, Mr Pepper,” Fabian drawls, sounding bored. He pulls a slightly squashed bouquet of daisies out of his bag, while Fig pulls out a bottle of cheap wine, and Mr Pepper comes fumbling on stage to accept them gaily.

She pauses for the applause, and then Fig tilts her head, grinning at the band. “Next up, Vice Principal Goldenhoard! Thank you so much for everything you’ve done - the band sounded professional, and I know all of us singers would be lost without your impeccable time keeping. Everyone give it up for the conductor!”

Goldenhoard gets nice wine and a bouquet of orchids. Fabian looks mightily proud of himself, and Adaine wonders if the subtle snub to Mr Pepper was his idea.

“There are also some students we need to thank,” Fig says, suddenly serious. “We couldn’t give them wine, so we’ve brought Maltesers instead.”

She waits for the laughter from the audience, then gives them all a bright grin. “Riz, come on down!”

It takes a while for Riz to get down from the tech booth, but he does arrive, flat cap askew on his head. “Goddamn it, Fig, I didn’t need-”

“This is Riz,” she says loudly, cutting him off. Her mic is on and he doesn’t have one, so it’s not hard. “He’s been leading the backstage crew and he’s been puppetting Milky White, so give him a hand!”

She’s clearly delighting in how uncomfortable Riz is with the attention, but eventually capitulates, handing him his Maltesers and sending him on his way.

“We’ve got a pack here for Carie, as well,” Fig says, rubbing her nose bashfully. “He was supposed to be playing the Baker, and although Fabian’s done a decent job-”

“Hey!”

Fig giggles. “Carie has remained in our hearts. So, we’ve got a treat for him.” She leaves the Maltesers in the bag, and leans up against Fabian.

“We’ve got one person left to thank,” he says, “but I think we’ll let Vice Principal Goldenhoard take this one.”

They walk over to the band seats, and Fig passes the bag to Goldenhoard, winking at Adaine. She is incredibly curious - probably Goldenhoard is going to thank the piano accompanist? - and she leans forward in her seat, watching him walk into the middle of the stage.

“Any musical would not be possible without music,” Goldenhoard starts, “so I would like to thank every performer that has put themself forward, shown incredible bravery, and put on a wonderful show.” He smiles genially at the audience as they clap. “I have had the wonderful opportunity to work closely with all the singers and musicians over the development of this production, and I have found their teamwork and perseverance inspiring. However, there is one individual who I feel deserves a special mention, as without her this production would likely have been relying on pre-recorded backing tracks.”

He takes a deep breath. “Adaine Abernant has been leading this orchestra, helping instruct not only the entire woodwind section but also the brass and percussion, and providing invaluable support for the singers. She gave up uncountable amounts of her time to make sure that everyone you heard today sounded as good as they did. Please, a round of applause for Adaine, our first chair flute.”

In a daze, Adaine gets to her feet to accept the Maltesers from Goldenhoard. The applause is thunderous, and for once in her life Adaine trusts that it’s for her. That she deserves it.

She sits down hastily not long later, letting Goldenhoard finish saying his thank yous - thank you, parents, for supporting your children in every way throughout this wonderful production - and though to the rest of the world she’s silent, on the inside, she is buzzing.

The moment they’re released, Fabian lets out a whoop loud enough to raise the dead, and winks unsubtly at all of them. “Catch you later, nerds!”

Adaine finishes packing away her flute, fighting the urge to run her polishing cloth over the silver one last time, and offers a sunny grin to Gorgug and Kristen. “Go, you two go on ahead with Fabian. I want to catch my parents.”

She doesn’t miss the dubious look Gorgug shoots her, but he acquiesces, shouldering Kristen’s trumpet case as she prances on ahead.

Waiting just outside the theatre doors are Angwyn and Arianwen Abernant. They’re waiting for Aelwyn, not for her, and Adaine knows it. She’s not daring to hope. She’s not. She’s-

“That was… lovely playing,” Adaine’s father says awkwardly. “I didn’t know you were so invested in your flute, Adaine, you’ve always seemed so… unmotivated.”

There’s half a compliment in there, Adaine repeats to herself, he’s trying. “I mean, I have been practising quite fastidiously for the last month, but I don’t blame you for not having noticed.”

Angwyn’s face contorts, and Adaine tries not to outwardly scowl. “Adaine, you really are the most ung-”

Aelwyn comes tearing out of the theatre doors, golden hair messy around her face from the abrupt removal of the wig. “I cannot believe that you stole both my figurative and literal spotlight, Adaine! You’d better be sorry when I get my hands on you-”

“Enough!” Arianwen shouts, crossing her arms. “Adaine, why do you have to be so difficult? You are always working up your sister, I think we’ve had quite enough. Come along, Angwyn, Aelwyn.”

“I don’t know why I bother with her,” her father mutters under his breath. “You are causing a scene, Adaine. If you don’t think you can calm down a little, I think it’s best you find your own way home.”

Adaine’s blood boils. “I’m the one causing a scene?” she yells. “I’m the one who needs to calm down a little? Do you not have eyes, or do you just choose not to use them? I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, Dad, I’m sorry I’m so difficult, Mum, and Aelwyn, I’m not sorry at all because we both deserved what we got. You want the spotlight so damn bad? Work for it. And you know what,” she spits, incandescent and building up steam, “I will find my own way home. But you can be damn sure it’s not going to be back to your house. Because believe it or not, I have people who actually care about me now, far better than you ever pretended to. So go on, run along home, leave the scene behind. And if you think I’m going to make any more attempts at mending the bridges you’ve burned,” she’s fighting back tears now, she cannot let them see, “then you’re about to see just how unmotivated I can be.”

In her sister’s shadow, Adaine had no friends, just the silent companionship of a silver flute and the mounting anxiety of failing to compare. Now she’s stepped into her own spotlight, Adaine has a phone full of contacts, the joy of making music together, and a band of friends who would never even think to see Adaine as lesser in any way. She doesn’t care if that makes them bad kids. They’re certainly much better than Aelwyn could ever hope to be.

The Abernants slink off, leaving Adaine behind, silhouetted in the theatre doorway by the remaining glow of light from inside. Without a sigh, without tears, but with the placid calm of a final understanding, Adaine sends a message to her family.

Adaine: I’m going to need a lift to the afterparty.

Adaine: And possibly also space for a sleeping bag on someone’s floor. Somehow I doubt my parents would be best pleased if I came home after what I just said.

Fabian S-C: Fear not, there is space on The Hangman for two!

Kristen: or my mom brought the van if you dont want to spoon fabian all the way to his house

Gorgug: see you there, Adaine!!!!

The Ball: We’re not quite the Ritz but I think we could squeeze you in at mine if you need

Fig: lol why would your parents care if you came home? home is here with us babe. its where ur gonna be <3

Adaine smiles, wishing Fig’s words were something physical that she could hug close to her heart. Home isn’t the Abernant house; home isn’t her father’s cruel words or her mother’s crueller indifference. Home is with her friends, her heroes. Home is a bucket of popcorn and falling asleep before the movie’s ended. Home is breaking and entering into the theatre for a secret rehearsal and practically crying with laughter the whole time. Home is five contacts in her phone and five contacts that will pick up whenever she calls, whenever she needs them.

Home is six bad kids, a pack of Maltesers, and a silver flute.

“And they all lived happily ever after.”

The boy who had played the Narrator closes his script, and puts it on a shelf to join many others. As he deliberates over which production to start preparing next, he hears a voice calling from the hall.

“I’m coming!” he replies, letting his mind clear of all thoughts of mangled fairytales. Although…

As the girl who had played Little Red comes to mind, Brennan finds himself thinking, now that would make a good story.