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Jeffrey's long, elegant fingers danced across the front of his jacket,
pressing the material smoothly over his chest. The paused at his buttons,
taking care that they were all properly done up, before falling limply to
his sides against the smooth leather of the piano seat. The material of his
suit was unbearably itchy, some odd wool derivative, that caused more harm
than it did good. But he was thankful to be allotted a suit, any suit, no
matter how�displeasing it was. At least it looked fairly fashionable.
Jeffrey's old feudal spirit rang out against dressing�improperly.
Such an odd wish to have, when one was subject to so few liberties. "You ready, Eldon?" one of the stage hands barked at him, clinging to the curtain ropes, ready to lift them up and reveal him to the world. In more than just a physical sense. Would these people know what he was when the curtain rose? Had not the previous entertainer been forced from his position for the very same reason? Alas, there was little worth in letting such thoughts trouble him mind. Jeffrey had little choice but to revealed and examined. He tilted his narrow face toward the young man and nodded, letting his thin lips quirk upward in the slightest of smiles," Indeed, sir, I am." His voice was deep and smooth, like aged wine would sound if it had a voice. And, dear lord, was the accent ever thick. Such a proper voice, for such a proper language. It was undeniable that Jeffrey had been taken straight out of England, whether willingly or unwillingly, for this purpose. "Right then, curtain's going up." Jeffrey turned away, bowing his head, and lifting his fingers to the keys. The curtain rose, and the deep, burgundy light washed over his pale face, turning otherwise dilute blond hair awash with scarlet. He shut his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to calm his nerves, and began to play. Something soft first, he'd been told. He started with the moonlight sonata, fingers playing gracefully over the ivories, and it furled into the air like a swath of smoke, elegant and slender. Later�if he lasted until later, he'd try something a little more light hearted. Tchaikovsky's Pathetique, perhaps. But for now the sonata flowed from his fingertips, bathing the room in its soft notes, adding a hefty air of romance to the dinner club. |