The World in Dissonance (Volume 2)

Chapter 1 - Part 2

Part 2

By the time the great doors of Sadler’s Wells Theatre were opened to the public, the afternoon had settled into that quiet expectancy that precedes an event of note. It was nearing four o’clock.

A modest queue had indeed formed—nothing unruly, nothing excessive, but enough to reflect the steady interest of London’s cultured circles. Well-dressed patrons, students of the arts, and a scattering of curious onlookers filtered in with composed anticipation. Opera, in those days, still carried a certain discipline; even excitement was expressed with restraint.

Inside, the hall filled gradually.

A soft current of classical music drifted through the air—instrumental passages drawn from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s repertoire, light yet deliberate, setting the tone without overwhelming conversation. It was not yet the performance, merely a prelude—an invitation into the world about to unfold.

Laurencia and Father John were guided to their seats—positions of privilege, elevated and perfectly aligned with the stage.

“VIP treatment, huh...”, murmured Laurencia, glancing around with quiet awe.

Father John gave a faint smile. “Courtesy of your sister’s position, I would assume.”

Below them, the audience continued to settle. Programs were unfolded. Murmurs rose and fell like a tide. Somewhere among them were professors, critics, and perhaps even representatives from Cambridge itself—for this was no ordinary student production.

It was the culmination of something greater.

Dedicatus Liddel and Beatrice Ashcroft—both second-year students following the Art and Literature Tripos at Cambridge—stood at the forefront of this endeavor. The performance was, in many respects, the fruit of their first true academic undertaking upon the stage.

A test, a statement... And perhaps, a stage for their rivalry.

In the Backstage, the atmosphere had sharpened into silence.

Then—the lights dimmed, the murmurs faded. And the curtain rose at last.

~ Act I ~

A hush fell across the theatre.

The stage revealed itself beneath carefully arranged lighting—an ethereal setting, suggestive rather than literal. Shadows and illumination worked in tandem, evoking the mystical world of The Magic Flute without overwhelming the imagination.

The narration began—measured, resonant, carried by an unseen voice that guided the audience into the tale.

A prince lost,

A quest unfolding.

For a moment, the audience was simply drawn in.

Then, she appeared.

Beatrice Ashcroft as the Queen of the Night.

Her presence was absolute.

Her posture, her stillness, even the angle at which she held her gaze—all spoke of authority that needed no announcement.

When she began, her voice did not simply fill the hall—it commanded it.

“O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn...”

(Oh, do not tremble, my dear son...)

Her voice carried with flawless control, each note precise, each word imbued with calculated intensity. The famous plea—her appeal wrapped in both sorrow and hidden command—was delivered with such clarity that even those unfamiliar with the opera could feel its weight.

From above, Laurencia’s eyes were wide.

“Is that... Beatrice?” she whispered.

Father John inclined his head slightly.

“Yes.”

“She’s... different.”

“On stage...”, replied the Catholic Priest, “One often is.”

.

..

...

The scene shifted.

A moment after, entered another performer.

Standing on stage as Tamino.

Beatrice’s Queen spoke again, her voice rising with contained anguish

“Zum Leiden bin ich auserkoren...”

(I am chosen for suffering...)

Her sorrow filled the hall—but it did not stand unchallenged.

From the audience, a man leaned forward, whispering under his breath, “That control... remarkable!”

Above, Laurencia clutched the edge of her seat.

“She sounds... scary!”, murmured the young girl.

“Power often is!”, Father John replied quietly.

The dialogue between them—Queen and hero—began to take form.

Beatrice’s delivery was sharp, layered with subtle undertones. Beneath the apparent plea lay manipulation, authority, expectation.

That performer’s Tamino answered not with submission, but with engagement.

Then, the moment came.

Dedicatus entered the stage,

Portraying Pamina.

Where Beatrice was precision sharpened into authority, Dedicatus was presence given form. Her movements were natural, but never careless—each step grounded, each glance intentional. There was no passivity in her portrayal; her Pamina felt, questioned, resisted.

The scene shifted its gravity toward the emotional axis of the opera—the bond between mother and daughter.

Beatrice turned, her gaze now directed not at Tamino, but at Pamina.

Her voice softened—yet sharpened beneath.

“Du wirst meine Tochter sehen...”

(You will see my daughter...)

And then, with a quiet, pressing intensity:

“Und wirst sie befreien...”

(And you will free her...)

The implication was clear.

Not a request.

A command veiled in sorrow.

Then, Dedicatus answered.

“Ach, ich fühl’s, es ist verschwunden,

Ewig hin der Liebe Glück!”

(Ah, I feel it, it is gone,

Forever gone is love’s happiness!)

“Nimmer kommt ihr Wonnestunden

Meinem Herzen mehr zurück...”

(Never shall those joyful hours

Return to my heart...)

Her voice did not rise to overpower.

It anchored.

“Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen,

Fehlt auch ein gutes Herze nicht.”

(In men who feel love,

A good heart is never absent.)

Her delivery carried warmth—but not naïveté.

It was conviction.

Belief.

Something human in contrast to Beatrice’s controlled grandeur.

“Sieh, Tamino, diese Tränen

Fließen, teurer Mann, für dich...”

(See, Tamino, these tears

Flow, dear one, for you...)

From above, Laurencia leaned forward.

“That’s Big Sis...?” she whispered.

Father John nodded slowly.

“Yes... though not entirely.”

From the audience, reactions began to solidify.

A man scribbled notes discreetly.

A pair of students exchanged glances—silent acknowledgment of something impressive.

Even the restless movements typical of early acts had quieted.

Below, a man in the audience leaned slightly forward.

“Student production?”, he murmured under his breath. “Impossible!”

Nearby, a woman adjusted her program, her expression sharpening into interest.

“They’re trained!”, she whispered. “They must be.”

Attention had been captured.

Not by spectacle.

But by execution.

Where Beatrice had commanded through precision, Dedicatus moved the stage.

Her presence was not rigid—it flowed, adapted, responded. There was an energy to her performance that felt alive, almost unpredictable, yet never uncontrolled.

Her voice, when it joined the unfolding piece, carried a different quality—less refined perhaps, but richer in texture. There was conviction in it. Intent.

The exchange continued—not as domination, but as contrast.

Beatrice’s Queen pressed forward—elegant, manipulative, layered.

Dedicatus’s Pamina responded—not submissive, but grounded, her tone carrying sincerity that cut through illusion.

Two forms of brilliance,

One sharpened like a blade.

The other steady like a foundation.

The act progressed—supporting performers entered and exited, fulfilling their roles with competence, though it was clear where the focus lay.

Clara Whitby, as one of the attendants, delivered her lines with newfound confidence.

“Stirb, Ungeheuer, durch uns’re Macht!”

(Die, monster, by our power!)

“Triumph! Triumph! du bist besiegt!”

(Triumph! Triumph! you are defeated!)

Her voice, once hesitant in rehearsal, now rang clear—blending seamlessly into the ensemble while still carrying its own presence.

Edmund Hale held his ground more firmly than in rehearsal.

“Zum Ziele führt dich diese Bahn,

Doch prüfe dich—sei standhaft, Mann!”

(This path shall lead you to your goal,

But test yourself—stand firm, be whole!)

He delivered the line with a steadiness that had been absent in the morning, his voice now aligned with the weight of the scene.

Thomas Redgrave remained steady, a reliable presence anchoring transitions.

“Bald prangt, den Morgen zu verkünden,

Die Sonn’ auf goldner Bahn...”

(Soon, to herald the morning,

The sun will shine on its golden path...)

His tone was calm, almost ceremonial—less commanding than the leads, yet essential, giving structure to the unfolding world.

Yet always, the stage returned to those two.

Dedicatus and Beatrice.

Rivalry, transmuted into performance.

At last, the act reached its natural conclusion.

A final exchange.

A held note.

Then—Darkness,

The curtain fell.

.

..

...

Applause rose—not explosive, but sustained.

Measured.

Respectful.

Laurencia clapped eagerly, her earlier restraint forgotten.

“They’re amazing!” said the young girl with excitement, turning slightly toward Father John.

He nodded, though his gaze remained fixed upon the now-closed curtain.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “They are.”

Around them, conversations sparked.

“Cambridge students, I heard.”

“Second years, apparently.”

“If this is their first major work...”

“Then what will they become?”

In the Backstage, there was no applause.

Only breath. Only focus. Only preparation.

~ Act II ~

The curtain rose once more.

The setting had changed.

New tones.

New lighting.

A deeper progression into the narrative.

The duality at the heart of The Magic Flute—central to the opera’s themes—became more pronounced.

Again, the narration guided.

But now, the performances carried greater weight.

Beatrice returned, her presence sharper still. This time, not as a grieving mother. But as something far more fearsome.

Her presence alone altered the air.

When she spoke, it was no longer a plea. It was a decree.

“Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,

Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!”

(Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart,

Death and despair blaze around me!)

And Dedicatus—Pamina stood before her, unshaken.

Beatrice—no longer merely composed—unleashed.

Her voice rose, precise yet blazing with controlled fury

“Hört! Rachegötter! Hört der Mutter Schwur!”

(Hear me, gods of vengeance! Hear a mother’s oath!)

The words struck like blows.

Then, the ultimatum.

Delivered with flawless clarity

“Verstoßen sei auf ewig,

Verlassen sei auf ewig,

Zertrümmert sei’n auf ewig

Alle Bande der Natur...”

(Forever be cast out,

Forever abandoned,

Forever shattered

All bonds of nature...)

And finally, the blade beneath the voice.

“Wenn nicht durch dich Sarastro wird erblassen,

So bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr!”

(If Sarastro does not fall by your hand,

Then you are no longer my daughter!)

A visible reaction rippled through the audience.

Even those unfamiliar with the German could feel the weight of it.

Laurencia’s eyes widened.

“She’s... terrifying!”

Father John did not disagree.

And then, Dedicatus answered.

“Mutter! Mutter!

Diese Worte sind so schrecklich!”

(Mother! Mother!

These words are so terrible!)

“Soll ich den Geliebten töten?

Ewige Götter! Das kann ich nicht!”

(Shall I kill the one I love?

Eternal gods! I cannot do it!)

Not louder.

Not sharper.

But stronger.

Her voice carried something Beatrice’s did not.

Not control. Not fury.

But truth held without fear.

“Der Gefühle Walten

Kann uns nicht entstellen;

Treue bleibt bestehen.”

(The sway of feeling

Cannot corrupt us;

Faithfulness endures.)

Her tone did not waver. Even under threat. Even under rejection.

“Liebe ist’s, die mich bewegt,

Liebe, die mein Herz durchdringt!”

(It is love that moves me,

Love that fills my heart!)

From the audience, a woman whispered:

“She’s resisting her…”

“No!”, another replied quietly. “She’s standing.”

Laurencia gripped the edge of her seat.

“They are not holding back anymore...”

Father John’s gaze remained fixed on the stage.

“No!”, he said. “They aren’t.”

The contrast reached its peak.

Beatrice—absolute, divine, untouchable.

Dedicatus—human, resolute, immovable.

Two prodigies,

Not competing anymore.

But defining each other.

In the audience, the shift was unmistakable.

What had begun as interest had become investment.

Every pause mattered.

Every line carried weight.

And though the story of The Magic Flute unfolded as written—what the audience truly watched was something else.

Two minds, two wills, two interpretations—meeting upon the same stage.

The act moved toward its midpoint.

The tension held.

The structure remained.

And as the curtain prepared once more to fall—one truth had already become clear.

This was no mere student production.

This was the beginning of something far greater.

Then, the curtain closed again.

And the theatre held its breath—waiting for what would come next.

.

..

...

The curtain had just fallen on Act II when a composed figure stepped forward near the orchestra pit.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”, announced Mr. Wellington, his voice calm and practiced, “We will take a brief pause before the final act.”

The curtains remained closed.

Behind them, movement—subtle, and efficient.

Stagehands were at work.

And then, the orchestra began.

A familiar overture rose, unmistakable in tone—light yet structured, elegant yet carrying a quiet urgency.

The opening of The Magic Flute Overture filled the theatre once more, its intricate interplay of strings and winds acting as both continuation and preparation.

The audience settled.

Some remained seated, absorbed.

Others rose—stretching, conversing, stepping out briefly.

Laurencia shifted slightly in her seat.

“Father... I’ll be right back!”, said the young girl softly.

Father John nodded. “Don’t wander.”

“I won’t.”

She slipped out of the row, careful not to disturb others.

The corridors of Sadler’s Wells Theatre felt like a world of their own.

Quieter,

Dimmer.

But no less alive.

Soft golden lights lined the walls, illuminating framed portraits—figures from past productions. Dancers frozen mid-motion. Opera singers captured in dramatic stillness.

Laurencia slowed.

Her eyes wandered.

One portrait in particular caught her attention—a woman clad in elaborate costume, her expression poised between sorrow and defiance.

“Her expression... looks like Big Sis!”, murmured Laurencia, analyzing the portrait in front of her.

She stepped closer.

The brushwork, the texture, the way the light had been captured—it fascinated her.

Further down the corridor, another.

And another one.

Moments passed without measure.

The faint echo of the orchestra still reached her—but now distant, filtered through walls and space.

She turned a corner.

The hallway narrowed... Quieter still.

Then, a sudden stillness rose.

Not silence... But something heavier.

Laurencia frowned slightly.

“Hello...?”, she called softly.

But there was no answer.

Yet, she could hear it... A step forward.

Then another.

And then, Darkness felt upon her.

~ Act III — Finale ~

Back in the theatre, the curtain rose.

The final act was set up.

The stage opened into a more solemn setting—symbolic, structured, almost ritualistic in tone.

Tamino stood at the threshold of trial.

Dedicatus, as Pamina, entered shortly after—her presence steady, composed.

And though something beyond the stage had already begun to shift, nothing in her performance reflected it.

Her voice rose—clear, unwavering.

“Ach, ich fühl’s, es ist verschwunden,

Ewig hin der Liebe Glück!”

(Ah, I feel it, it is gone,

Forever gone is love’s happiness!)

“Nimmer kommt ihr Wonnestunden

Meinem Herzen mehr zurück...”

(Never shall those joyful hours

Return to my heart...)

The sorrow in her tone carried—not exaggerated, not theatrical—but true.

Tamino answered, his voice resolute.

“Ich werde alle Prüfungen besteh’n!”

(I shall endure all trials!)

The trials unfolded.

Then, she returned.

Beatrice as the Queen of the Night.

Even in this final act, her presence cut through everything.

Her voice was sharp as ever.

“Zur Hölle mit dir!

Du bist meine Tochter nicht!”

(To hell with you!

You are no daughter of mine!)

And Dedicatus answered—not in defiance alone, but in something deeper:

“Die Liebe leitet mich...

Und ihr bleib ich treu.”

(Love guides me...

And to it I remain faithful.)

From the audience, not a sound came out. Their attention reached its paroxysm.

From the stage, Dedicatus’s gaze moved.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Toward the audience... Toward where Laurencia had been seated.

Unmistakably, it was empty.

But Nothing changed.

Not her posture.

Nor her voice.

Nor even her timing...

She knew that something was off.

And still, the prodigy continued flawlessly.

.

..

...

Father John had been watching quietly. He was always attentive and composed in nature.

But at that moment, his eyes moved again to the empty seat beside him.

It had been more than fifteen minutes since Little Laurencia left.

Losing his composure, the Catholic Priest made his decision and rose silently on his seat.

And then, Father John stepped out.

The corridors were quieter now.

Most of the audience had returned to their seats.

The music from Act III echoed faintly through the walls.

“Laurencia?”, he called.

But there was no response.

He approached a staff member.

“A young girl—grey hair, about this height. Have you seen her?”

The man shook his head.

“No, sir.”

His concern sharpened even more.

Within moments, theatre security joined him.

Two professional men, staying fully on alert.

They moved through the corridors, past the portraits.

Past empty hallways.

Past dim-lit corners.

And then, one of them stopped.

“Sir—over here.”

Not so far from the restrooms, Laurencia was lying on the ground.

Father John’s breath caught—but he did not panic.

He moved quickly, kneeling beside her.

“Laurencia...?”

But no response came from the girl.

A guard checked.

“Pulse is there!”, he said. “She’s breathing but likely unconscious.”

“We need to evacuate her!”, declared the other one.

The distant sound of the orchestra continued.

Dedicatus was still up there—on the stage—unaware of what happened to her sister, but her instinct definitely caught up.

The opera continued.

The eldest of the Liddel sisters stood beneath the stage lights.

Her voice was steady and her presence unwavering.

And not a single soul in the audience could tell that something had already gone wrong.

There was no gradual immersion, as the stage presented a setting that carried a sense of finality. The lighting was more structured, the arrangement more deliberate, and everything pointed toward the resolution of the journey that had begun in the earlier acts.

The audience, now fully invested, remained silent as the final movement of The Magic Flute unfolded.

Tamino stood at the forefront, no longer as a wandering prince, but as one who had accepted the path before him. His posture reflected that transformation, and when he spoke, his voice carried a firm resolve.

“Ich fürchte nicht den Tod,

Ich schreite mutig fort!”

(I do not fear death,

I step forward with courage!)

His declaration resonated through the hall, not as a challenge, but as a certainty.

Moments later, Dedicatus spoke as Pamina.

Her presence did not interrupt the scene, but rather completed it. Where Tamino embodied determination, Pamina embodied conviction, and together they formed a balance that the act required.

Her voice followed, clear and unwavering.

“Tamino mein!

O welch ein Glück!”

(My Tamino!

Oh, what joy!)

Her tone carried no hesitation, as it reflected a decision that had already been made.

From above, the audience remained fully engaged, as no movement or whisper broke the atmosphere that had been carefully built since the beginning of the act.

The Queen of the Night spoke once more.

Beatrice stepped forward, and her presence alone altered the tension on stage. Even at this final stage of the opera, her portrayal did not weaken, as it instead sharpened into something more absolute.

Her final words were delivered with precision.

“Zerschmettert!

Zerstöret sei auf ewig!”

(Shattered!

Destroyed forever!)

Her voice carried authority until the very end, leaving no ambiguity in her rejection.

However, the stage did not bend to it.

Dedicatus answered, not alone, but in unity with Tamino, and their voices intertwined in a harmony that marked the resolution of the act.

“Wir wandeln durch des Tones Macht

Froh durch des Todes dunkle Nacht!”

(Through the power of sound we walk

Joyfully through death’s dark night!)

Their delivery did not carry struggle, but completion, as the journey had reached its intended conclusion.

The final chorus rose, structured and measured, as the ensemble joined to close the opera.

“Heil sei euch Geweihten!

Ihr dranget durch Nacht!”

(Hail to you, the initiated!

You have passed through the night!)

The voices layered in harmony, and the stage reached its conclusion with clarity.

The final note was sustained briefly before it faded.

The curtain fell.

.

..

...

For a moment, the theatre remained still, as if the audience needed time to process what they had witnessed.

Then, applause began.

It did not erupt immediately, but instead rose steadily, growing stronger as more voices joined. What followed was not merely appreciation, but recognition.

The interpretation had reached the level of a masterpiece.

Backstage, the atmosphere shifted as performers regained their breath and gathered together. Mr. Wellington approached with his usual composed demeanor, yet his tone carried unmistakable approval.

“Miss Ashcroft. Miss Liddel!”, he began by addressing the two directly. “Your performance has exceeded expectations. The level of execution you demonstrated today is remarkable, especially for a first major production.”

His words were concise, yet they held weight.

However, Dedicatus was not entirely focused on the praise.

While she had maintained a flawless performance throughout the act, her observation during the play had not ceased.

From the stage, she had memorized the audience.

Every face, every position.

And three were now absent.

Father John.

Laurencia.

And a third individual whose identity remained unknown to her.

Beside her, Beatrice spoke in a calm tone.

“You noticed it as well.”

Dedicatus nodded without hesitation.

“Three individuals art missin’!!”, replied Dedicatus.

“And one of them does not belong to your group!”, added Beatrice.

Their conclusions aligned without the need for further explanation.

Once the final arrangements backstage were completed and the remaining performers dispersed, Dedicatus left the area without delay.

She walked through the corridors of Sadler’s Wells Theatre with a clear objective in mind, and Beatrice followed closely behind her.

Their pace was steady, neither rushed nor hesitant, as both understood that something had occurred during the performance.

At the turn of a corridor, they encountered two guards stationed near the passage.

“Miss Liddel?” one of them asked.

“Yes!!”, she replied.

The guard stepped forward, maintaining a professional demeanor.

“There has been an incident involving the individuals accompanying you earlier.”

.

..

...

Dedicatus remained still as she listened.

“The Priest has already left the premises!”, continued the guard. “He transported the young girl with him to St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

A brief pause followed before the final detail was given.

“She was found unconscious and is currently in a coma.”

The information settled without visible reaction from Dedicatus, as her expression remained unchanged.

“What’s her condition beyond ‘dat?” she asked.

“The medical team is handling the situation. That is all the information we have at the moment!”, replied the guard.

Behind her, Beatrice observed in silence.

The performance had concluded successfully.

The audience had witnessed excellence.

The stage had delivered its final act.

Yet beyond the theatre, another narrative had begun.

And this one would not follow a script.