The World in Dissonance (Volume 2)

Chapter 1: Hell is other people

Part 1

Morning light filtered through the high windows of Sadler’s Wells Theatre, pale and deliberate, as though even the sun approached the place with a certain reverence. The stage, still half-shrouded in shadow, bore the quiet tension of something waiting to awaken—a world not yet alive, yet already heavy with intention.

It was still early, not long past nine, and the rehearsal had only just begun.

A handful of performers were already present upon the stage, their voices low, their movements restrained. Costumes were incomplete—half-worn garments, loosened collars, rehearsal cloaks thrown over shoulders. The illusion was not yet whole, and yet the structure of something grand was already visible beneath the surface.

At the center of it all stood two figures.

Dedicatus Liddel.

And Beatrice Ashcroft.

Even in rehearsal, the distinction between them was impossible to ignore.

“Places!”, called the director, a weary man by the name of Mr. Ellington, his voice echoing faintly through the hall. “We’ll begin with Act I—no orchestra, just cues and projection. Focus on timing.”

A soft murmur of acknowledgment followed.

Among the ensemble were a few notable presences—though none would carry names beyond this stage.

Clara Whitby, cast among the attendants, adjusted the folds of her skirt with nervous precision.

Edmund Hale, one of the guards, rolled his shoulders as though preparing for something far greater than a rehearsal.

Thomas Redgrave, tall and quiet, lingered near the back, eyes fixed on the two central figures as if observing a contest rather than a performance.

And in the audience—far from the stage yet not detached from it—sat Father John and Laurencia.

The priest remained composed, hands folded, his gaze attentive but calm. Laurencia, by contrast, leaned forward slightly in her seat, her eyes moving constantly—between the stage, the performers, and most often... her sister.

“Begin!”, came the cue.

A hush settled.

The first lines were delivered—not yet sung in full, but spoken with measured projection, as the structure of The Magic Flute took shape piece by piece.

Dedicatus stepped forward first.

There was no hesitation in her movement.

Even stripped of full costume and orchestra, she carried the stage with an ease that bordered on irreverence. Her voice, when it came, was not merely recited—it cut through the air, sharp, deliberate, controlled.

Not perfect.

But dangerous.

Beatrice followed.

Where Dedicatus imposed herself upon the stage, Beatrice claimed it.

Her posture was immaculate, her diction precise to the point of severity. Every word was placed, every pause intentional. There was no excess in her delivery—no wasted motion, no unnecessary emphasis.

If Dedicatus was force, then Beatrice was form.

And together, they clashed.

“Projection!”, Mr. Ellington interrupted suddenly. “Miss Ashcroft, hold the line just a fraction longer. Miss Liddel—less speed, more weight. You are not racing to the conclusion.”

A pause.

Neither replied.

But both adjusted.

Again.

This time, the exchange sharpened.

Dedicatus slowed—not in energy, but in precision. Her words lingered just enough to carry intent. Her eyes, once wandering, now fixed upon her counterpart with unmistakable focus.

Beatrice, in turn, allowed a slight shift—barely perceptible. A fraction more emotion beneath the surface. Not enough to break her composure, but enough to acknowledge the presence of something... alive.

From the audience, Laurencia tilted her head slightly.

“They’re fighting...”, she whispered.

Father John did not immediately respond.

“Not quite!”, he said after a moment. “They are... refining one another.”

Back on stage, the rehearsal progressed.

The ensemble joined in—movement sequences, positioning, timing cues. Clara missed a step, corrected herself quickly. Edmund entered half a beat too early, earning a brief note from the director. Thomas remained steady, silent, reliable.

But always, the center returned to those two.

“Again,” said Mr. Ellington.

And again.

Each repetition brought subtle change.

Dedicatus began to lean less on instinct and more on structure. Her improvisational edge softened—not diminished, but focused. Where once she might have pushed against the scene, now she began to shape it.

Beatrice, in contrast, began to allow cracks in her perfection.

Not flaws.

Openings.

Moments where something unscripted could exist—where her control did not weaken, but expanded to include the unpredictable.

“Better!”, the director muttered, almost to himself.

Time passed.

The morning advanced unnoticed.

At some point, a short break was called.

The performers dispersed across the stage and seating areas—water bottles, quiet conversations, the rustle of fabric and paper.

Dedicatus stepped aside, rolling her shoulders, exhaling lightly.

“Not bad!!”, muttered the young maiden.

“Acceptable!”, came a voice beside her.

Beatrice.

Neither looked at the other immediately.

“You’re adjusting.”, continued Beatrice. “Slowly.”

“Ya too!!”, Dedicatus replied. “Didn’t expect ya to loosen up like that.”

A pause.

“Adaptation is not weakness”, replied Beatrice.

“Never said it was.”

For a brief moment, there was something resembling agreement.

Then it passed.

“Back to positions!”, called Mr. Ellington.

The rehearsal resumed.

This time, they moved into more complex staging.

Lighting cues were tested—brief flashes, shifting tones. The illusion of the magical world began to take faint shape.

Dedicatus stood beneath a narrow beam of light, her figure half-illuminated.

Beatrice entered from the opposite side, her silhouette cutting cleanly through shadow.

Their voices rose—still not full opera, but closer now. The structure of melody hinted beneath the spoken lines, as though the music waited just beneath the surface, ready to emerge.

“Hold,” said the director suddenly.

A technician adjusted something above.

“Again from the entrance.”

They obeyed.

Again.

And again.

From the audience, Laurencia had grown quieter.

Her earlier curiosity had settled into something deeper—attention, perhaps even understanding.

“They’re different!”, she murmured.

Father John nodded faintly.

“Yes.”

“But... they’re working together.”

A longer pause this time.

“Yes.”

Back on stage, the final sequence of the morning approached.

Energy had shifted.

What began as rivalry now resembled something more complex—less confrontational, more… intertwined.

Dedicatus stepped forward, her movement deliberate.

Beatrice met her halfway.

For a moment, they stood within the same space.

No lines. No cues.

Just presence.

“Continue!”, said Mr. Ellington softly.

And they did.

The scene unfolded—not perfectly, not yet polished, but undeniably alive.

When it ended, there was no immediate instruction. Only silence.

Then—

“That will do it!”

The words broke the tension.

It was nearing noon. The rehearsal had reached its natural conclusion.

Performers relaxed, conversations resumed, the structure of the stage dissolving back into its incomplete state.

Dedicatus exhaled, stretching lightly.

Beatrice adjusted her sleeve, expression unchanged.

From the audience, Laurencia stood, turning to Father John.

“They’re... both amazing!”, she said simply.

The priest rose as well, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Yes!”, he replied. “Though not for the same reasons.”

As they made their way toward the stage, the morning light had shifted—brighter now, less hesitant.

The world beyond the theatre continued as always.

But within those walls, something had begun to take shape.

Not yet a performance. Not yet a masterpiece.

But something far more important—A balance.

Fragile.

Unspoken.

And perhaps... necessary.

.

..

...

The stage slowly emptied as the morning rehearsal came to an end. Costumes were loosened, scripts folded, and the lingering tension of performance gave way to the quieter rhythm of intermission. Beyond the tall doors of Sadler’s Wells Theatre, the city had fully awakened, and with it came the simple, earthly reminder that even performers must eat.

Dedicatus stepped down from the stage with her usual casual ease, rolling the stiffness out of her shoulders. Laurencia was already waiting near the aisle, her expression bright with restrained excitement, while Father John stood beside her, composed as ever.

“That was amazing, Big Sis!”, said Laurencia, unable to fully conceal her admiration.

“Hehe~ not bad for a mornin’ warm-up, right!?”, replied Dedicatus, brushing it off with a faint grin. “Still got some polishin’ to do before the real deal.”

They made their way toward a quieter corner of the theatre’s adjoining lounge—a modest space reserved for performers and staff. It was there, as they settled around a small table, that Laurencia’s gaze drifted toward the entrance.

Beatrice Ashcroft stood at a distance, alone.

For a brief moment, Laurencia hesitated. Then, with a small breath of resolve, she rose and approached her.

“Um... Miss Ashcroft?”

Beatrice turned slightly, her composed gaze settling upon the younger girl.

“Yes?”

“We’re having lunch just over there... Would you... like to join us?”

A pause followed—brief, but noticeable.

Then, with the faintest softening of her expression, Beatrice inclined her head.

“... Very well.”

When she arrived at the table, the air shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Well, well... didn’t expect ya to accept!!”, remarked Dedicatus, leaning back in her chair.

“I see no reason to refuse a reasonable invitation.”, replied Beatrice calmly as she took her seat. “Even rivals may share a table—temporarily.”

That was how their relationship could be described.

Rivals until the very end.

Father John offered a polite nod. “Miss Ashcroft.”

“Father!”, she acknowledged in return.

The meal itself was simple—light fare brought from the theatre’s kitchen—but the conversation quickly proved far more substantial.

It began quietly.

Then, inevitably, it sharpened.

“Stagecraft!”, Beatrice began, almost idly. “It is not merely performance. It is the disciplined embodiment of literature. Without structure, it collapses into spectacle.”

Dedicatus smirked faintly. “And without spirit, it’s just a lifeless script.”

Beatrice folded her hands neatly. “‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”, she quoted, her voice measured. “William Shakespeare understood that the stage reflects life—not the other way around.”

Dedicatus leaned forward slightly. “Yeah, but ol’ Shakespeare also knew drama ain’t about just reflectin’ life—it’s about amplifyin’ it. ‘The play’s the thing...’ right? Ya use the stage to reveal truth.”

“Selective truth!”, countered Beatrice. “Curated, refined, elevated.”

“Distorted, ya mean!”, Dedicatus shot back lightly. “Literature ain’t supposed to sit pretty. It’s meant to challenge.”

Beatrice’s gaze sharpened—just slightly.

“‘The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.’” she quoted, invoking Oscar Wilde with quiet precision.

Dedicatus let out a short laugh. “Now that’s a line this one can agree with. But intensity don’t come from perfection—it comes from contrast. From chaos.”

“Chaos without control is meaningless.”

“N’ control without chaos is borin’.”

Laurencia watched the exchange with wide eyes, her head turning back and forth between them as though observing a match played at a level she could barely comprehend.

Father John, meanwhile, remained silent—though there was a faint trace of amusement in his expression.

“Very well!”, continued Beatrice, adjusting her posture. “Let us consider literature itself. Its purpose is not merely expression—it is preservation. A civilization records itself through its words.”

“Fair enough!!”, admitted Dedicatus. “But it also reinvents itself through them. ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’, right?” she added, again echoing Wilde with a casual shrug.

Beatrice allowed the faintest smile.

“A fair point.”

“See? We ain’t that different.”

“I did not say that.”

Their eyes met.

For a brief moment, there was no rivalry—only recognition.

Then, almost simultaneously, they looked away.

“Call it a draw, Beato!?” Dedicatus offered.

“For now!”, replied Beatrice. “We shall revisit this... during the examinations.”

“Heh. Lookin’ forward to it.”

The tension eased.

The conversation shifted to lighter matters—practical concerns, stage timing, minor adjustments for the afternoon performance. Even Laurencia found herself able to follow once more, occasionally interjecting with small questions that both older girls answered in their own distinct ways.

Before long, the break came to an end.

“Show Time!!”, said Dedicatus, rising from her seat.

Beatrice followed.

The transition back to the stage was quieter—more focused. There was no longer the exploratory energy of the morning. What remained was preparation.

Finalization.

Backstage, the atmosphere had changed.

Costumes were no longer partial. Garments were fastened properly, fabrics adjusted, details refined. The performers moved with purpose, each step bringing them closer to the moment that would define the day.

Dedicatus stood before a mirror, adjusting the final elements of her attire. Her expression, though calm, carried a sharper edge now—her earlier casualness replaced by something more deliberate.

Across the room, Beatrice did the same.

Their reflections, though separate, mirrored one another in intent.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

Laurencia and Father John remained at a respectful distance, observing quietly. Even without stepping onto the stage, they could feel it—the shift in atmosphere, the weight of what was to come.

“This feels different!”, whispered Laurencia.

“Indeed!”, replied Father John softly. “This is no longer rehearsal.”

The clock ticked forward.

Four o’clock approached.

Beyond the walls of the theatre, the city continued its rhythm, unaware of the performance about to unfold within.

But inside—everything had aligned.

The stage was set. The roles were assumed.

And soon, the curtain would rise.