Mornings tended to peacefulness, and Stroud always made it a point in her own odd schedule to bring down a hand-made, hand blended and perfected protein shake for Pigeon’s breakfast at 8:00 A.M. Small chit chat and occasional, gentle touches along the elegant arms, or an appreciating hand flattened along her waist, to increase feelings of appreciation, ownership, pack solidarity, affection. Easy questions like ‘how did you sleep,’ and ‘how does your FHL tendon feel today’ to train in an awareness and appreciation of how much faster and how much more powered life healed and increased the capacity of the body. 9:40 A.M. meant a peck on the cheek and well wishes as Pigeon went to make the trek to classes and rehearse upcoming performances until 6 P.M.
At 12:25 P.M., after practice, many of the company hit a local gym for elliptical, laps in a pool, Laz’s office for massage or the onsite medical staff. Showers, then lunches of yogurt and fruit. Rehearsals. Then home. Six days per week, like nearly every professional dancer. It was a clockwork that kept the human machine in peak performance, and kept it easy to retain tabs on her. Sometimes there were unknown evening engagements- agreeing to watch a friend’s rehearsal and give critiques, photoshoots for promotions or extra modelling work, ‘outsider’ friends who weren’t in the dance company but likely still artists or musicians of some sort.
Stroud always made certain to have a glass of wine to wind down an evening with her, if she was going to then train in speed, agility, meditation, combat, or energy draining. Or just head to bed. Small things, little connections, just like with Lazarus. Always watched, always know; Nothing wasted, nothing wanted.
Nothing was different today. The Antiquarian had finished her own work for the day by noon, slept until 4, and made a jaunt to her favorite espresso pull while checking on artists and musicians websites for events and news. A stop by her own wine sommelier produce two bottles of Clos des Papes Châteauneuf-du-Pape 2012- heavy, and robust with cherry and cassis notes, but smooth. The first was left by the glass Laz was oft fond to use, then the other taken, whistling, to the lower loft to await Pigeon’s return. She was not home at 6, or 7. Or even 8, when Stroud checked from returning to her restoration of an Edwardian boudoir dressing screen for a client. A mental note was ticked, and the possibility of an unforeseen class or meeting assumed in the interim- a message thumbed into phone offering Stroud’s Uber account in case the dancer was out partying.
By midnight there was still no reply. By 8 A. M. Saturday, January 2nd, there was still no Pigeon at her loft. No replies to messages. Calling the dance studio said that she had left work as usual, after rehearsals. Not with anyone. No one had any record of schedules with her. Stroud made another note. She called in to the city metropolitan police to provide the missing persons report. Three current photos of the dancer, nicknames used, a physical description, the clothing and shoes she’d left the loft wearing on the morning of the first as well as the clothes she typically kept in her bag and locker to change into, the list of places she frequented, the company’s contacts and Stroud’s own.
Since it was still early, she found Lazarus not long after in the kitchen. Her tone was that of a General, and not socialite, “Delphine has vanished. Ceraskia doesn't answer her crystal."
" I want every angle probed from police reports to surveillance hacks. A mistake of one of our own, attacking a dancer, I want to know. If it’s a regular thug, I want their heart. If it’s our enemies, I’ll have their stars and garters. Priority. Mobilize Intel.“
Beejoux
Shazari
