Marcello wonders off into the night in a hunt for the truth behind whispered rumors. Who is this hidden canary has his the King caged away?
Characters:
Marcello Alto Francesca Dolce-Alto
Posted: Fri Jul 18, 2025 7:59 pm
Each step was calculated, he could visualize the routes of the castle’s guards guided by ears that have memorized each step. A young eager prince pressed himself against the hallways walls of the castle, eager to escape the responsibilities to chase the gossip he had heard for quite some time now. As a boy, he recalled the many chastising jokes about his own birthright as the true Prince of Musique. The King and Queen were quick to diffuse such ideas, but in the quiet night of their quarters, he could hear their furious hushed accusations of affairs. The folly of their marriage would resurface time and time again forcing another quick reconciliation only building more resentment against one another.
Whether they both had their fair share of infidelity, lately the wind of whispers were echoing the King’s affair now more than ever. The 14 year old pondered the truth of it, and if he was able to uncover his father’s secret, what would that say about his own true identity? Would that be the reason why his “father” acted so unfavorably to him? He steadied himself, feeling his nerves anxiously tick at his heart. ‘Breathe.” he told himself, before the sounds would begin colliding with one another and send him into a howling storm of noises. Marcello waited for the distance of footsteps to dissipate into the next corner. It was the last guard to listen out for before he could slip through the window without raising any suspicions.
There was an old storage room that was left unattended, it’s use was for old dated trends from party fabrics, furniture, and other assemblies that somehow had been forgotten and now used for a pair of worker’s scandalous flings, thinking they have found the perfect private getaway in between shifts and after parties. Tonight he was lucky enough to find it unoccupied. It was there where he kept some outfits stashed away for his nightly escapes. Something a little more common to draw some attention away from the obvious privilege he held. Marcello switched his frames, noting his height. Still the same, surely he will grow some more inches within the next two years to come, he could really catch a break from the annoying jests from his sister, Anika. As if she didn’t have anything else better to do. Rolling his eyes, he slipped on some shoes that granted him a few more inches, in a modest and discrete sort of way. Eyes fixed on his watch, Marcello sucked in a gasp, rushing to tussle his hair in a different fashion and penciling a dotted mark above his right cheekbone, and one more above his left eyebrow. So far the guise has worked in averting curious suspicions that prompted “Has anyone told you, you look like Prince Marcello?”. That sort of attention was unwanted and would surely come with punishment from his parents. It helped that he had been practising finding a new pitch for his voice, a bit deeper with more naive enthusiasm did the trick. One last frantic grasp for his satchel and he was out to travel the streets of Musique
The caged canary is what most of the servants would call her, and this singing bird was the main target of this investigation. She was tucked away into a busy district full of aspiring artists. The crowd was loud, many with dreams and knew only a life of perseverance to try and get them to the next platform up, closer to a taste of luxury. Many would only make it this far and swear that there is still a chance for their next shot in stardom. Marcello frowned at the thought, knowing full well that it had little to do with talent and more so about status, money and ‘knowing the right kind of people’. He weaved himself through until he finally found the bird cage of a theater. Tugging at his satchel, he took in the voices seeping through the doors. It occurred to him that he didn’t know who he was looking for. The gossip really only led to this district, with the critically acclaimed opera singer that brought his Father as a private patron for her voice for a short time. “b*****d.’’ he growled under his breath. Voices tuning tugged Marcello’s ears. If anything the rehearsal rooms could guide him in this direction. Perhaps he should act as janitor? No, too lowly for his liking. Footsteps were approaching quickly and the young prince found himself fumbling for the door, only to have an usher beat him to it. The man peered down at him suspiciously, and the young prince swallowed nervously trying to play off a coy smile. “I’m part of the stage crew, I have–” he turned to his satchel, fumbling around inside of it just to make a believable case for himself. The usher sighed and nodded him in, “You’re late, and you are lucky we are short, do yourself a favor and be more convincing next time.” the man nearly threw him in and Marcello could only give him two hands pressed together, thanking him for this favor as he scurried over the stage only to beeline it to the dressing rooms.
He glanced around, what was her name? He closed his eyes, instinctively following the high and lows of a voice practicing. Marcello stood in front of a door, the name plate faded in brass but elegantly written ‘Amanita Dolce’. His hands tightened around the strap of his satchel and he fixed himself for a proper introduction. “Respirare…”, he knocked gently at the door.
He was surprised to meet eyes with someone around his age. The shock making him jump back, quickly checking the hall left and right. His eyes darted back at the door, “Ah, apologies, I was looking for Amanita Dolce. I was sent to give her something!”
Marcello could very well have his head on a platter for this, but he reached into his satchel, digging out some lavish shawl, outdated and taken from the shed but nonetheless luxury to any commoner. “A gift from, Remi Beltramini, I’m sure you have heard of him.”
In efforts to sway suspicion, he boldly leaned forward to peak into the room, “Are you allowed in here?” Marcello knitted his brow cautiously accusing her of trespassing.
She arrived at her mother’s private dressing room in delight with what she was holding in her hand. The thick stack of bound paper was brand new and waiting for the young teen to start flipping through its pages. Francesca practiced much too long for the lead role of the new production their respectable theater was putting on for it to go to another actress to snatch it with their half-assed second callback. It wasn’t just her convincing herself of that either; she’d seen the girl do much better. Francesca had been immersed in the theater her whole life, having been literally born within the walls of one. So it clicked when the whispers about her rival’s benefactor reached her ears. He was using his influence to rig the audition. That kind of practice was nothing new in their world, but this time it fired up something wicked in her. Two could play at that game.
That morning, Francesca was the only one that showed up to the final audition on account of the other actress suddenly coming down with laryngitis. Or, so it was believed. Francesca still auditioned and sang like an uncaged nightingale. But now it was over and she plopped down on the long couch, laid back on a decorative pillow, and started reading with a triumphant hum. She didn’t feel too badly about it; at the end of the day it was her way of looking out for herself and her mom. Amanita Dolce was originally from Corthyr but came to Musique to follow her dreams of becoming a stage actress. She did, and performed in some of the most prestigious theaters for many years before Francesca was born. She was performing that night with the plan for the both of them to have dinner once she was done mingling with the cast and curious audience members.
The knocking on the door brought her warmup practice to a stop. A bit annoying but also a welcomed reprieve. Reading was not without its difficulties, but she made up for it with her ability to memorize and deliver her lines. Francesca had grown tired of trying to figure out some of the newer words and switched to practicing one of the songs she’d have a part in singing.
But when she opened the door she expected to find an adult. All she saw was the top of a face with thick brows and blue eyes, and a head of messy dark hair. Once she lowered her head she saw his whole face. Not an adult but someone close to her own age and similar in height. Familiar too, not that she could place how she knew it. She gave him a once over and figured him to be a stagehand. Down in the dressing rooms. Where the stage wasn’t. Brown eyes narrowed and she put her hand on the doorway, just in case this guy decided he wanted to come in. “Well she’s busy right now so you can leave it right there,” The curly haired girl darted her eyes to a place beside the door then looked back at Marcello. “Or you can leave it with the doorman up front.”
She saw the shawl and found it to look nice. Thoughtful even. Whoever the gifter was, they understood a thing or two about protecting a singer’s voice. But whatever progress he was attempting to make was wiped away the moment that name came out of his mouth. Francesca looked at him, wide-eyed and stunned by it. Did this guy really come to her mom’s dressing room and utter that name like it wouldn’t mean anything to her? To them?
Her ears were warm with fury. Seeing Marcello lean forward, she shifted to use her body and voluminous hair to block his sight. She didn’t dignify his question of her being allowed there with a response, and instead gave him a small grin. “Let me get Miss Dolce for you.” Fran stepped back and gave the door a hard slam.
Only to open it up again less than thirty seconds later with a vase, aka ‘Miss Dolce,’ in her hand. It was the first thing she could find that was light enough and looked throwable. ”Here’s Miss Dolce. Still want to give her something?” There was no hiding the fit of anger that took over her features and she spoke at Marcello with a bark in her words. “Are you trying to be funny? You have some nerve coming here with that whole ‘delivery from Remi Beltramini’ bit. Who put you up to this? Dumbass One or Dumbass Two?” He looked a little fidgety when she first opened the door, so one of those stupid stagehands had to be putting this new guy up to it. Yeah, Francesca had a bit of a mouth when she was younger and didn’t shy away in saying who her other biological contributor was, but she liked to think she knew better now. That didn’t stop some of the other theater brats from teasing her about it from time to time.
This time she leaned forward with the vase held up to the level of her eye, prepared to throw it if need be. Or, so she told herself. “This is a new low for them, coming for my mom this time. You can tell them the same thing I’d tell His Highness if he wasn’t too chicken to face me: shove that scarf where the sun don’t shine and leave us alone. Got it?”
If this were no prank, her father was thirteen years too late to try and get her mom’s attention by gifting luxury scarves, jewelry, fancy chocolates, or anything else for that matter. Francesca wouldn’t let him. He didn’t deserve her, especially after what he did. “Anything else you wanna deliver, smart guy?”
ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Musique - Theater - Dressing Room (Pre-Utopia) ★ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ: Marcello ★ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ: none ᴀʟʟ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ:dress, tennis shoes★ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ: 'These boys are going to SO be eating dirt tomorrow!!'
