(See intro for disclaimers) [THE NEW WORLD, Part 3 of 8] (Second story in "The Disciple" arc) "Okay, look, if I don't deny I'll cry and cry and cry and cry Till all the walls are washed away. No, I could not tolerate such disarray. So, Not a crack in this dam, Not a tear in this eye, Not a single fucking cloud in the sky today." "Not A Cloud In The Sky", John Bucchino Rachel sat stiff and straight in the back of the cab as it pulled away, refusing to look either to the right or the left, let alone over her shoulder, until the cab turned the corner. The Buzz vanished, and Rachel let her head fall against the high back of the seat with a low groan of relief. She ground the heels of her hands against her eyes and rubbed, hard, as if she could rub the weariness away if she just tried hard enough. It didn't help. Her thoughts kept churning around in her head and in her stomach, and she couldn't for the life of her make them go away. The headache went away, mostly, when the Buzz vanished. Getting away from her own doubts and fears and worries wasn't nearly so easy. It couldn't be as dangerous as they said. Could it? There couldn't be all that many of *them* in the world. How could they have kept it a secret, for... for eons and eons? It wasn't possible. It didn't make any sense. But it didn't make sense that Richie could pull out a knife and cut open his hand and have it heal, either. It didn't make sense that whenever she got anywhere close to one of them, she got a headache like a migraine. It didn't make any sense that a week ago someone had broken into her apartment when they shouldn't have been able to and killed her, and she didn't even know it. Or that she had walked around Immortal for a week and never had the first clue that she was different. And now there were supposed to be people, Immortal people, coming after her with swords, wanting to... "I've changed my mind," Rachel said suddenly from her corner in the back of the cab. "Please, take me downtown instead, to the corner of 4th and State." The cab driver obliged her, and within minutes they pulled up to the back entrance of the Seacouver Opera House. Rachel blindly handed the driver a small handful of bills, and she thanked him profusely as she climbed out of the back seat. She already had her keys out, but they weren't necessary: the Sunday matinee' of "Butterfly" was well underway, and most of the stage crew were relaxing in the hallway, one floor below the stage, waiting to be called upstairs for the scene change into Act II. A few raised their hands in cheerful greeting, or called Rachel's name as she passed. Rachel hurried past them with a smile planted on her face, waving in return, glad for the safety of being surrounded by familiar faces and people, in a place where everything was normal and she knew all of the rules. She ran up the stairs, too jittery to wait for the disobedient old elevator. She rushed past the second basement dressing rooms that the chorus filled to overflowing, past the stage level where out onstage the tenor was drinking a toast to America, on up to the second floor workshops and Mari Dauro, the head costumer. Only a few years older than Rachel, Mari ruled the costume shop with unchallenged discipline. Pins lived in pincushions; scissors and tape measures lived in their assigned drawers; and anyone who was imprudent enough to throw one of her creations over a chair instead of hanging it up neatly was fiercely lectured into submission, be they chorus member or imported European star. Rachel appreciated Mari's professionalism and her inspired costume designs; Mari approved of Rachel's compulsive tidiness. The new Immortal barely slowed as she rounded the corner into the costume shop. Mari and her small crew of cowed seamstresses were nearly finished cleaning up after the last minute adjustments and mending, and Mari's red gold head jerked up at Rachel's unannounced, unceremonious appearance in her domain. She scowled slightly in annoyance as she looked Rachel up and down, already sizing her up mentally for a fitting. "You aren't in 'Butterfly', and I don't have a costume for you, and you're way too late anyway," she proclaimed. "Even if I had something to fit you, there's no time to get into make up. Who are you substituting for?" Mari glanced at the Act I costume rack as Rachel tried to catch her breath. "There's nobody missing today." "I'm not here for the opera," Rachel answered. Her hands, she realized, were wringing each other nervously; she forced them to her sides and made them behave. "I need to ask you a favour, Mari." Mari lifted an eyebrow. "What is it? Something wrong with one of your costumes?" Her voice dared Rachel to say so. "No!" Rachel protested, shaking her head emphatically. "Nothing like that. I just... can I borrow a key to the upstairs storeroom for a few days, Mari? Please?" One of the assistant dressmakers had stopped folding ribbons to listen; Mari shot her a quick warning glance, and the woman returned immediately to her job. "Broke your lease?" Mari asked, not unsympathetic. When the story of the late night breakin and the attack on Rachel had made the rounds at the opera company, reactions had run from sympathy for her, to disdain that she would live in *that* part of town in the first place. As in most things, Mari came squarely down in the middle, and on the side of common sense. Moving out, in her opinion, was the only sensible thing to do, and Rachel wouldn't be the first member of the opera to spend a few illicit nights at the theatre. "Not yet," Rachel temporized. If there had been sand on the floor, she would have been digging her toe in it. "But I can't get any rest there. I can't fall asleep. I'm too scared." She hated saying it. She hated feeling it. She hated admitting it to herself, let alone to anyone else. And Rachel couldn't tell Mari, or anyone else, just how much she had to be scared of now. The seamstress was nodding her head knowingly, though, and her strong fingers, gnarled and reddened at a young age from long hours with a needle, were working a key free from the large bunch she carried. "Here," she said, handing it to Rachel. "Just be sure I get it back. I don't have to tell you to leave the room like you find it, do I?" "No, ma'am" Rachel agreed, clutching the key in her fist. "Thanks, Mari." Relief made her impulsive, and she hugged the costumer briefly in gratitude. "Thanks so much." "And don't get caught," Mari called after her as Rachel turned and started up the last flight of stairs to the third floor. The top floor of the theatre was used mostly for storage. Painted scenery flats and backdrops were lined along the walls in huge stalls. Set pieces were sorted and stored by type: trees, bushes, and papier-mache' rocks in one huge corner; chairs and tables to suit a dozen different periods in another. One end of the large, rectangular floor had been blocked off with a chain link fence from floor to ceiling, with a steel gate. Mari Dauro had commandeered for the entire end of the room for costume storage. Like all of Mari's domain, it was clean and orderly. Most important to Rachel, there was an old, saggy sofa shoved against the back wall, and the gate locked. Tightly. High up in the ceiling, a grimy and neglected skylight let a few rays of afternoon sunlight filter into the storeroom. Rachel picked her way through the stacks of dusty furniture and fake trees, and let herself into the costume storage room. The steel door swung shut on meticulously oiled hinges, and latched with a reassuring *snik* of the lock. A long velvet cloak borrowed from the racks made do for a blanket, and Rachel curled up on the broken down old sofa without bothering even to take off her shoes. With two industrial doors, a chain link fence, and a hundred or more of the opera's cast and crew between her and whatever threats might be out there natural or unnatural Rachel felt almost safe for the first time in a week. Two floors below, the opera chorus was singing to Cio Cio san's family spirits, and Puccini's rich melodies drifted up to the attic where Rachel lay in the dark, curled into a tight, tense ball. The music was familiar and comforting to listen to, and at the same time, it nudged against a deep, hollow ache in her heart. The voices faded and softened as the chorus left the stage, and the melody strengthened and focused, crystallizing into the glorious love duet that Rachel's voice would never be mature enough to sing. Two tears slipped out from underneath her closed eyelids, and rolled slowly down her cheeks as she fell, at last, into the heavy and dreamless sleep of sheer exhaustion. [End of Part 3]