Post by littlesongbird on Sept 26, 2011 12:42:12 GMT -8
OOC: Forgive me if I misnumbered - but I think this would be 75. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. And yes, veiled reference to one of Mozart's pieces (Eine kleine Nachtmusik)
Lise hummed quietly as she went about her business, tidying up the room that a guest had left in a complete state of disarray when they left that morning. She sighed quietly, her tail swishing lazily behind her as she got down on her knees, hunting down the dustbunnies that seemed to have taken up residence in this particular room. She rose slowly, massaging her temples to work out the ache she was starting to feel. It had been a particularly rough night last night - as memories of the War had caused her to lose some sleep (something that happened often, but not often enough to disrupt her work). Hopefully, that wasn't a sign as how the rest of her week was going to go, sleeping wise at least.
She padded across the floor to the bed, intent on removing the sheets so she could take them to be cleaned, and so she could put fresh sheets on. Of course, this one was going to be a down right pest. She tapped her foot slightly, cocking her head as she thought about how she was going to accomplish this task. Well, the sheets didn't look too bad, she mused, before shaking her head. No, knowing Mssr Hollister (well, knowing of his reputation as the owner of a very prestigious hotel), he would get down right twitchy if dirty sheets were left on the bed. Sighing, she began to struggle with the bed, hissing and spitting curses and oaths in French at the uncooperating linens.
She paused a moment, her ears flicking back and forth, almost as if she had heard something. She shook her head, clearing it. Just her imagination, no-one there. She sighed softly and rubbed the back of her neck absently as she thought. Well, if there was no-one around, that meant no-one could complain if she sang, just a little. She hummed softly, trying to recall the aria she had picked out. Ah, yes, that would do nicely. Besides, she noted to herself, it wasn't as if anyone here in Felidae paid any attention to the French opera houses.
"O mio babbino caro, mi piace, è bello bello, vo’andare in Porta Rossa a comperar l’anello! Si, si, ci voglio andare! E se l’amassi indarno, andrei sul Ponte Vecchio ma per buttarmi in Arno! Mi struggo e mi tormento, O Dio! Vorrei morir! Babbo, pietà, pietà! Babbo, pietà, pietà!" she sang, pleased that she remembered the lyrics. It had been three long years since she had been Lauretta. Her Italian, she noted to herself, was little rusty (and would need much practice before she tried to sing that aria again) but at least her tone had been nice and she did remember to capture the emotions within the song.
A sudden noise behind her had her nearly whipping around in shock. Had someone heard her? She hadn't thought she had been that loud. How could she possibly explain how a maid knew about opera, let alone be able to sing it? (A maid, she knew, hardly made enough to go on an outing to an opera house, let alone wasn't even of the social strata to attend one, even if she could afford it.) Remember your lessons, she mentally hissed to herself. Composure, composure, composure. Let the other, if there is one there, address you.
Lise hummed quietly as she went about her business, tidying up the room that a guest had left in a complete state of disarray when they left that morning. She sighed quietly, her tail swishing lazily behind her as she got down on her knees, hunting down the dustbunnies that seemed to have taken up residence in this particular room. She rose slowly, massaging her temples to work out the ache she was starting to feel. It had been a particularly rough night last night - as memories of the War had caused her to lose some sleep (something that happened often, but not often enough to disrupt her work). Hopefully, that wasn't a sign as how the rest of her week was going to go, sleeping wise at least.
She padded across the floor to the bed, intent on removing the sheets so she could take them to be cleaned, and so she could put fresh sheets on. Of course, this one was going to be a down right pest. She tapped her foot slightly, cocking her head as she thought about how she was going to accomplish this task. Well, the sheets didn't look too bad, she mused, before shaking her head. No, knowing Mssr Hollister (well, knowing of his reputation as the owner of a very prestigious hotel), he would get down right twitchy if dirty sheets were left on the bed. Sighing, she began to struggle with the bed, hissing and spitting curses and oaths in French at the uncooperating linens.
She paused a moment, her ears flicking back and forth, almost as if she had heard something. She shook her head, clearing it. Just her imagination, no-one there. She sighed softly and rubbed the back of her neck absently as she thought. Well, if there was no-one around, that meant no-one could complain if she sang, just a little. She hummed softly, trying to recall the aria she had picked out. Ah, yes, that would do nicely. Besides, she noted to herself, it wasn't as if anyone here in Felidae paid any attention to the French opera houses.
"O mio babbino caro, mi piace, è bello bello, vo’andare in Porta Rossa a comperar l’anello! Si, si, ci voglio andare! E se l’amassi indarno, andrei sul Ponte Vecchio ma per buttarmi in Arno! Mi struggo e mi tormento, O Dio! Vorrei morir! Babbo, pietà, pietà! Babbo, pietà, pietà!" she sang, pleased that she remembered the lyrics. It had been three long years since she had been Lauretta. Her Italian, she noted to herself, was little rusty (and would need much practice before she tried to sing that aria again) but at least her tone had been nice and she did remember to capture the emotions within the song.
A sudden noise behind her had her nearly whipping around in shock. Had someone heard her? She hadn't thought she had been that loud. How could she possibly explain how a maid knew about opera, let alone be able to sing it? (A maid, she knew, hardly made enough to go on an outing to an opera house, let alone wasn't even of the social strata to attend one, even if she could afford it.) Remember your lessons, she mentally hissed to herself. Composure, composure, composure. Let the other, if there is one there, address you.
