True Cherry and False Mahogany, Part II

Viola had had a point about the balcony, given exactly how far she’d need to project her voice. Running in flats was most definitely not comfortable and more than likely not elegant. Still, when the railing nearly slammed into her stomach, it at least gifted her with the questionable blessing of an unimpeded view and acceptable volume.

The surrounding crowd was a burden by comparison, more than capable of crushing her with their abundant and shifting movements. She hunted for Viola with her eyes. She was unsuccessful. Her chances were limited, and further attempts were blunted by the commanding presence of the host striding upon the gaping stage.

“Good evening,” the man began, gesturing with wide arms to a broad audience beyond. “Welcome, once again, to another night of fast fortunes and treasures traded. Tonight, for one night only, we’ve prepared for you a luxurious assortment of exotic novelties from all over the world--this time, musical in essence and pleasing to the soul.”

Octavia was already bored. It was a great start. She’d been horrifically correct about the space concern, for how she nearly found herself squished by strangers against the railing. It took effort to angle her body accordingly, battling for personal space with her arms splayed at uncomfortable angles. It worked, mostly. The backpack helped, an unfortunate cushion that still left her somewhat concerned for Stradivaria’s safety. That was her own fault. She sighed.

The man clasped his hands together, more than ignorant to her plight high above. “Each item tonight is one-of-a-kind, and a spectacular addition to any connoisseur's collection. Perhaps you’ll find exactly what you’ve been looking for. Perhaps it may even find you, instead.”

For how much effort had gone into the past hour alone, she planned to scream if she didn’t find something besides another stray elbow in her side.

“Without further ado, we present tonight’s first item. From the collection of an artist in the far-off city of Whitebrook comes this luxuriously crafted marble masterpiece. You’ll find here a sweeping and elegant depiction of a lady of the opera, lost in song as the day breaks. Why, that is the title of this fine piece--The Aria of Dawn. This splendid work has traveled across the continent specifically for you. Feel free to welcome it as the newest addition to your collection, be it vast or new. If I may direct your attention to the--”

The sculpture was pretty enough. It very much was not for her. Neither was the experience of whoever had just stepped on her right foot. She rolled her eyes.

“Now, given the credentials of the original artist and the quality of the material, we will be starting our first bid tonight at a humble 450,000 Gold.”

She doubted she’d be able to raise her little sign into the air nearly as fast as a select few around her, for how well-versed in the art of the auction they seemed to be. Octavia got the gist quickly, simple as the premise had been described. Placards erupted around and below her in tandem, speckling the wealthy masses intermittently at a speed that was almost dizzying. The sheer heights of numbers being flung so casually from affluent lips were equally disorienting, and she still couldn’t wrap her head around the concept of spending such an exorbitant amount of money on such an average sculpture.

When it halted at last, it did so with the bang of a gavel upon an innocent podium--more than enough to make her jump. She’d hardly had time to blink, given how quickly the entire exchange had truly occurred.

“Sold, sold to the woman in blue! 600,000 Gold, what a spectacular deal for such a gem! Congratulations on your new purchase! What an excellent start to an excellent evening. The next item on tonight’s agenda, as you’ll find--”

Conceptually, the idea of participating was now mildly terrifying.

The pattern scared her at least three more times consecutively before she came to expect it at last. The moment it was no longer intimidating, she found comfort in focusing in full. The process was identical for the next hour straight, and Octavia scanned each and every item with caution and care. There was little of neither interest nor relevance, given their general objective.

The man did an excellent job of embellishing the moderately-mundane, and it was honestly a talent. The harp was utterly average, by comparison to one far more splendorous with which she was acquainted. The tapestries were useless. The garments were appealing, the rugs were acceptable, and all that came in between could generally be appreciated. It did utterly nothing for her cause, and it wasn’t long before she was hanging over the railing in exasperation.

Viola’s carefully-contributed painting did well, at least, and they’d stoked their own funds with yet another 810,000 Gold. It was enough to earn a smile. It was all she could cling to, for how her hopes steadily dwindled with each passing moment. She wondered if Viola was having better luck, and scanned the room below with her futile eyes yet again. Octavia liked to imagine the latter half of the auction would be promising, lest this entire experience have been more or less fruitless. At the very least, she thought, they’d found Renato once more. It wasn’t necessarily the greatest discovery.

“Up next, we present to you this fine concert grand piano, brought to us by a retired master musician in Ardenfall,” she heard half-heartedly, disconnected as she was. “This is truly an instrument that has withstood the test of time. Weathered by the winds of fame, this antique look is impossible to replicate, unique in its appearance and with a story in every scratch.”

It was an elegant way of saying it looked questionable, at best. The keys were there, granted. It desperately needed varnish, if not sanding and general touch-ups overall. It was almost amusing to think someone would genuinely spend money on such a worn-down instrument. In some sadistic way, the thought made her smirk.

The stranger colliding gently with her forearm was her retribution for the thought, then. Octavia was running out of space to preserve her fragile breathing room, curling in on herself yet more as she became flush with the railing. She rolled her eyes, straddling an apology and righteous silence. She never got the chance.

“Sorry, ma’am, my mistake.”

She sighed heavily, not so much as bothering to raise her head. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“Crafted by artisans with deep respect for the art of woodworking, this mahogany piece is accented by stunning ivory keys in immaculate condition. If I could draw your attention to the pedals, here--”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “That’s not mahogany.”

“What was that?” she heard at her side.

It was a reflex spurned by her woodworking blood, and she hadn’t realized the irritated words had left her mouth until it was too late. She winced. “Sorry, just talking to myself. My bad.”

“No, what was it you said?”

The man at her side was insistent, peering down upon her gently. When she raised her eyes to him, he didn’t back down. He’d apologized moments before, and yet was so near to her once more. “What did you say about the mahogany?”

Octavia blinked. “I-I mean, it’s not mahogany. I don’t know why they’re advertising it as if it is.”

The man paused briefly. “How can you tell, miss?”

Octavia pulled her eyes away from him warily, leaning back over the railing in full. “It’s not dark enough. Even if the varnish is faded, mahogany would still absorb color better than that. Everyone assumes piano wood is mahogany all the time, but mahogany is supposed to have this kind of…deep and rich color that lasts. Look how light that color is instead, see?”

The man moved closer to her still, his face more than enraptured. “Interesting. What could it be, then?”

Octavia gestured to the piano once more, doing what she could to block out the continued discussion onstage. “I think it’s maple. I’m not completely sure from this high up, but maple could still hold varnish for that long. It’d just be…lighter. Besides, Ardenfall doesn’t usually export mahogany. Even if they did, the craftsmen there apparently prefer working with cheaper wood like maple in case they mess something up.”

The man hummed in approval, nodding slowly. “And how do you know all of this, miss?”

Given the spontaneous realization she’d been ranting to a complete stranger, Octavia stammered. “I-I...my father is a woodworker by trade. I’ve picked up some of his knowledge over time. A-Again, I’m not completely sure it’s maple, that’s just my…guess.”

His smile was gentle all the same. “Tell me, do you think that piece could be repaired?”

Octavia shrugged. This conversation was more interesting than anything she’d encountered in the past hour. “I don’t see any reason it couldn’t be. The keys look fine, and ivory is a lot more of a pain to repair than wood. It doesn’t look like anything is chipped. Just a little bit scratched, I think. It could probably be sanded pretty easily and just given a new coat of varnish. Maybe a nice finish and shine. The legs look okay, too.”

Whoever had opted to illustrate its functionality onstage was doing so with grace, gifting the room with a soft and delicate melody. Octavia nodded approvingly. “And it works. It sounds fine, so the actual piano itself is alright. It’s just the wooden parts that need to be fixed. If the keys are dirty, there’s still probably a way to clean them up if you try hard enough.”

“True, true. Ivory yellows naturally over time, but there are most definitely ways to make it sparkle once again. You have an impeccable eye for quality,” the man praised with a smile more brilliant.

Octavia blushed beneath his praise, somewhat. He was engaged the moment the bidding erupted, and his volume so near to her was startling. His voice carried splendidly. It was as impressive as it was jarring.

“700,000 Gold!” he bellowed, thrusting a placard well above her own head.

“700,000 Gold, I hear 700,000 Gold,” the man onstage repeated. “Do I hear 725,000 Gold? 725,000--why, 800,000 Gold, 800,000! Do I hear--”

“950,000 Gold!” the man declared, equally loud and equally confident. The way by which he stood his ground was captivating, and Octavia watched as his offers rose ever higher. Over a decaying piano, of all things, he was unflinching. It was as admirable as it was somewhat confusing. She cheered him on silently, foreign as he was.

“Sold, sold!” she finally heard, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Sold for 980,000 Gold to the man on the balcony! An excellent purchase you won’t regret, sir. Our next item of the night is one which--”

Octavia eyed him incredulously. He beamed brightly. “You’ve helped me make a fine purchase. I look forward to restoring that piece to its full glory.”

“Oh, please. You’ve bought another piece of garbage,” Octavia heard, shrill and not so distant. “And on a whim. Unplanned. Compulsive.”

She had little room to turn, given how tightly compressed she still was against the railing. Her newest stranger met her gaze opposite that of the man she’d been captivated by, battling her way to his side. She countered his smile, for how she offered none. She fixed him with sharp eyes, harsh and unpleasant. He took it well.

“Portia,” the man scolded gently, “there is always room for more. I have been offered guidance that I believe has led me to a solid business decision. Given sound advice, who am I to refuse such an opportunity?”

The woman’s eyes flickered downwards to Octavia leisurely. “From a child?”

The man frowned. “From a friend. Be polite.”

She eyed Octavia up and down far too slowly. Octavia flushed.

“You, girl,” the woman began, her voice low, “what month were you born?”

Octavia blinked. “September?”

The woman scoffed. “That explains it.”

Portia,” the man interrupted, his tone notably more firm, “why don’t you go have another drink? I’m sure there are still plenty left.”

The glances they exchanged were loaded, albeit silent. It took time for the woman to find solace in her beverage, sipping softly as she made for yet more beyond the crowd. Octavia watched her disappear. The man sighed, leaning against the railing beside Octavia once again.

“I apologize on her behalf,” he offered. “She can be somewhat…judgmental of my business practices.”

Octavia tilted her head. “Is that your wife?”

The man laughed heartily. It was enough to make Octavia jump. “No, no! I could not so much as begin to imagine! Portia is one of my prime business partners. A bit crass, you’ll find, and yet her sharp eyes are second to none in the world of appraisal. She is very much an asset.”

“What kind of business do you run?” Octavia asked.

The man straightened up, offering her his hand calmly. “I apologize for not introducing myself. Alessandro Drey.”

Octavia returned his smile, extending her own hand in turn.

Don’t.

She’d only brushed her fingertips against his own before she recoiled sharply. It was loud and soft all at once, fleeting and yet echoing. It was internal. It was blindingly unfamiliar. It was enough to curl her fingers and widen her eyes, her heart skipping several beats consecutively. Her eyes darted about without revelation. It was far more disorienting than it was terrifying, and she tensed.

It was one word--no more, no less. Octavia awaited more, and still found nothing. She knew her inner voice. That wasn’t it in the slightest.

“Miss?” the man asked, his hand still extended and his face clouded with concern.

She was cautious, albeit hurriedly. She pinched the skirt of her dress on either side with trembling fingers, dipping into an anxious curtsey as she stammered. “O-Octavia. It’s nice to meet you, Drey.”

She realized her mistake instantly, clapping one hand over her mouth with a blush to match. “Mr.Drey! I meantMr.Drey, I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to be rude!”

Instead, he only laughed. “No, no, dear girl, it’s perfectly alright. Please, call me Drey, then. I have always believed formalities to be more than unnecessary, regardless.”

Octavia smiled weakly, still struggling to regain her full composure. “It’s nice to meet you, then, Drey,” she offered.

He smiled, slipping one hand into the linings of his suit. “Likewise. Here.”

Octavia accepted the little card he offered up with false calm, fighting to focus on the glossy paper. “Solenford...Institute of Architecture and Restoration,” she read aloud. “SIAR?”

Drey nodded. “Our business specializes in restoring artworks and pieces from around the world. Some are resold, but most proceed to find homes in museums and collections for scientific or artistic endeavors. Money is no object.”

That much was clear. He’d spent nearly one million Gold on a worn-down piano.

“That’s very noble of you,” she offered anyway. “It sounds like you work closely with the community.”

Drey’s face lit up. “We strive to do so, but we are always looking for more ways to assist. We have attempted to straddle the line between business and charity for quite awhile now, but there is always room for improvement.”

Octavia chanced a brief glance to the stage once more. She’d lost count of exactly how many paintings had come through the building tonight. There was always room for more, apparently. She rolled her eyes. One conversation with this man was more interesting than nearly every item she’d witnessed in this entire auction.

“Are you and Portia the only ones who work there?” she asked.

“Heavens, no,” Drey answered swiftly. “My business employs dozens, perhaps hundreds. Portia is simply one of my top advisors. It can be a very lively company.”

“Did you come here to buy things to restore tonight?”

He beamed. “But of course. We have attended auctions in Coda numerous times, and tonight is no different. Portia aids me in choosing promising pieces in need of repair, and we make our choices from there. Once again, I must commend you on your keen eye for craftsmanship. I very much look forward to seeing that piano in its full glory once more.”

Octavia smiled softly. “Happy to help.”

“And now, we present a well-loved and timeless piece. You’ll find before you a rosewood clarinet, lovingly curated from a skilled musician of Solenford. Arriving now on stage, this item is certain to--”

“Solenford,” Octavia mused. “That’s where you come from, right? Where is that?”

Drey leaned slightly more against the railing. “The far north. Dreadfully cold in the winter months. I would not recommend ever moving there, but it can be a lovely place to visit.”

It wasn’t an usher. In fact, it was the first time throughout the entire evening Octavia had seen anyone short of the position cross the stage at all, let alone anyone slightly adjacent to her own height. As to what a girl, instead, would be doing at its center, she had no guess to offer. It was definitely rosewood, if she squinted. They’d been honest this time. It didn’t make the person carrying it any less jarring, given how her bland, uniformed attire left her strikingly out of place in a room so splashed with luxurious color. She drew eyes and mumbles of confusion. Octavia, too, was not immune to staring at her every unhesitant step.

Drey caught Octavia's gaze, puzzled as it was. He took the scene in stride with a curious smile. “I wonder what this could be,” he murmured.

“What can we do for you, ma’am?” the man at the stage’s center asked, his own smile never quite faltering. “This is an immaculate instrument you’ve brought for us today.”

“It’s…more than that. I’d like to play it, if that’s alright with you,” she spoke coolly, her clear voice betraying her size. “As a demonstration.”

The man paused. Still, he found his composure soon after. “But of course! It would be a pleasure to hear that rosewood sing.”

“I suggest you back up a bit.”

He didn’t resist. Octavia smirked. She was sassy, then, if her song warranted so much room for her splendor. She almost respected the self-confidence. There was a part of her that thought to pry at the clarinet with her eyes, for how she’d almost come to enjoy dissecting each compromised piece of wood that graced the stage.

It didn’t look poor at all, and "immaculate" had genuinely been a strong descriptor. Still, given its supposed owner, it was more than likely at least well-loved. Appearance and sound were two entirely different concerns. Even disconnected as she’d been, she could’ve sworn she’d already seen at least one other clarinet pass through center stage. Blessed by a musician’s touch or not, this one was no different.

The lightning was new, at least.