Part 1: Dog Door

Admirer I: Sad news indeed. Ah, most unfortunate and disappointing news!
Stamping his feet in anger, the gentleman lets out a wail of frustration.
Admirer I: They canceled her new show, just like that? I've been waiting for it all season!
Admirer II: What else could be done? Surely you wouldn't expect her to sing after what happened?
Admirer II: Have some compassion for her, will you? Fate has dealt her a cruel hand in life ...
Although this lady immediately volleys criticism, there is nothing accusatory in the softness of her tone.
Admirer III: Vienna has lost its star, at least for this season.
Another man joins the conversation. Also terribly hit by the news, his eyes are as dim and cold as two lifeless cobblestones at the bottom of a river.
He walks at the rear of the crowd with heavy footsteps.
Admirer III: I ... saw it with my own eyes. The entire thing.
Admirer III: She left the Vienna State Opera in the afternoon. She must have planned to take a walk in Weigl's Dreher Park, as she always does on Thursday afternoons.
Admirer III: On that day, her dark, curly hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her face was pale as porcelain.
Admirer III: She was in a lavender dress with a soft wool shawl around her arms. She looked pretty and fragile, like a doll made of glass.
Admirer II: Did you see her—
Admirer III: Yes, I saw her faint.
Admirer III: She seemed perfectly fine when she took leave of the theater manager. But after a few steps, she started shaking ...
Admirer III: She whimpered and scratched at her pretty face. Her usual heavenly voice became the howling cry of a mad cat.
He murmurs with a dark heat in his tone. A light of sinister delight flickers in his eyes.
Admirer III: Her servants tried to stop her, but it was too late! She ran off, tripped over her dress, and—and fell down the Albertina stairs! They helped her up, but by then, she'd already fainted.
Admirer II: God in Heaven! Poor thing!
His audience responds with gasps and sobs.
Admirer III: It breaks one's heart to see such a thing. Soon, her physician came. He'd been by her side all day. It was only in the brief moment in which that horrid affair occurred that he was away attending to another matter.
Admirer II: Did he take her to the hospital? How is she now?
Admirer II: Oh, heavens, this is terribly sad. Most unfortunate for a talented lady such as her ...
Admirer II: She's so delicate. Even a strong gust of wind could whisk her off her feet. And now she has to come to terms with the painful fact ...
Admirer II: ... that her dear child has been cruelly taken from her ...
The lady whips open her mother-of-pearl fan to hide the tears that are now streaming down her face.
Admirer II: Thank goodness, she still has Theophil. Still, it does little to ease a mother's pain ...
She continues to mutter to herself. Though her cheeks are still wet with the tears of compassion, there is a quiet joy in her heart as she attracts the others' gaze.
Admirer II: None of us—none of us would ever have the courage to face such tragedy ...
Admirer II: Having to witness her own child taken by death at the seance three days ago must have destroyed her ... We were all there, you know, Lili Marlene, Fiona and I. That poor girl. Such a lovely little thing.
Admirer II: Little Trista. She was only three years old ...
Admirer II: Her rosy cheeks turned a grayish-blue within seconds. Her pale lips were stained red with blood, and two golden tears welled in her empty eyes and ran down her cheeks. She died in a moment ... just like that.
Admirer II: But that sweet song didn't fade away. For the whole night, it was trapped in her throat, like a little songbird captive in a cage ...
Admirer II: It wasn't until morning that we mustered enough strength to touch her. She was still soft ... as if she were only sleeping ...
She gently flutters her fan as she reveals more and more details to the crowd. They listen in breathless suspense.
Admirer I: I ... I didn't know that.
Admirer I: Fine, I admit it! I was too harsh on her. No one would be able to sing on stage in the wake of such misfortune!
Admirer I: She should rest. She must be devastated, poor thing, losing her child like that.
The gentleman takes out his silk handkerchief and dabs at the corner of his moistened eyes. This is a situation in which sympathy is the only appropriate response.
But a voice from the other side of the crowd breaks the sad silence.
Admirer III: No, she didn't cancel the performance to mourn her daughter!
Admirer III: Did you forget? She showed up at the rehearsals after her daughter's death. I saw her just yesterday!
His face reddens with frustration at these speculations.
Admirer III: Her doctor came to me that very night with a dissected rabbit in his palms. A quick look made it very clear.
His eyes are red and bulging, just like the pair of distended ovaries he saw inside the rabbit.
Admirer III: She is with child again—two months into her pregnancy, in fact! The announcement of a new child just three days after her daughter's tragic death!
Admirer III: The change in the rabbit's ovaries told us everything. I wish I could show you, good people, for it is evidence most irrefutable!
Admirer III: Evangeline must rest, no matter how much she loves the stage and her audience. She has no choice!
Admirer III: She. Has. No. Choice!
???: That was her first appearance in Vienna.
???: A fanatic admirer bribed her mother's doctor, subsequently discovering her existence through a fluffy—and oddly bloody—pregnancy test.
???: Perhaps soon these rabbit tests will become a mainstream method of determining pregnancy.
???: Haha ... Who knows what will happen in this world of turmoil?
Someone approaches from behind. The figure of a child.
???: Favored by the god of theater, this child is a star—even from before birth.
???: In the many years that followed, before she made her debut, people talked of her as "the girl who arrived upon the wings of death."
???: But is she really an opera singer?
The voice pauses, awaiting an answer.
???: Look at her. Isolde, my lovely little sister. She's the new star of Vienna, gaining both fame and fortune in the theater.
???: As a singer, her name has surpassed that of our mother, who is now only remembered as the perpetrator of that appalling crime.
???: But my sister has never performed in a play. Not even once.
???: She's there, but she also isn't. She's many people, including me—my voice in her throat, my smile on her face …
???: Upon the stage, many spirits wander.
???: There are men's voices, women's voices, even children's—you can find them all. Different songs, different stories ... But they aren't hers.
???: Yes, yes ... rather innovative, isn't it? To channel spirits in an operatic performance.
???: Emotions she has never felt gleam in her eyes and flow from her mouth. She holds the spirits as they gently fall upon her, just as she is held by the stage.
???: Yes, silly goose. My little sister was never an actress. She's but a stage upon a stage—a pretty glass vessel!
A little hand softly touches your shoulder, and the other points into the darkness.
???: Now, look over there.
???: A door? Hmm, why's there a door? How strange!
???: Am I right? Did I guess what you were thinking?
The figure bursts into delighted laughter.
???: We all know what a stage looks like. There are no walls, but there are doors.
???: No, not the entrance doors to the theater. I'm talking about the doors behind the wings—the hidden ones that lead backstage.
The hand raps on the door.
???: This is the first door.
???: A narrow doggie door sitting an inch above the floor, painted in a calming blue. Who uses it, I wonder?
???: Could it be a Border Terrier? At a well-proportioned 6 kilograms, it would fit through the door perfectly.
???: It would be rather pleasant to keep around. A little angel in the home, a loyal and energetic friend, whose little paws softly tap across the marble floor.
???: But no ... The door isn't made for a little Scottish hill dweller.
???: Their feet get muddy, their fur dirty, and they have the pitiful little faces of a beggar.
???: No, they don't fit in at all in this spotless home. Those who live here must be presentable and praiseworthy, with manners learned from the most esteemed of teachers.
The terriers sprint past you as they chase one another, a flurry of wind rushing by your left calf.
Something taller, heavier, and calmer emerges from the dark. A warm breath settles on the skin of your right calf.
???: Ah, very good. A Leonberger. They were the stalwart friends of our honorable Sisi, the Empress of Austria. People were once madly in love with them.
???: It has a soft black and brown coat, a posture reminiscent of a lion, an intelligent mind, and a kind heart. Most importantly, this is an expensive breed. It's quite an excellent reflection of its owner's wealth and refined taste.
???: It weighs 115 pounds, a good boy with a sturdy build. It's 28 inches at withers, and a trustworthy protector of your wife and children ...
The voice disappears again, along with the warm breath.
The majestic dog raises its hundred-pound body and dissolves in the shadows.
???: But it's much too big to fit through this door ... No, this can't be it.
The girl lets out a regretful sigh, followed by a bracing breath. Her face is barely visible in the dark, but somehow you know she is smiling.
???: You see, this is my door. I fit through it perfectly.
???: It wasn't always exclusively mine. There were other people—people who were of the right size and met the other conditions for its use.
???: But time is cruel. It turned Theophil and Isolde into adults, taking them out of their little five-year-old bodies and replacing them with new ones with bigger hands and feet. Now, I alone can pass through this little door.
???: Every Dittarsdorf child knows how to use this door. Just lower your head, bend down, and crawl through it.
Trista: Since I'm the only one using it these days, I have a new name for it—"The Door of Trista the Forgotten."
The little hands lying on your shoulders give a gentle push. The doggie door squeaks open. It is much easier to pass through than you had imagined.
Evangeline: Hush, my baby, dry your tears; the cradle's safe and warm ...
Trista: Ah, Evangeline is here. The source of the sweet humming. Our mama. We all once lived inside her.
Trista: She always rocked this cradle with her left hand. It's the same one that Theophil, I, and our little sister, Isolde, all used.
Trista: ...
Trista: She's singing her a lullaby.
Trista: But her performance is rather clumsy. It's a new song, a birth gift to Isolde from the playwright. He wrote one for each of us when we were born.
Evangeline: She's asleep ... Thank goodness. She cries so much, always trembling as if something's frightened her ...
The mother sighs as she sits by the bed.
Evangeline: Mother said I was the same way when I was a baby. Perhaps it's a family trait passed down from girl to girl?
She thinks to herself, running her fingers along the edge of the cradle. As soon as the word "curse" comes to mind, she feels the tip of her finger touch something: a dent in the wood left there by her second child.
Evangeline: No ... Trista didn't like to cry. She giggled a lot—even looking at the empty ceiling or the lamp stand.
Evangeline: She was never frightened—nothing could scare her. She'd cackle at anything, as if they were jesters, and she the queen ...
Trista: She still remembered me, even then. She's a good mama.
Trista holds her mother from behind, nestling her head in the crook of her mother's neck.
Trista: She was immature in the past. She wouldn't have taken me to the seance and made me the medium had she known any better.
Trista: But she learned her lesson. Truly. After my death, she never sang my lullaby again.
Trista: As I was lowered into my little grave, that song buried itself in her throat.
Trista: But was that enough?
Trista reaches out an arm and gently strokes the cheek of the baby in the cradle. The cold chill of her hand wakes her.
Trista: It was only a song.
Isolde: whimpers
Trista: Oh, Isolde. You stupid little girl. Always crying.
Evangeline: My, she's shaking again. Her face is so cold ...
Trista: However you look at it, my failure laid the groundwork for Isolde's success.
Trista: ... Perhaps you don't think she's successful.
Trista: But at least she didn't turn into a little lump of dead meat at the age of three. For a Dittarsdorf daughter, that's quite an achievement.
Trista: I'm very fond of my little sister. I love her. I sang her the buried lullaby—my lullaby. I laid beside her on those crying nights and trembling mornings. I crawled with her, and I walked with her.
Trista: Sometimes I think about how I could have grown up as she did. What a pity that I'm six feet under the earth, while she walks upon it.
Trista: She soon turned three. But the seance didn't happen.
Trista: As I have told you, my mother, my Evangeline, had learned her lesson. She knew better by then.
Trista: chuckles
Trista: She continued to put off my little sister's first seance for many years. She was six by the time she was led into the candlelight.
Isolde: This is ... is ...
Noble Lady I: Tell us, child—what do you see?
The candle light flickers in the dark room. The lady asking the question leans forward in eagerness, the light reflected in her eyes.
Isolde: Mmm ...
Noble Lady I: Speak, good child. The spirit has come to us—it has come to you!
Noble Lady I: I need an answer. I've waited so long for this, child. I've heard all about your gifts ...
She has waited three years—much too long for someone whose insides twist with anxiety over the future.
Isolde takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
Isolde: Urhh ... Hah ... Urmmm ...
Noble Lady II: Is she alright? She's ... shaking.
Noble Lady II: Evangeline never shook like this ... She looks just like her sister did ... What has she called forth?!
Noble Lady I: What's happening? Does my future hold so dreadful a spirit? I just wanted to know where I'd be in a few years ...
Isolde: Urgh ...!
Noble Lady II: Good lord, she's bleeding!
Isolde trembles, her back stiff. Her hands tightly press against her chest, move down onto her stomach, and eventually stop at her lower abdomen.
She whimpers in agony. Her knees quiver until she can stand no longer and collapses to the floor.
Evangeline: The candlelight. It's flickering ... She did it!
Isolde: I ... see ...
Her pale arm writhes under her sleeve like a thin, white snake. It lifts its head, its red tongue flicking towards the lady.
Isolde: I see you ... in a sea of green ... horses are neighing ... wind is blowing ...
Isolde: ... the wind is ... the wind ...
Red drips from her nose and down onto her chest, blending into the whirls of dark colors on her dress. The air is filled with the metallic smell of blood.
Isolde: The wind is blowing and blowing. Yes, it came in from the window.
Isolde: Hah! That's right! It's wind! I see it now! It's the wind ... It's the curtains, the curtains!
Isolde abruptly lifts her upper body and starts rhythmically slapping her bloody palms against the floor.
Noble Lady II: Aaah!
Noble Sir I: Hell! What's that sound?!
The windows are thrown open. An icy wind rushes into the room, immediately extinguishing the candles.
Evangeline: Wind? How?! We locked the window!
Evangeline: Something's wrong. She's getting out of control! Isolde ...!
Everyone leaps to their feet, scrambling to reach the door first. Amidst the chaos, the young girl stands up.
Evangeline: Isolde, stay calm! Isolde!
To her, the calls of her mother sound like echos from a faraway place.
Isolde simply drops her head and gently nibbles at her nails.
Isolde: Close the window ...
She mumbles, her bloody lips opening and closing gently.
Then, they open wide. She cackles with delight before screaming in a voice that is not entirely her own.
Isolde: Close the window! Close the window! Close the window!!!
Trista: After that, my little sister passed out. Her first seance ended in disarray.
Trista: People were scared. They didn't believe her to be a capable medium ... You would've thought the same had you seen her blood-spattered gown.
Trista: The successive failures of me and my sister completely shattered the curiosity over these seances. People started to believe that our ability to channel the spirits had become too strong to control, and that the practice was somewhat "evil."
Trista: For some time, the people of Vienna lost all interest in the seances, and consequently, Mama was snubbed.
Trista: But this didn't last long.
The girl offers a gentle smile as she tucks her curly hair behind her ear.
Trista: Annette Mayer, who spent the rest of her life afraid of the color green because of the prophecy brought forth through my sister, met her end.
Trista: She died on the street. A frightened horse charged towards her. It was wearing a green saddle blanket on its back and a shining green gem on its forehead.
Trista: Green, more green! Ms. Mayer was utterly terrified.
Trista: She screamed, and, as she dove to the side to dodge the approaching horse, she stumbled over a step and fell into a roadside bush. A sharp branch pierced her chest.
She draws a small circle on her chest, marking the location of the wound.
Trista: Ha ... Eerie, isn't it?
Trista: All of Vienna was wholly convinced. The prophecy was true. Once again, they gathered around Mama and my little sister, like ants reporting to their queen.
Trista: Oh, of course, little Isolde lived. She was depleted by that seance—never having had a strong constitution and having lost so much blood during the ceremony. But slowly, her health was restored.
Trista: That was a risky night. But accidents are common in arcanum; the slightest of changes can lead to completely different results.
Trista: If my little sister were a little younger, or if she were pushed a little harder ...
Trista: ... She would've seen what I saw. Hundreds of soldiers lying dead on a battlefield, children orphaned before their very eyes, the endless explosions, and those golden rabbits ...
Trista: I was this close to having a little sister who's just like me.