Isolde: Mother, I'm home! ... Mother?
Isolde: That's strange. Has she not come home yet? She should've arrived an hour before me ...
The huge mansion is empty. Mr. Dittarsdorf has sent most of the servants to the farm in the countryside to harvest currants and raspberries.
The fruits need to be harvested in time for the ball in July.
Isolde: Maggie! ... Is Maggie not home either?
Isolde: Oh, look at me. I've been far too busy with rehearsals these days. I'm almost as forgetful as my mother.
Isolde: Maggie took leave to visit her ill mother back in her hometown. Of course she isn't home ...
She murmurs, lifts her skirt, and makes her way to the sideboard.
Isolde: Theophil must've taken that pretty girl, Mia, out with him. She's his new model, so she spends little time at home these days.
Isolde: That leaves the dark-haired Anneli and the lively Agnes. Yes, that's right, they're the only ones here.
She opens a drawer, takes out some food, and looks out the window into the garden.
Isolde: Maggie's away. The bunnies must be hungry.
Isolde: Come out, Apfelstrudel ... Yes, here comes your food.
The little bunny licks her fingertip.
Her fur is soft and fine. It is yet to be replaced by the coarser hair of adulthood.
Isolde: You've accompanied me and Mother for so long, and you've stabilized her condition. Yet still, you go hungry. Poor little things ...
Isolde: Don't worry. I'll be here for you.
Isolde: Although, I will be busy with performances, so it may be tricky to find the time ... The last rehearsal went splendidly, you know. The singing, the dancing, the stage settings—everything was perfect.
Isolde: Heinrich, a friend of mine, has devised many clever tricks for the stage design. Everyone's been telling me that my debut will be fantastic—everyone!
Isolde: Mother will be so glad to hear it.
Isolde: But she's not in the living room or the garden. Where could she be? Hm? What's that voice?
She sets down the bunnies, letting them hop freely in the garden.
???: singing
Isolde: That's ... Mother's singing voice ...
She reenters the house and follows the voice through the lounge, down the corridor, up the stairs, and to her parent's bedroom door.
This door, which has always been shut, is now open. She feels the wind blowing through it.
Evangeline: Sleep, my darling, safe and sound ...
It has been forever since Evangeline last sang. Vienna has all but forgotten her voice.
She sings a strange and unfamiliar lullaby, one that has been dug up from the depths of her throat.
Her voice is smooth and clear, like a flowing spring or the glimmering brass needle in her hand that has been driven into Mr. Dittarsdorf's temple.
It was designed to look like a dagger, and now it is serving as a real one.
Isolde's mother pulls the needle from her father's skull. Blood sprays Evangeline's face and soaks the bedsheets. It drips down and pools on the floor.
She is still a superb singer, even in this moment.
Isolde: Mother.
Like a child awakening from a dream, Evangeline trembles and turns her head to see her daughter standing in the doorway.
Evangeline: My Trista! Is that you?
Evangeline: Oh, my dear Trista. Mama's missed you so much ...
Her rosy cheeks glimmer with happiness. She looks like a young girl again.
In this moment, Isolde's mother is like her daughter, and she is more like a mother.
Evangeline: Come, come and see! Your father and I, oh, and Anneli and Agnes, are all ready ...
Evangeline: ... Ready to join you! Oh, my dear Trista, how stupid I was! Just like my mother always said. I thought about it over and over again, but I didn't understand—
Evangeline: I didn't understand it until now. You were right—you were right from the beginning!
Evangeline: You ...
Evangeline regains the visage of a mother. Even her red dress looks heavier on her.
She gently moves her husband's head from her lap to the bed and adjusts his body to a comfortable lying position.
She gets off the bed, steps over Agnes and Anneli's bodies, and wraps her arms tightly around Isolde.
Evangeline: You've always been my smartest, most talented child. My cheerful, clever, unique little angel.
Evangeline: The world has always been nothing but a jester revolving around you, and you the giggling queen.
Isolde: ...
The blood on Evangeline's hands has dried into a powder. It drifts into the air as she moves.
The powder surrounds Isolde and clings to her skin. It immediately causes a rash where it lands, making her itch and burn.
She raises her head. Wind rattles through the window and into the room. She sees the wavering tree tops outside and smells the sweet June flowers.
Isolde: So this is what Father was afraid of ...
Isolde: Yes, and he should've been afraid. The smell of blood is so strong here that, were it to escape through the window, it would make any passerby crinkle their nose. And then people would find out what had happened.
Isolde: This scandal will draw everyone's attention ... Yes ... Even knowing that he may one day be a victim of Mother's hysteria, he considered the reputation of the family above his own life.
Isolde murmurs to herself, ignoring the rashes on her skin and her mother's embrace.
She feels blood in her nose and that squeezing pain in her lower abdomen, just like that night when she was six.
Isolde: Close the window! Close the window! Close the window!!!
Trista: Brava! Brava!
Trista claps, her chin high with pride.
Trista: I'm rather good at telling stories, aren't I? Did you notice the connection between the two? They even ended in the same way!
Trista: A follow-up? Oh dear, don't tell me you've forgotten already!
Trista: Didn't that "playwright" tell you what happened next? Not long after, before my father's burial, my mother drowned herself in that shallow pond in our garden.
Trista: Yes, you're right. She went insane and considered death the only means to break free.
Trista: She'd had enough of this world. It brought her only anguish. To prevent her from hurting herself, Theophil requested the housemaid guard her door every night.
Trista hops off the table and steps forward.
Trista: You know, even in utter hysteria, she was Vienna's greatest performer.
Trista: On the night of her death, she awoke at midnight, confused.
Trista: She couldn't remember a thing. She asked the maid for a cup of hot milk and honey and wondered why her throat hurt so much, why there were wounds on her hands ...
Trista: The maid, Maggie, obliged and rushed to the kitchen to retrieve it for her.
Trista: In that short time, Evangeline ran across the hallway, down the stairs, through the lounge, and into the garden.
Trista: She didn't stop to look at the clematis, nor did she notice the scent of jasmine in the air.
Trista: She simply leapt into the pond, crawled over to the pearl-shell-decorated fountain, and curled up like an infant in the water ...
She reaches out and touches the slightly ajar metal door before her.
This door doesn't belong to Mr. Karl. You can tell because it's bloodstained and there's a shining dagger hanging on it.
Trista: All the women in our family have met the same end, and Evangeline was no exception.
Trista: The golden rabbits have shown me far too many stories of how my ancestors' lives tragically ended. I have no interest in retelling them.
She pushes the door shut.
Trista: The next morning, when Evangeline's body was discovered in the pond, my little sister fell to the ground, twitching and howling like a drowned cat.
Trista: On that day, the hysteria that had once haunted my mother well and truly manifested itself in my sister.
Trista smiles and strokes the face that she shares with her sister.
Trista: Do you remember what I said? That my little sister isn't a real actress?
Trista: Well, that's not true. Or rather, not entirely true.
Trista: She is, in a way, the most superb actress and liar I've ever seen. It's just a pity that she did it so well. No one could recognize her talent.
Trista steps back, melting into the shadow just as she had appeared from it.
Trista: There's another door. You should take a look.
Trista: Go find it. It's right by you. Go on, look for it. I assure you, it's there.