Cynthia found herself inside a theater, with Old Marlowe sitting next to her, watching a performance of a group of traveling minstrels.
She kept on fidgeting in her seat, as she did not enjoy the performance very much. Though it was quite interesting she could not forget her actual purpose, and hurry to the place.
"My lady, have you ever heard of the story of blood-drinkers?" Old Marlowe whispered, perhaps for a dramatic effect.
It worked, because she felt a chill down her spine after that. She had heard of the horrible tales of people drained of their blood during her travels. Those stories had her experiencing weeks of uncomfortable sleep.
She decided to feign innocence. By carefully composing her face and remembering to change the tone of her voice, she hoped that he would not detect her lies.
"I beg you pardon?" she replied after a while. Her eyes wavered a little, trying hard not to met his gaze.
"The blood-drinkers, blasphemers of God. The spawns of the Devil." He spoke those words as if they were poison. "Cruel beasts of the night that prey upon the unwary. Have you ever heard of such stories?"
"I do not know. Maybe I have heard of them, but then maybe I have not," she said, curling her lips into what she hoped to be her sincerest smile.
Old Marlowe replied her smile with a small laugh. It was evident that she had captured his heart with that simple act.
"Ah forgetful, are you not! Yet so young!" He marveled at the beautiful sight. "Do tell, my lady, how old are you?"
Remembering what her mother always answered to such question, she could not help but reply slyly.
"When a woman mentions her age..." she stopped, playing with Old Marlowe's curiosity, "...she loses that much youth from herself."
The old man was surprised. It was clear, as the creases on his forehead became more pronounced. Tongue-tied, his brows arched when Cynthia finally met his gaze.
"Well spoken, my lady!" He chuckled. "Truly, this is the first time I am rendered speechless since the day I was appointed as the head of my people."
She did not offer him any slightest gesture of answers. Instead she focused on the performance, distracting herself from the awkward conversation with the old man who did not hide his interest in her.
The many actors wearing robes were surrounding a young girl in the middle of the stage. An expression that could be defined as fear was immediately recognised. The girl cried with a hoarse voice for help, her eyes pleading. Her left hand was apparently mangled, a bloodied cloth was wound around it.
It seemed so real, as if it was no acting. The terror reflected by her face was so heart-achingly painful to watch.
A woman with red robe approached the girl, seizing her right arm harshly and forced her to her feet.
Another of those robed figures began chanting hauntingly. They stepped toward the girl and partially blocked the audience's view as the red-robed woman kissed the girl's neck.
A scream echoed in the teather as the woman sank her teeth into the girl jugular vein. She convulsed, writhing in agony as she was violated by the creature Old Marlowe called 'cruel beast of the night'.
The dark robes obscured the people's view of the gruesome sight, but as Cynthia was seated at different height from the normal seats, she witnessed what she would remember as one of the most terrifying scene in her life.
The young girl went limp after a while. The thump of her body against the floor was the thunder that striked fear at Cynthia's heart.
"Magnificent, is it not? The greatest performance I have even seen, do you agree?" Old Marlowe said, muffled by the sound of claps that followed.
She just nodded weakly, shaken by the play she had just witnessed.
The curtain fell, seperating the crowd with the actors. To her relief, the young girl rose unharmed.
"My lady? You do not look well."
Finally she was able to breathe deeply. She exhaled as quietly as she could but still she could hear wheezing.
"Sir Marlowe -- " she began.
"Please, Francis will do just fine," he tipped his hat a little.
"Sir Marlowe," she insisted. "why do you think I am of a noble family?"
A puzzled look was cast from the old man to her. For the first time she saw a different reaction from him.
"I am afraid that I do not understand your question," he blinked a couple of times. "Such fair complexion, a fine mannerism and a lovely dress..." he said in a low monotone, stopping to sniff at the air, "...and such captivating fragrance. Are those not evidence of aristocracy?"
"I am not of noble blood. I am no aristocrat. Forgive me, but I am just the daughter of a farmer. A mere commoner, just like all of those people," she pointed at the audience.
"My lady--"
"Cynthia," she interrupted. "I am most comfortable being called by the name my mother had given to me," she said with a voice lacking warmth.
A giggle uncomfortably drifted from nowhere...
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