#molly.

Cleo was worried about this musical business. She did not like to be worried about something artistic. A local theater putting on an original production was the kind of ambitious thing she could usually get behind, after all. And she could admit that her story did lend itself for a stage production, because of all the ups and downs (mostly downs, these days) and the sheer musicality of it. But her story also included murder, and not just any kind: partner murder. Mariticide, if one were to be specific. Sure, that too, could serve for an interesting musical (act I would end with Harley’s death, she supposed?), but it really wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to be put out there. Humans really frowned upon murder, after all. Wardens really did. She supposed she did in this case, too. That wasn’t to say she longed for human or hunter consequences, though.

So she had made her way backstage. It had taken some use of her finer skills, gloves off, and Cleo felt a little less hollow after pushing a stage manager into an inspired state that demanded immediate attention. A little more fed, with some binds under her belt, she could start her investigation backstage.

She walked the space as if she belonged there. In a way, she did. Though she mostly focused on music rather than musicals, the artistic world was her domain. More specifically: this musical was named after her and took inspiration from her life. Cleo had all the right to be here. (She could improve this musical, she thought, with her inspiration — but no. First things first: find out where they got their facts and how many facts they had.)

She creaked open a door to a dressing room, intending to file through all the drawers and boxes. Cleo’s eyes fell on a person and she opted to open the door more. To close it swiftly and walk away would make her seem suspicious, and she was not. “Oh, hi,” she said, greeting the woman. “I’m Cleo.” She eyed the costumes in the room, the blouse in the woman’s hands. She was wearing that blouse right now. That coat, on the rack? It was her favorite fall coat. She looked seriously baffled. Or impressed, she wasn’t sure. She stared at the woman. “And you?”

—

“Get back to the theatre” The voice inside Molly’s head had told her. “It’ll be fun! It’ll be a great distraction.” And something Molly desperately needed right now was a distraction. Since the fire at the gallery things had felt off in a way that they hadn’t since she left NYC to resettle in Nashville with Roger. There was something that she couldn’t quite shake. Once in Nashville Molly had discovered an open position with a local community college theatre program and getting back on (or rather, behind) stage seemed to fill the gap left by this unsettling feeling for a while. 

So, when she heard of a new musical production coming to town she figured she might give it a go. Though the first interaction Molly had at The Stage Below had been weird, learning about the annual production of The Importance of Being Crab, and then the second situation she’d been thrown into with Baz had been equally strange yet comforting thanks to the company, Molly needed some kind of normality in her life. No matter how bizarre things were at this particular venue, at the end of the day theatre brought a sense of normalcy that Molly could only seem to find in a theatre space. 

To the surprise of absolutely no one who was familiar with the ways of Wicked’s Rest, this production of CLEO! THE MUSICAL was no exception. Molly was struck by the premise: a woman of talent much like herself, haunted by grief (much different from her own but still that of a loss of love). It wasn’t groundbreaking by any means, but there was something about this woman named Cleo that gave Molly chills. Was she real? 

Then there was the whole thing where the production was performed by the damn giant shrimp and with that, Molly didn’t have time to stop and think much about the real Cleo who had inspired this production. She was too busy mending costumes meant to fit oddly shaped creatures and helping them dress during the show. It was the most odd production she’d ever worked on, that was for sure. But it was good for her somehow. Molly was able to ignore the grumblings of her own grief, if only for a few hours, but those few hours had been proven essential. Not a tear had been shed since she’d shown up for her volunteer shift for the dresser position backstage. 

Molly had been in the zone, fixing a few buttons on a blouse, when she heard the door to the dressing room swing open. It must’ve been one of the shrimp, sneaking back in to catch a quick break or retrieve a forgotten costume or prop. Molly didn’t hear much from the shrimp while they were backstage. Though they were performing on stage, they were weirdly quiet backstage. Molly didn’t complain though. She’d worked on productions where it seemed like the actors didn’t know how to stop talking backstage. At the sound of a voice, Molly’s fingers froze, a sewing needle in one hand and the blouse clutched between the fingers on the other, and she looked over to see a person - a very beautiful person. “Hi.” She said reflexively. “Cleo…” She repeated. There’s no way! Finally after a beat she blinked, “Sorry,” She blinked again, confused. “I’m Molly. Can I help you?”

—

Though Cleo had since seen the musical and confirmed that it did not shed any light on the more private parts of her life, she still found it a stark invasion on her privacy. She was not a person made for the spotlight, after all. She’d moved around it, closely allied to the ones that were in it, but as a muse she was the person in the wings, the person posing for a painter, the person sitting in the studio listening with deep intent. She was not the creator of the art, she was the subject of it. But on her own terms.

This was not on her terms. She had no connection to this small company. She had not fueled any of them with her inspiration. She was simply a woman in town, hoping to spread some of her purpose through the selling of music. And yet they were taking her for their inspiration! As some kind of human muse, the one that people thought were what she and her ilk were. It was preposterous.

But sure, the musical was fine. A bit overstuffed with bad puns and dramatic solos, but it wasn’t horrendous. Not as horrendous as it could be. Most importantly, it never called Cleo (the character) a muse or a murderess, so the thing she preferred to keep secret about herself remained so. They had even gotten the source of her broken heart wrong — the character’s ex was called Harry, not Harley. He was also still very much alive.

Still, this was not a topic that could be laid to rest. She looked at the woman who she assumed was a costume designer, sewing needle still in her hand. Frozen mid-air, interrupted by her appearance. Molly, she was called. “Yes, Cleo. Like the musical.” She tried to smile in an open and approachable way, but even she felt the edge. “Though … not affiliated, at least not officially. That blouse, did you design it yourself or…?” She looked down at her own garments. “It is impressively adjusted for the shrimp form.” But definitely looked better on her, she thought. “Not help me. Indulge me, maybe?”

—-

“Cleo,” Molly repeated with a smile. And then she blinked about three times. “Oh!” She really did mean like the musical. Or did she? Not officially affiliated wasn’t necessarily a claim to have nothing to do with it. Was Molly being punked right now? “Cleo..” She repeated, “It’s nice to meet you!” She did her best to keep her tone casual. 

“And no,” The brunette shook her head. “I didn’t design any of these, only volunteered to help with mending and laundry.” There were actually a couple of the looks that Molly imagined a bit differently. There was one dress in particular that Molly felt was entirely too underwhelming for the moment. Sure, actors could make or break a scene but there were cases where the clothes could do just the same. A good outfit could have a lasting impression on audiences. “The altering to fit the shrimp is certainly a feat.” God, that sentence sounded mad. “I have a background in design but the mental gymnastics required for these special measurements is.. too much for me.” 

After one more pull of the needle through the button hole on the blouse, Molly moved the garment to the counter next to her, offering more attention to Cleo. “Sure, I can try!” She said with a shrug. “What’s up?”

—-

“Isn’t it?” She didn’t say it with the confidence she might have carried years before, where she had believed meeting her was more than nice for all involved. Cleo said it more with a hint of irony. “Nice, to meet the person who was the apparent inspiration behind this little production? Strange, that I’ve had to create these meetings myself.” 

The information was taken with genuine interest, though it wasn’t the kind she displayed when someone spoke of something they were passionate about. It was done with a desperation, almost. Cleo had little sense of paranoia, but she certainly had come here with a wariness. “A volunteer! The local arts would be nothing without the likes of you,” she said, no lie in her words. “I would compliment the garments themselves, but that would seem egocentric. They are all so similar to my own wardrobe — but your sewing really is a feat, you’re right.” She was glad the other could see her own talent. She so hated arguing with people about that.

She sat down, figuring it more polite to be eye to eye with the human seamstress. “So I’ve been unable to ignore this musical’s similarities to my own life, and I was wondering … is that the norm, for these productions? Do you know who is behind the book, and how to contact them? I am not asking for royalties, or anything of the sort – though perhaps I would be inclined to demand such things if this were to go to Broadway, ha. Still … you understand my concern, don’t you? I moved here a few months back, bought a record store and now there’s shrimps singing and dancing about a similar tale.”

—

Molly couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward as Cleo mentioned being the inspiration behind the musical. If she really was it was entirely inappropriate, in Molly’s mind, that she wasn’t formally involved in the process and final product. As a good steward of storytelling, it was preferred to include the inspiration in the process at least in some capacity - even if the writers or producers were going to tell that person no in response to any objections about the story. The whole thing could get a little messy and it was why Molly strayed from playwriting and creating productions from scratch herself. Oh, the show she could write about Roger. But he’d have to know about it and that simply wouldn’t do. 

“It’s true..” Molly shrugged in response to the remark about volunteers in the arts. Money seemed to make the world go round and the arts held, well … not too much of it. But this had satisfied Molly’s itch to design and work with her hands for now. Even if it had been a different experience. 

With the garment on the counter, Molly placed her idle hands in her lap and listened as Cleo explained her predicament. “Oh.” The word had come from her mouth in a curious tone at the end of the explanation. “Well, unfortunately I don’t know anything about who’s in charge of this production. I wasn’t even able to really find the person who had reached out to me about helping with the show.” In fact, it was like contact for them had completely vanished. “I tried emailing the address that initially contacted me and the reply bounced back to me. It’s as if the contact doesn’t exist anymore. Which is strange…” But it was Wicked’s Rest and things were ready backstage as instructed so Molly had figured it was best to not question it. 

“I certainly understand your concern, though. I’d feel the same, especially with the uncanny similarities.” Molly made a mental note to visit the record store. “So, no one contacted you at all? Did you just find out about it in a bulletin like the rest of us? That sounds rather frustrating.” She couldn’t imagine walking in on a show about her own life, with details leaving her feeling so vulnerable. Perhaps Cleo didn’t exactly feel that way, but Molly figured anyone would be surprised to say the least. 

—

The costumer was an important member of crew, sure. Cleo did not want to understate their importance. But she also was a little bit frustrated that it was a costumer she had come across during her investigation, when there were more vital members of crew she wanted to talk to. Or really, no one at all — nosying around would be valuable too, but she had been caught in the act of being where she shouldn’t be. She was lucky enough not to be called out on that.

She narrowed her eyes. “You did not have a cast party? What kind of production is this? You should always have cast parties.” Those were where people got drunk and started spilling secrets, started singing songs obnoxiously and off-key and had a whole lot of fun. Cleo liked cast parties. “You must have gone, and you must have seen everyone involved. I am patient. You can describe them all to me, if you’d like.” She found the other’s story hard to believe. Even if theaters were not entirely filled with humans and human customs, there had to be cast parties. The person creating the show must have a say about the costumes too, she figured. “I will take this email address, too.”

She dug in her bag, taking out a notebook and handing it over to Molly for her to write down the email address and anything else she might remember. A fountain pen followed.

“I found out about it through the internet and posters in common areas, yes — very strange. They could have taken the premise of moving somewhere to buy a record store without taking my name. I’m sure I am not the first to have done that, but I might be the first Cleo to have. It’s terribly frustrating. So you will help, hm?”

—

“Cast party?” Molly’s head tilted slightly to the left as she mentioned a party. Cast parties were a thing of the past for her now. Those parties were for the younger crowds working on the show. Occasionally an older member of the cast or crew might turn up for a drink or two but it was really an excuse for the actors to drink, dance, and gossip and for the crew to have a few beers and smoke on a porch. Molly wasn’t a smoker herself but always ended up outside at the parties. It was less busy out there. 

“I’m not sure they’ve had a cast party yet.” And Molly didn’t exactly know how shrimps threw cast parties, or what they looked like. Did they drink? Honestly Molly was too scared to find out what might transpire at one of these events. But maybe with someone with the confidence of Cleo by her side she could cast aside her doubts and pretend for a little while. “If they have, I haven’t been but I guess we could find out if they’re having one soon.” Now she felt a little useless in the venture.

But when Cleo passed the notebook Molly took it in her hands and held up the pen to examine it before writing. It was an exquisite writing utensil, and probably expensive. Then Molly did as she was instructed. She pulled out her phone and found the email address in her outbox. Then she copied the address word for word, and cross checked the email with the original one she’d received. Sure enough they’d matched exactly. “Maybe you’ll have more luck than I did.” She told Cleo as she passed back the notebook. 

Finding out about a play about yourself at the same time as everyone else sounded terrible, honestly. Especially when you weren’t necessarily a big celebrity. Of course it was entirely possible that Cleo was and Molly was just a little out of touch, maybe. She was 41 now, that wasn’t exactly hip and young, at least to anyone who knew anything about pop culture. She spoke again as she slipped her phone back into her back pocket. “It is pretty uncanny that they decided to title it your name, though! And confirming that it’s your story for the most part, I’d be upset too.” Then her eyes shifted to the side as Cleo confirmed that Molly would help her figure it out. Molly wasn’t exactly a great detective, but if she were in Cleo’s shoes she might’ve been just as curious so why not, she thought. “I guess I will help, yeah. I mean there has to be someone here who might know something about how this show came to be, right?” 

—

Oh. This was uncomfortable. The human had not been invited to the cast parties, which were supposed to be places where every kind of outcast was accepted. Cleo looked at her with what was undoubtedly pity, wondering however she lived with that knowledge. Was it because of her personality, which held flaws the other was yet to reveal? Or was it because she was human, which made her an outlier among the shrimp? The fae at her aos sí had never excluded humans based on their humanness. But definitely on their personality. 

“Of course they have,” she said, looking pained. “The show has had its first performance. There have been ample opportunities for cast parties. I fear their invitations must have missed you. But ...” She racked her brain. Comforting humans was tough. “Maybe they drink human cocktails there, the way you might drink shrimp cocktails? Perhaps they were just being considerate.” She nodded. That sounded about right. She hoped that balmed the devastating pain of not being invited.  

At least Molly was industrious with putting down her contact information, which pleased Cleo. Even if the woman seemed ignorant about all the goings on in the theater, she was not unkind nor unwilling to help. Perhaps she needed a bout of curiosity to get her going but the only way for her to ensure that she got that was through a quick feed. And she had not come here for that, and was afraid what might happen with the wardrobe that was so awfully similar to hers. What if Molly made it more interesting? What if Shrimp-Cleo ended up more stylish than Fae-Cleo? That would be disastrous. 

She took the notebook and inspected what had been written down before closing it with satisfaction. “Thank you very much, Molly,” she said, before looking grave. “Very strange and intrusive, indeed. I am not fond of the spotlight.” She tended to cast it upon others. “Then I will be in touch! Please do try to attend the next cast party. And … your costume work is good. I really appreciate the labor and talent involved.” Cleo was silent for a moment as she considered her next words, which were spoken with a little more care. “If you succeed in aiding me, I will owe you a favor. Is that satisfactory?”

—

Molly’s brows furrowed in curiosity as she looked at Cleo as she was working out the cast party situation. It was almost like she might’ve felt some pity for Molly? Like maybe she figured she was being left out of something. Which, if she had been left out of the parties she wouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t like she’d really taken the time to get to know anyone working on the production, anyway. It was difficult to do that when the cast didn’t say much. “Oh, god.” Human cocktails… “I’m not even sure I want to think about that, honestly. I’m not much of a partier, anyway. It really doesn’t bother me.” 

She watched as Cleo’s eyes scanned the notebook page and could only hope that she’d have more luck than Molly. “Of course.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a nod in return. Then she couldn’t help but examine the look upon Cleo’s face. It was apparent that she was disturbed by the production. If there was one thing Molly couldn’t do, it was handle fame of any sort. When she’d won the Tony for costume design it felt like she’d spent the weeks that followed running into everyone she knew in New York City. It was exhausting, all of the probing into her life and what was next following the win. And that was a small thing for her. She couldn’t imagine dealing with it on the daily. 

“That sounds good. And of course, I’ll let you know if I end up at one. Though, the idea of discovering what type of cocktails they enjoy might ruin me.” It was a bad joke, but one she couldn’t avoid. She’d chuckled quietly at herself but stopped when Cleo complimented her work. It’d been a while since she’d done anything, and though this wasn’t a full on design, she had tweaked a couple of things here and there. Lots of details were added by her. 

Now Molly couldn’t help but be surprised at how much the compliment had meant. “Thank you. It feels good to get my hands onto fabric again.” It felt normal. “And gosh, don’t worry about that. I mean, if it makes you feel better I won’t say. But please know that you won’t owe me anything.” And Molly meant that in earnest. “I just hope that you find what you’re looking for. I know what it feels like to…” She trailed off for a moment, eyes with a blank stare towards the ground, trying to find the right words. “Be left in the dark, I guess.” 

—

At least Molly did not seem bothered by being skipped when cast party invites had gone around. If she was an introvert, it really might have been for the best. Many artists tended to be, hunching over their work in solitude. Cleo preferred musicians in part for that, for the way they still managed to find some kind of presence on a stage. But she understood the urge to be a recluse, too. Even if that was a more recent development. “It’s not a pretty thought, but not outside the realm of possibility,” she said. There was no way to make a human’s life essence into a cocktail, but she was certain other creatures that fed off humans had found creative ways. Vampires, most likely. “Well, that’s good! You should not be bothered. Their unwillingness to invite you is a loss on their end.” She felt a little pang just at her sternum. Not a full lie, but not a full truth either.

She gave a smile at the other’s joke. “Maybe it is just spritzes and mojitos. I’m not familiar what shrimp like to drink, if anything. Could be that they’re more fond of other means of intoxication. Or perhaps even sober.” She grimaced. A cast party without any kind of indulgence sounded horrible. Cleo did not elaborate further, not wanting to reveal how much she enjoyed controlled and uncontrolled substances. 

Molly talked about how good it felt to feel fabric again and Cleo felt it, the potential that streamed off her. Like tendrils inviting her in for a quick feed, to just give the other a little boost to finish her work of the day and be better than she ever could be without her influence. She gripped the notebook tight. Under the fabric of her gloves, her knuckles whitened. “Again?” She nodded. “It is always good to return to a craft. To have one. And to then excel at it … well, you are in a good place for that. Even if it is shrimp who wear your wears.” She frowned a little as the other brushed away the option for a favor. Molly could not understand what it meant, to be handed an IOU by a fae (even one with as little to offer as her), so she could not blame her. “Well, that is kind of you. I do hope so as well, and if not, this production will come to an end and the earth will continue to spin.” She sighed, looked around the room for a moment. “I will leave you to it, Molly. I hope to hear from you.” She gave a nod and turned to leave the room, intent on investigating the theater some more.

—

“I don’t know about that part.” Molly’s voice was quiet at the reply, eyes gazing downward at her lap. She didn’t think she was one to miss at parties. In New York Roger was always the star of the show. Everyone wanted to know about his book or his latest idea. Sure, Molly had friends who kept up with her projects and came to support her but those weren’t the friends who were invited to the parties that she frequented with Roger. 

Spritzes and mojitos were certainly a more pleasant thought than the aforementioned cocktail. And suddenly Molly realized that she didn’t really want to think about the shrimp any longer. 

“Yeah, again,” Molly repeated the other’s words, “I had to step away for a little while.” God, that sounded way more cryptic than it actually was. Maybe it even made Molly sound interesting (she wasn’t). “But it does feel really nice to be back, even given the current bodies donning the garments.” She almost chuckled as she looked back up at Cleo. There was something about her that was captivating (and also maybe just a little bit frightening), but Molly couldn’t quite place it. But she wasn’t going to let that bother her. Instead she reached for the blouse she had been working on when the conversation began. “Thank you, and you’re right. It will, and another riveting production will find its way to this stage. Maybe even one with humanoid performers.” Her use of the word riveting wasn’t really meant to be a dig or sarcastic remark. Many of the shows she’d seen at The Stage Below had certainly been engrossing, most in their own, peculiar way.