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Once again, Henrietta stood in the same hallway that she'd already walked upon for a brief eternity. By now it's extravagant decor just seemed plain and regular, she had grown accustomed to it.
Stepping forward, she approached the next door. Somehow, despite it's exterior, she knew there was something different in the room, even though she hadn't even touched the door yet. Her ears rang slightly, like there was some sound just barely inaudible. Feeling more and more intrigued, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The first thing she noticed was the sound. Apparantly the door had muffled it almost totally, but now that she had pierced that barrier, the sound enveloped her, filling her ears with it's noise. It was the sound of one hundred clocks, of a dozen heartbeats, of time itself. No, it wasn't nearly so presumptuous, it just seemed such a stately, refined sound that it had assumed an air of magnificence.
Once the sound faded from her ears to background noise, she became aware of the room's furnishings. While the other rooms had at least a semblance of personal use, this one did not. It was obviously a theater. There were several rows of small chairs covered in the same crushed red velvet as the floor, and the floor sloped down gently to the opposite side of the room.
Against the far wall stood a large stage, encompassing the entirety of the wall, and possibly extending beyond it as well. The curtain was down, and was decorated with a delicate mural of ancient lords and ladies. The longer she looked at it, the more Henrietta felt the mural seemed to move, like it was an actual window to a distant past.
Engrossed, she sat down, and stared at the entrancing curtain steadily. No sooner had she done so; however, then the lights dimmed to near-darkness. Slowly, the curtain began to raise, as if aware there was finally a spectator for it's show. As the curtain lifted up, the stage itself was revealed. Much like any other, it was simply adorned with a painted backdrop in lieu of scenery and polished floorboards.
Once the curtain was fully withdrawn, a soft music filled the air, washing over that insistent sound that had never gone away the entire time she'd been in the room. The music was soft and sweet, but slightly dischordant, like an old music box. It mingled brilliantly with the existing sound, merging into a beautiful orchestra of sounds.
Then the players came out. Henrietta started when she first saw them step onto the stage, thinking that finally she had found someone else in this odd mansion. But no, they weren't even human. They weren't even alive. The beings on the stage seemed to be large clockwork constructs, evidenced by the large copper keys affixed to their backs. They were alldressed the same, in sharply fitted suits and ties. Their faces didn't exist; instead they had blank expanses where features should reside. The smooth surface was painted a muted white, which still shone like alabaster under the stage's lights.
As the figures stepped onto the stage, they turned to face Henrietta, and bowed once in her direction. Straightening up, they began their act. It was a sweeping drama, full of assumed unrequited love, poignant heartache and bittersweet revenge. Throughout the entire play, not a single word was spoken, neither by the cast or by Henrietta, who was totally engrossed in the sublime performance.
Each construct moved with exact precision, yet they flowed with such natural gestures that they seemed more than human. Finally, the play drew to a close, and the cast took another bow. Henrietta applauded their efforts, clapping her hands together sedately. The constructs were still bowed over as the curtain descended, and the lights slwoly brightened enough to return Henrietta to where she sat. She had been so wrapped up in the play that she had thought herself a part of it, that she stood on stage with the actors.
But that wasn't the case. As she stood up, she felt relieved somehow, like the mere act of enjoying the performance had taken away much of her anxiety. As she made her way to the door to resume her explorations, she knew she was ready. Whatever she found in the next room, she'd remember this piece of mind, and be stronger for it.
As the door closed behind her, a small folded sheet of paper lay forgotten on her seat. She hadn't even noticed it, yet it had been under her hand the entire time. It was the playbill for the performance she had just witnessed. The title was "Beatae Memoriae", directed by one H. Faustus. The actors had no names, it merely said their roles. The lights slowly dimmed, hiding the curtain, the chairs, the floor, until once more the room stood in darkness. The sound of gears had stopped, as if it had never been there at all.