South of the Border, West of the Sun
Rose bit the inside of her lip. This woman sure was confusing. She did as was asked, and nodded her head. She knew some of music. More of plays than of music, but she supposed it was similar. Ada knew more of math than Rose, and would have been able to go into more of an explanation, but Rose was one of the best journalists in England. She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, offering a soft smile.B A N D
"He is..." The Mirror Masked woman half hummed, half sung. "It is. The way flutist plucks on that... that part of the lute... And the way that flutist... the way he blows on that... part of the flute. It's all so... beautiful. Almost makes one wish that one new a bloody thing about music... Almost..." She chuckled softly, the tip of her mask quivering upon the tip of her chin. "Maybe knowing about music would rob it of its beauty. It might... turn music into math, if that makes any sense... I don't know if it does. Not knowing... It's like a mask. This song could be easy to play, it could be near impossible. It could be sheet-perfect, it might be out of tune. I'll never know for sure. But for now, for this one, sweet moment... I can delude myself into thinking that it's everything I'm missing... I believe that I love it... and that's enough... that's enough for me." The Mirror Masked women pulled her gaze away from the flutist for a fleeting moment. She sighed, her eyes sinking down to the ribbon coated floor. "It's better to not know, sometimes. It's better not to ask, not to move. I don't want to know what's behind the curtain..." Her eyes drifted back up towards the flutist. "Because if not as good as I dreamed it to be... if the truth is so much worse than my perfect little lie... I'd hate to wake up one morning, missing my ignorance, longing for my stupidity..." She froze for a beat. "I'm not making sense. Please... just smile and nod, and pretend to get it... Pretend that I'm still.... I don't know.... reasonable..."
“I suppose one must Treat music like a painting, not like math.” Rose said calmly, bringing her own comparison. “Each instrument a color on the pallet, each note played a brushstroke. It all comes together to make something, well, tangible.” She tilted her head towards a violin player who was improvising to keep up. “It doesn’t need to be perfect, as even a flaw can lead to beauty. An imperfection has its own special beauty to it.”