Chapter 28 Magellan
Magellan
Magellan maneuvered past street vendors, prostitutes, drunks, and beggars.
She clutched her violin—technically Oliver’s violin—to keep it from being bumped or broken, or worse, stolen.
Right now it was her only source of income.
The band had played on a street corner yesterday for coins and earned enough for meat pies and ale. It was their only meal for the day.
Today she had to make her way to the Argyll Rooms on the West End and see if she could find Fanny Mendelssohn.
Magellan had seen a flyer proclaiming this week was Felix’s debut performance.
It was the equivalent of a blockbuster movie’s opening, and all of London was talking about the show.
Magellan had told the band she needed to meet someone before the woman left London.
She had not told them where, because she had to go alone.
Fanny might not connect with her if anyone else was with her.
Yesterday, she’d asked Oliver to draw her a crude map so she would not get lost and promised she’d be back at the park before sundown.
This morning for breakfast she and the band had split the last apple and cheese, and Magellan tried not to worry about what she would eat later. She planned to play for coin on the corner and hopefully have enough to buy food afterward.
The Argyll Rooms was the only place she could think to have a chance to run into Fanny Mendelssohn in a city this size. Her brother, Felix, would be there. The question was, would Fanny? Magellan had no idea if Fanny had come to London for her brother’s debut.
She found the building and set out the collection hat Nessie had lent her on the corner. Her plan was to play and hopefully spot Fanny. As she did, some of the people walking past her recoiled. Not only was she a woman with a violin in 1829, she was a dirty, scruffy, injured woman with a violin.
Magellan did not play any of the popular music the crowd would know from composers who were already immortalized: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, Haydn, and Paganini.
She ignored the canon of men and instead played Fanny’s songs—songs Magellan knew wouldn’t be published or played until well after the woman’s death.
It was a gamble, playing Fanny’s own songs the woman might not yet recognize, but Magellan had no other ideas to gain her attention.
To anyone passing by, Magellan looked like a beaten-up homeless woman. Her cheek was still bruised, her wrists red with welts. The few coins landing in her hat were only because her playing was so extraordinary.
By the end of the day, she gathered her earnings and had enough to buy a savory pie and fresh milk from a nearby vendor.
The pie was filled with ground meat, potatoes, carrots, and celery.
She ate it quickly, her hands shaking, and wished she could afford one more.
She had not found Fanny and now had to hurry back to Covent Garden before nightfall.
Fortunately, the return was much quicker.
She found her friends in the park at their designated spot.
They had earned more money than her playing that day and had bought sausages and ale for everyone.
The group ate while playing silly songs under the moonlight, which buoyed Magellan’s spirits.
She tried not to think on the fact it was almost mid-November and time was passing quickly.
Attempting to sleep, she lay down next to Nessie.
The two were sharing blankets to keep warm against the chill.
That night her dreams were filled with images from the pages of Gwynedd’s diary—and Rhys and the labyrinth and Hereford Manor—until they all blended together into a kaleidoscope of yearning and loss.
The next day she woke feeling exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept at all.
Still, she struck out again and spent all day playing in front of the Argyll Rooms without any luck.
On the third day Fanny still had not come, and Magellan did not have the energy to walk back to the park.
The last reserves of her strength were fading.
Her arm throbbed dreadfully, she had a fever again, and she was officially out of food.
Earlier she had stopped at a vendor to buy a piece of fruit only to feel a hole in her pocket.
A London pickpocket must have stolen her coins, the few she had.
But she had made a promise to herself that morning—she would play today until she couldn’t play anymore. Dirty and bedraggled, she tucked the violin under her chin with all the dignity of a world-class performer and launched into another one of Fanny’s songs.
Used to the stares of those passing by, the pity, the disdain, she steeled herself and channeled all her energy into the music.
Someone even spit at her feet, but still she played on.
She might be stuck in 1829, but if the world was really ending and she didn’t do everything in her power to save it, then she didn’t deserve to live.
Her heart was still beating, her body was still alive, and so she played on, even as she felt her vision begin to dim.
She played on to shut out the dizziness and the pain, the thirst and hunger.
She played on, unwilling to stop, vowing she would only stop playing when either the Earth ended or she did, whichever came first.