[Outside Secondhand Books & Cafe: Misha & Sadie]
The Carnival was dark, and Misha didn't have any rehearsing to do. There'd be time to ready the next show tomorrow, and so the day found him wandering 'round Repose. The tree was down from the little cottage in the woods, and Misha hadn't felt like lingering there alone. He'd stopped by the tiny coffee shop early that morning. He liked his drinks sweet, and he'd sat a spell to sip at the white mocha and think some on wedding ceremonies and different religions and what all being wed meant to him. There was a whole lot of talk 'bout it recent, and the idea was stuck some in his head.
And he was planning on playing some. His fiddle was strapped 'cross his back in its case, and he was dressed in a white sweater over a t-shirt, 'long with denim and white boots on his feet.
He went where the music led.
It was past lunchtime when he came on back that way and heard the strings. Misha, he was tall and lanky, and he had no trouble slipping himself through the folks gathered or looking over their shoulders. And, the girl, she was real good. There was something otherworldly 'bout her, which meant Misha couldn't place her fully, but he knew she wasn't like the folks standing 'round them. Humans, they glowed real specific to Misha, and he could know them without needing to even see them any, but this girl was different. But, that didn't matter a lick to Misha. Could be he was meant to care a whole lot 'bout what she was or wasn't, but he didn't. He only cared that she was real good on that instrument, and she performed real well, and the Carnival could always use folks like her. Not that he reckoned the Carnival life was for everyone, but it was what filled his thoughts as he stood there.
Course, his fingers itched to play, but that was real normal for him.
The girl, she wound down, and Misha turned out his pocket and tossed down what he had. It wasn't a whole lot, since Christmas had left his funds real depleted, but there was a 20-dollar bill there, and the girl had earned it and real certain.
He stepped back after, and he watched her count, and it didn't seem the counting of someone who did this just for fun. "Did you make what you were looking to make?" His voice was low, and his accent was Appalachian hollows and real thick. His folks, they didn't leave their valleys much, and their talk was real insular. His accent, it had diluted some in the past few years, but it was still real heavy for this part of the country. "Your playing, it was real fine."