Magenzera by DSDragon

Rosamund Wensler was the idol of Twin Waters, New Mexico. She had a voice as clear as spider’s silk and sea-green eyes to match. Everyone who knew her said she’d go places; she was bound to get a record deal.

But Rosamund didn’t want to go places. She seemed content to write, perform, and produce her own music from the comforts of the small-town musical company I had worked security for since my college graduation.

The first time I asked her why she didn’t get any offers to sign on with the larger companies in New York or Nashville, she merely raised a neatly-plucked russet eyebrow, asked me why I was so sure she hadn’t, and changed the subject. We made a game of it. I’d ask why she didn’t leave town and be a star, and she’d ask why I hadn’t applied to the police academy yet.

One December night, when we had both been working at Diaqua Music for awhile, she had a few friends over. Rosamund held a Christmas party every year for her fellow Diaqua employees, and every year, I would help her prepare. I’d trim the tree and hang the mistletoe while she bustled about her kitchen, baking gingerbread, heating cocoa and apple cider, and making other hors d’oeuvres.

That particular evening, I’d noticed that she seemed a bit less enthusiastic than usual about all the kitchen work, and during the party, she seemed a bit pale, her eyes not as clear, as alive, as they usually were. So I waited until all the other guests were gone, and sat with Rosamund on her old leather sofa, sipping the last of the heated cider.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, and hoping to cheer up my friend without asking the obvious—and usually unwelcome—“Are you all right?” I started up the game again.

“Rosamund,” I asked between sips of the cinnamon-apple liquid, “why don’t you get out of here? You could be a star, you know.”

She must have heard something different in my light tone, because, for once, she answered seriously.

“Twin Waters is my home, Buck,” she sighed. “I get by all right, and sometimes I have troubles, but I could never live in such a big city, be on the go all the time. That life’s just not for me.” Then a little of the old twinkle returned to her large, green eyes, and she said, “Besides, if I left, who would keep you company back at the studio?”

Who indeed? I had worked as a security guard for Diaqua Music for ten years. Rosamund was the only person—save the company’s founder, K. Leroy Emyrson—who had been there longer. I might have had enough experience to go on to police work—I don’t know; I never checked.

Truth is, I liked working at Diaqua—the atmosphere of the place satisfied my old teenage desire to be a rock star. Even though I had rather poor musical talent, I found I could still listen to the music as a security guard at Diaqua.

Rosamund was the first Diaqua employee who wasn’t an executive or a bureaucrat. In fact, Rosamund was the reason K. Leroy founded the company in the first place. He had stopped for a drink at the Sashay Lounge—a place Rosamund liked to sing to earn a few extra dollars every now and then—and, as he tells the story, was inspired to “make a place for such a wondrous voice to be free.”

Six months later, Emyrson supervised the final interior touches on the old office building he’d had remodeled for just that purpose.

Diaqua wasn’t the average music store, or even recording studio. The place was small, but Emyrson had managed to include not only a studio and store, but also added a few rooms where songwriters could find a haven from the world’s distractions. He also paid a couple of instructors to tutor hopeful musicians in vocals, or their instrument of choice.

He had hoped to act as Rosamund’s go-between when she got record deals from larger studios, but when he finally realized—about three months after Diaqua’s grand opening, according to Rosamund—that she wouldn’t accept any of those contracts, Emyrson decided to sponsor all the promising talent walking through his doors.

Rosamund was there every day, making her music, greeting old friends, and making newcomers feel at home in the sometimes noisy building. Her constitution was legendary; not once in ten years had Rosamund called out sick, so I was a bit surprised when I showed up for my shift the night after the party (some of the musicians and students preferred night hours, and K. Leroy, who came from a rich family, could afford to let them), and the daytime receptionist, Sheryl Chrighton, asked if I had heard from Rosamund that day.

Rosamund hadn’t shown up that afternoon. She usually came in around two, and Sheryl was getting worried. As Sheryl passed me on her way out, I promised her I’d swing by Rosamund’s place first thing the next morning before I went home. I remembered that before I left, Rosamund had shifted on the couch a few times, as though she couldn’t get comfortable.

I thought maybe she’d eaten too much at the party—she went for more reclined positions, as though she was trying not to bend at the waist because of an upset stomach—or something she’d eaten earlier hadn’t agreed with her. Either way, I made a mental note to check on Rosamund in the morning.