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“Elizabeth,” he beckoned, annoyance drawing out her name when he spoke. “Your muse is calling.” Cohen stared down the hall, eyes wide with wonder, and Fitzpatrick stifled a laugh.
“You gonna go, or…?” Fitzpatrick asked, addressing Elizabeth directly for the first time. As his sentence trailed, his eyes drifted to Cohen posturing beside him at the piano.
“Oh, you must go, little Songbird! Fly, fly away,” he cooed, waving her along.
“You are too kind,” Elizabeth replied, rising yet again… She wouldn’t have guessed that Booker would seek help so quickly. Giving a quick smile to the two men, she started off down the hall. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Turning into the doorway, Elizabeth found Booker hissing threats, probably, at the attendant slouching before him. She sighed, smoothing her skirt and stepping into the storage room packed with instruments and equipment.
She folded her arms and addressed the back of his head. “Booker, I…”
He muttered one last advisement to the man with him before he stepped aside, leveling a deadpan gaze at Elizabeth. And she could finally see the attendant wasn’t wearing his mask any longer.
“J… Jack?” He shrugged, scratching absently at his arm.
What do you want to do, Elizabeth?
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