Lady of Secrets by G. S. Carr Voice Over Script
New York City, Summer 1861
Ten pairs of eyes exhibiting various levels of confusion and comprehension stared from sweat and grime-covered faces at the blackboard. German, Irish, and colored men and women sat side by side on the hard wooden schoolhouse benches, brought together by the common desire to improve their lives through education.
Some moved their lips, silently sounding out the passage scrawled in dusty chalk on the blackboard. Henrietta stood to the far-left side of it, allowing them an unobstructed view of the day’s literature challenge. Since the start of classes two weeks ago, no one had correctly answered any challenge she’d given. Nevertheless, she enjoyed giving the students an opportunity to stretch themselves. The waning remnants of the sun’s rays cast through the schoolhouse’s glassless windows, inched down the blackboard marking the limited time the students had to give their final answers.
Henrietta stood at the front of the class, as she did every Tuesday and Thursday evening, her largest smile nearly splitting her face in two. She resisted the urge to fan herself, but it was no easy feat. Beads of sweat gathered in the fine hairs on her upper lip until they overflowed, dripping into her mouth. The salty moisture glided over her tongue, and although not the most appealing taste she’d encountered, at least it gave her something other than the sweltering heat to focus on.
Teaching classes during humid midsummer evenings were not the most ideal circumstances, but she gladly sacrificed her comfort for the sake of her students. After working ten to twelve-hour shifts at backbreaking jobs, most of them ambled into her classroom, weary yet eager to learn. If they could make it through a long day and sit in the stuffy schoolroom without losing their enthusiasm, then she could teach them with equal fervor.
Angling herself to remain out of the way of anyone still attempting to figure out the challenge, she read the phrase aloud. “Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape.”
She paused, allowing her students the chance to digest what they’d heard. Every time she spoke those beautiful words, they sunk through her heart down into her soul. She hoped that one day her students would appreciate the full depth of the quote if they didn’t already.
“Anyone? Can anyone tell me the author and title of the book that passage is from?” She scanned the room of silent individuals.
No one met her eyes. Each found a sudden fascination with their hands, their slates, the schoolhouse’s barren wooden walls, or anything other than their teacher. She pursed her lips to suppress a laugh. Dusting the chalk from her hands, she smoothed them over the skirt of her dress, taking a moment to reign in her amusement before speaking. She waited until the need to laugh was under control, then opened her mouth to give a few encouraging words before repeating the question for the third time. Before she could speak, a hand materialized in the air.
Her gaze trailed from the hand down to its owner’s vivid sapphire-blue eyes. Flecks of honey sprinkled around the irises made them shimmer like twin oceans hiding golden treasure beneath their depths. This young man had reduced her to a mute statue when he’d set foot in her classroom for the first time last week. Having him now be the only soul brave enough to answer lifted her spirits for a different reason.
Not trusting her voice to be free of the heavy scratchiness of desire, she cleared her throat. Pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin higher, she gestured in his direction. “Yes, Elijah. Do you know the answer?”
He lowered his hand, then nodded. “Charles Dickens, Great Expectations,” he said, a hint of his Irish brogue coloring his Yankee accent.
The sound of his voice swept through her body, sizzling every nerve ending before mushrooming into a buzzing hive of warmth deep in her belly. If it weren’t wildly inappropriate, she might have swooned, followed by combusting into a pool of liquid fire.
She relished his correct answer, and the excuse it gave her to unleash the full power of the exhilaration he invoked in her. “Correct, Elijah. Someone must have been paying close attention when I referred to my favorite author.”
He replied with an unintelligible mumble before lowering his head and hunching closer to his desk to make notes in his grammar book. Wild strawberry color bloomed under the sandy cream skin of his ears and spread down his neck. Wisps of long, thick coral red escaped the confines of the ribbon holding his hair tied at the nape of his neck, slightly blocking his face.
TOP-10 Scripts from Edge Studio's Voice Over Script Library
[Skyrim opens with an Imperial wagon driving four prisoners down a snowy mountain pass. All are seated and bound; the one dressed in finery is gagged.]
Ralof: Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Lokir: D**n you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me — we should be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
Ralof: We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.
Imperial Soldier: Shut up back there!
[Lokir looks at the gagged man.]
Lokir: And what’s wrong with him?
Ralof: Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.
Lokir: Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?
Ralof: I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.
Lokir: No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
Ralof: Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?
Lokir: Why do you care?
Ralof: A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Lokir: Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.
[They approach the village of Helgen. A soldier calls out to the lead wagon.]
Imperial Soldier: General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
General Tullius: Good. Let’s get this over with.
Lokir: Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.
Ralof: Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. D**n elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.
[A man and son watch the prisoners pull into town.]
Haming: Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?
Torolf: You need to go inside, little cub.
Haming: Why? I want to watch the soldiers.
Torolf: Inside the house. Now.
Galadriel: (speaking partly in Elvish)
(I amar prestar aen.)
The world is changed.
(Han matho ne nen.)
I feel it in the water.
(Han mathon ned cae.)
I feel it in the earth.
(A han noston ned gwilith.)
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.
One ring to rule them all.
One by one, the free lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring, but there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the very slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his father’s sword.
Sauron, enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur, who had this one chance to destroy evil forever, but the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur, to his death.
And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years, the ring passed out of all knowledge. Until, when chance came, it ensnared another bearer.
It came to the creature Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains. And there it consumed him. The ring gave to Gollum unnatural long life. For five hundred years it poisoned his mind, and in the gloom of Gollum’s cave, it waited. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear, and the Ring of Power perceived its time had come. It abandoned Gollum, but then something happened that the Ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable: a hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.
For the time will soon come when hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.
To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock,
In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock,
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!
Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?
I don’t have a plan …
The mob has plans. The cops have plans.
You know what I am, Harvey? I am a dog chasing cars… I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it.
I just do things. I am just the wrench in the gears. I hate plans.
Yours, theirs, everyone’s. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans.
Schemers trying to control their worlds.
I am not a schemer. I show the schemer how pathetic their attempts to control things really are.
So when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know I am telling the truth.
I just did what I do best. I took your plan and turned it on itself.
Look what I have done to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.
Nobody panics when the expected people gets killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is horrifying.
If I tell the press that tomorrow a gangbanger will get shot or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics. – because it’s all part of the plan.
But when I say that one little old mayor will die, everybody lose their minds.
Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos.
I am agent of chaos.
And you know the thing about chaos Harvey?
“IT is FAIR.”
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
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