Maskerade

ER. HMM. YES. IT DOES SEEM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE. YES, INDEED. MY WORD, YES. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

“If it gives you trouble again, you know where I live.”

THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

“You know where everyone lives. Tuesday mornings is a good time. I'm generally in.”

I SHALL REMEMBER. THANK YOU.

“By appointment, in your case. No offence meant..”

THANK YOU.

Death walked away. A moment later there was a faint gasp from the cow. That and a slight sagging of the skin were all that apparently marked the transition from living animal to cooling meat.

Granny picked up the baby and laid a hand on its forehead.

“Fever's gone,” she said.

MISTRESS WEATHERWAX? said Death from the doorway.

“Yes, Sir?”

I HAVE TO KNOW. WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD NOT… LOST?

“At the cards, you mean?”

YES. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

Granny laid the baby down carefully on the straw, and smiled.

“Well,” she said, “for a start… I'd have broken your bloody arm.”

Agnes stayed up late, simply because of the novelty. Most people in Lancre, as the saying goes, went to bed with the chickens and got up with the cows.[4] But she watched the evening's performance, and watched the set being struck afterwards, and watched the actors leave or, in the case of younger chorus members, head off for their lodgings in odd corners of the building. And then there was no one else, except Walter Plinge and his mother sweeping up.

She headed for the staircase. There didn't seem to be a candle anywhere back here, but the few left burning in the auditorium were just enough to give the darkness a few shades.

The stairs went up the wall at the rear of the stage, with nothing but a rickety handrail between them and the drop. Besides leading to the attics and storeroom on the upper floors, they were also one route to the fly loft and the other secret platforms where men in flat hats and grey overalls worked the magic of the theatre, usually by means of pulleys–

There was a figure on one of the gantries over the stage. Agnes saw it only because it moved slightly. It was kneeling down, looking at something. In the darkness.

She stepped back. The stair creaked.

The figure jerked around. A square of yellow light opened in the darkness, its beam pinning her against the brickwork.

“Who's there?” she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes.

“Who's that?” said a voice. And then, after a moment, “Oh. It's… Perdita, isn't it?”

The square of light swung towards her as the figure made its way over the stage.

“Andre?” she said. She felt inclined to back away, if only the brickwork would let her.

And suddenly he was on the stairs, quite an ordinary person, no shadow at all, holding a very large lantern.

“What are you doing here?” said the organist.

“I… was just going to bed.”

“Oh, Yes.” He relaxed a little. “Some of you girls have got rooms here. The management thought it was safer than having you going home alone late at night.”

“What are you doing up here?” said Agnes, suddenly aware that there was just the two of them.

“I was… looking at the place where the Ghost tried to strangle Mr Cripps,” said Andre.

“Why?”

“I wanted to make certain everything was safe now, of course.”

“Didn't the stage?hands do that?”

“Oh, you know them. I just thought I'd better make certain.”

Agnes looked down at the lantern.

“I've never seen one like that before. How did you make it light up so quickly?”

“Er. It's a dark lantern. There's this flap, you see,” he demonstrated, “so you can shut it right down and open it up again…”

“That must be very useful when you're looking for the black notes.”

“Don't be sarcastic. I just don't want there to be any more trouble. You'll find that you start looking around when—”

“Goodnight, Andre.”

“Goodnight, then.”

She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her.

When she'd calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head.

She stared at the dark ceiling.

“That's stupid,” she thought, eventually. “He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast…”

She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door.

“Perdita!?”

Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper.

Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half?fell into the room.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm frightened!!”

“What of?”

“The mirror!! It's talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!”

Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it.

“The mirror's talking?”

“Yes!!”

“Are you sure?”

Christine dived into Agnes's bed and pulled the covers over her. “Yes!!” she said, indistinctly.

Agnes stood alone in the darkness.

People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, ‘Nonsense, mirrors don't talk’, would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes.

She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness.

There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox.

A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow.

She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her.

Oh well… one bed was as good as another…

She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:… ting.

It was a tuning fork.

And a voice said: “Christine… please attend.”

She sat upright, staring at the darkness.

And then realization dawned. No men, they'd said. They'd been very strict about that, as if opera were some