Maskerade

Salzella stared at her while swaying back and forth. His mouth opened and shut once or twice, as if he were trying out unfamiliar words.

“Leave?” he managed. “Leave? Leave the opera?… Argh argh argh…”

He hit the floor again.

Andre prodded the fallen director. “Is he dead yet?” he said.

“How can he be dead?” said Agnes. “Good grief, can't anyone see that?”

“You know what really gets me down,” said Salzella, rising to his knees, “is the way that in opera everyone takes such a long!!!!!… time!!!!!… to!!!!!… argh… argh… argh…”

He keeled over.

The company waited for a while. The audience held its collective breath.

Nanny Ogg poked him with a boot. “Yep, that's about it. Looks like he's gone down for the last curtain call,” she said.

“But Walter didn't stab him!” said Agnes. “Why won't anyone listen? Look, the sword isn't even sticking in him! It's just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven's sake!”

“Yes,” said Nanny. “I s'pose, really, it's a shame he dint notice that.” She scratched at her shoulder. “Here, these ballet dresses really tickle…”

“But he's dead!”

“Got a bit overexcited, perhaps,” said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap.

“Overexcited?”

“Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course.”

“He's really dead?” said Bucket.

“Seems to be,” said Granny. “One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn't mind betting.”

“That's terrible!!” Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. “Where's my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you've done with my money!!! I don't hear you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!”

“That's on account of being dead,” said Granny. “Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule.”

“Well, you're a witch!!! Can't you do that thing with the cards and the glasses?”

“Well, yes… we could have a poker game,” said Nanny. “Good idea.”

“The money is in the cellars,” said Granny. “Walter'll show you.”

Walter Plinge clicked his heels. “Certainly,” he said. “I would be glad to.”

Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge's voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge's face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face.

“Good grief,” Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella's coat. There was a thump.

“And since you're going to be needing a new director of music,” said Granny, “you could do worse than look to Walter here.”

“Walter?”

“He knows everything there is to know about opera,” said Granny. “And everything about the Opera House, too.”

“You should see the music he's written—” said Nanny.

“Walter? Musical director?” said Bucket.

“?stuff you can really hum—”

“Yes, I think you might be surprised,” said Granny.

“?there's one with lots of sailors dancin' around singin' about how there's no women—”

“This is Walter, isn't it?”

“?and then some bloke called Les who's miserable all the time—”

“Oh, this is Walter,” said Granny. “The same person.

“?and there's one, hah, with all cats all leapin' around all singin', that was fun,” Nanny burbled. “Can't imagine how he thought up that one—”

Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling lightheaded enough as it was.

“And he's trustworthy,” said Granny. “And he's honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And… where everything is…”

That was enough for Mr Bucket. “Want to be director of music, Walter?” he said.

“Thank you, Mr Bucket,” said Walter Plinge. “I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?”

“Sorry?”

“I won't have to stop doing them, will I? I've just got them working right.”

“Oh? Right. Really?” Mr Bucket's eyes crossed for a moment. “Well, fine. You can sing while you're doing it, if you like,” he added generously. “And I won't even cut your pay! I'll… I'll raise it! Six… no, seven shiny dollars!”

Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. “Mr Bucket…”

“Yes, Walter?”

“I think… you paid Mr Salzella forty shiny dollars…”

Bucket turned to Granny. “Is he some kind of monster?”

“You just listen to the stuff he's been writin',” said Nanny. “Amazin' songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff…'scuse me…”

She turned her back on the audience–

— twingtwangtwong–

— and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands.

“I know good music when I sees it,” she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. “It's got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?”

“You have been writing this music?” said Bucket to Walter. “Which is unaccountably warm?”

“Indeed, Mr Bucket.”

“In my time?”

“There's a lovely song here,” said Nanny, “ 'Don't cry for me, Genua'. It's very sad. That reminds me, I'd better go and see if Mrs Plinge has come rou… has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the stumble.” She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. “This balleting doesn't half make you sweat, don't you find?”

“Excuse me, there's something I didn't quite believe,” said Andre. He took Salzella's sword and tested the blade carefully.

“Ow!” he shouted.

“Sharp, is it?” said Agnes.

“Yes!” Andre sucked his thumb. “She caught it in her hand.”

“She's a witch,” said Agnes.

“But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows that.”

“I wouldn't be too impressed if I was you,” said Agnes sourly. “It was probably just some kind of trick…”

Andre turned to Granny. “Your hand isn't even scratched! How did… you…”

Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can't remember where he's just put something down.

“I hope he didn't hurt Christine,” he mumbled. “Why isn't anyone seeing to her?”

“Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,” said Perdita, through Agnes.

Andre set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine.

“It'd be terrible if anything happened to her,” said Andre.

“Oh… yes.”