by Sarah Rayne
Tod was saddened to think that Fael was missing all this, but of course the risk had been too great. It had hurt him to carry the wheelchair out to the greenhouse and hide it behind an ancient mower while Fael was in the bath; it had actually given him a physical pain in his stomach to do it, so that he had had to pour a large brandy afterwards. It had hurt, as well, to steal her keys and secure all the doorlocks, and then sneak away from the house before she realised. Tod had felt quite ill all the way to the theatre. But there had really been no other course open to him. Fael was quite capable of making a public scene at the final curtain, in fact she was quite capable of enjoying it. Tod still shuddered when he remembered the very narrow escape he had had just before the Dwarf Spinner, when Fael’s mother had lost her temper and made several very melodramatic threats. It was only her death that had saved him from a distressing and embarrassingly public scene – an unpleasant business that whole episode had been, but he had done what had to be done. He could not have risked Aine in the theatre that night, and he could not risk Aine’s daughter in the theatre tonight, either.
He went happily down to the hospitality suite where the press would be waiting to congratulate him on a cracking first act. Life was very good.
Gilly and Danilo hugged one another just before the second act curtain and agreed that things were looking good. People had come round to tell them how terrifically well it was all going – Sir Julius Sherry had been the first, which they had thought very nice of him; he had hugged Gilly a bit closer and a bit longer than was perhaps strictly necessary, the old goat, but she had not really minded. Stephen had been next, saying quietly that he thought they were in for a long run, and to remember about keeping up the pace, and then Mr Camperdown, still awash with indigestion tablets and milk of magnesia, poor Campers, saying he hoped everyone had understood about not taking up the call for an encore, but they would all know that it was something which was absolutely never done so early on a first night. Gilly had not known this at all, and she was glad she had not said anything that would have shown her inexperience, which could easily have happened. She remembered her fears about being unmasked as an impostor, and sobered up a bit. There were still three acts to go.
Flynn Deverill had wandered into most of the dressing rooms, a glass of whisky in his hand, his grey eyes liquid with delight (and probably also with whisky). He was indecently good-looking when he smiled. He was indecently good-looking when he was scowling as well, of course. He said hadn’t they the greatest hit ever, and weren’t they all making their fortunes, and they would be celebrating all night. One of the sidh girls told Gilly that bets were already being laid in the sidh dressing room on who Flynn would go to bed with tonight, because the story was that he always had at least one female on a first night and often two, and not necessarily separately either. In fact, they were thinking of putting numbers in a hat and drawing for it, said the sidh, who appeared to have been dipping into the whisky herself.
Even poor little Makepiece had come round to the dressing rooms, dabbing his eyes and spicing the air with brandy, but saying how happy he was for them all, and how thrilled Mia would have been – oh dear, they were please to forgive him, he was just a silly old fool. Gilly had not known quite how to respond to this so she had given him a hug.
As the audience settled down for the second act and the front-of-house staff drew the thick curtains over the exits, a dark-clad figure, wearing a deep-brimmed slouch hat hiding its face, slipped through into the back of the dress circle and stood unnoticed, watching the stage.
Fael thought they must be just about starting the second act. Damn! This was where the tension really started to build: it was where the Fianna captain set off on the quest for the cauldron that would save his starving people, and where Aillen first caught sight of Mab and vowed to spin an enchantment around her and carry her off to his eerie under-sea world. She remembered how strongly she had identified with the half-spellbound Mab, and how she had tried to put across the feeling of being imprisoned.
Because I’ve been imprisoned by a wheelchair for over a year myself, or because I was half-spellbound by a mysterious stranger when I wrote that? There was no point in following such a profitless line of thought.
It was half-past eight. If she could get out of the house, she could be at the theatre before the third act started. She reviewed all the possible exits yet again, this time feeling less exhausted and irresolute because of her earlier exertions. Most of the windows were double-glazed because of keeping out noise and keeping in heat, but the garden door – the door that Scathach always used – was a long, single pane of glass. Could she smash it and push out sufficient glass to climb through? Could she even climb through? And if she could, what then? Be blowed to asking pointless questions, thought Fael, angrily; if I think I really can get out, I’ll phone for a cab and get it to meet me by the front gate.
She was no longer sure whether her churning anger was against Tod, or whether it was simply against being cheated out of seeing her creation brought to life. She had a swift, vivid image of her father walking onto the lit stage and holding out his hands to a theatre awash with cheers and applause, and of herself shouting, ‘Impostor!’ from the back of the hall. What would happen if she did that? Would a sudden hush fall and every head turn to her? Or would her voice simply go unnoticed? Maybe – this was a nasty thought – maybe a couple of the front-of-house people would even come quietly in and escort her out.
Whichever way you looked at it, it was a daunting vision, in fact it was absolutely terrifying. I don’t know if I can do it, thought Fael, aghast. I really don’t think I can. But I’m blowed if I’m going to sit here with my hands folded and do nothing. I will break the glass in that wretched door and I’ll see if I can crawl through. I’ll take the cordless phone with me and then I can call the taxi firm there and then. She grasped her walking stick again, and levered herself upright. Her thigh muscles screamed in protest, and Fael gasped aloud at the sudden cramping pain. But it had to be coped with, and she took a deep, shuddering breath and began to inch painfully back through the house towards the garden door.
She had no idea how she would get from the taxi into the Harlequin or how she would get up the theatre steps without help. But she would worry about that if she got there. The first thing to do was get out of the house.
Christian had gone out of the dress circle shortly before the end of the second act, using the exit stair that came out into Burbage Lane. He would have liked to hear the audience’s reactions to the ‘Lodestone Song’, but it was too near to the end of the act and he dared not risk being here when the house lights went up.
The first interval had been relatively short, and he had simply concealed himself in the exit, crouching halfway down the stair. If anyone came out early he could whisk down the steps and be lost in the teeming streets within minutes.
But this was the main interval; people would be collecting the drinks they had ordered before the curtain went up, and the press would probably be invited to drinks with Tod Miller and the management. People would be milling all over the place. He went swiftly around the side of the building and in again through the old door. There was an odd sense of homecoming, as if whatever ghosts lurked here knew him and welcomed him. He passed by the brick opening, and the difficult smile twisted his mouth.
It was then that he became aware of sounds overhead. Footsteps were approaching – someone was coming quickly and lightly along one of the old corridors. Someone was pushing open the disused door and pausing at the head of the steps. Christian froze, his heart pounding with panic and anger. Someone entering my domain!
He pressed back against the wall, melting into the shadows, knowing he could not be seen from above. A faint spill of light came from the half-open door, and silhouetted in the light was the figure of a youngish man with black hair tumbling over his brow. Flynn Deverill. Hatred scalded through Christian afresh. Flynn was looking for him! He was stalking him as if Christian was vermin an
d Flynn the hunter! And if he found him, he would drag him into the light and denounce him, and everyone would know him for who he was, and everyone would see him for what he was— And Fael, who was probably in a prime seat in the stalls, would see as well . . .
It was not to be borne. The gloved hands curled into talons, and as Flynn placed a foot on the topmost step Christian began to move out of the concealing shadows. He would let Flynn reach the bottom stair and then he would be on him. Flynn was taller and stronger, but Christian would have the advantage of surprise. He would have the advantage of this surging hatred as well. He felt larger than life, as strong as a lion. He could overpower Flynn and he would kill him. Deep within his mind, a tiny voice said, between you, you and Rossani could kill him with ease. Oh Flynn, thought Christian, this is my domain, and you should never have come walking down here . . .
O never go walking at Samhain at dusk
In company of one whom you know not to trust;
Rossani’s aprowl and he’s looking for fools;
He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.
You’ve come walking at dusk, Flynn, thought Christian, starting to creep towards the stairs. You’ve come walking and you’re about to meet the one you never must trust . . .
His shadow was going ahead of him, grotesque and slightly hunched over, the cloak swirling about his ankles. His breath was coming faster, and he was aware of the beginning of sexual arousal as well. I get my kicks above the waist . . . No, that’s Rossani.
Come nearer, Flynn, because I should like to curl my fingers round your unspoiled throat, and I should like to claw out your eyes with my nails, and tear the flesh of your handsome face into bloody tatters . . .
Flynn began to walk along the brick tunnel.
Chapter Thirteen
Flynn had managed to search a good part of the theatre without anyone realising what he was doing, but there was no sign of the dark-clad figure.
Damn, thought Flynn, angrily, I know he’s here! He eluded me last time, and he’s eluding me tonight. But he’s here – I can feel that he’s here. And I want to know who he is and what he is, and what he’s up to.
Flynn had been into each of the dressing rooms at the first interval under the pretext of congratulating the company – although he would have done that anyway – and he had wandered through the two Green Rooms, and the three bars. Nowhere was there anyone who appeared in the least suspicious. He had also looked into the hospitality suite, where Tod Miller was holding court to the press. Toddy was well away; he was waving his arms and getting red in the face with excitement and brandy, and if he was not careful he would irritate the critics into giving the show dubious reviews.
Flynn paused in the door of the long, carpeted room, half of him wanting to go in and counter whatever rubbish Miller was feeding the press, the other half mischievously wanting to leave Toddy to hoist himself with his own petard. But Julius and Morrie Camperdown would probably smooth things over at the second interval, and in any case Cauldron was good enough to stand or fall by its own brilliance. And of course it will stand, thought Flynn. It’s a brilliant show; it’s far too brilliant for Tod Miller to have had a hand in. The memory of the cloaked figure who had stood watching the stage brushed his mind again. If there really had been a collaborator wouldn’t he have watched with just that hungry concentration? But why the secrecy? Why would anyone need to keep quiet about having created such a marvellous thing? If I had written Cauldron and composed that magical music, thought Flynn, I’d want to shout it from the rooftops. Why would stealth be necessary? Half-jumbled, half-serious ideas of Tod Miller having some poor, wretched composer or writer in his power darted across Flynn’s mind, only to be impatiently dismissed.
He retraced his steps, going towards the seldom-used stairway that led into the old part of the theatre. There were a couple of rather dismal corridors, a little below street level; they echoed with his footsteps, and then there was a door giving onto a narrow flight of stone steps. At the foot of the steps was a brick tunnel, more or less shut off now. It was taking the thing to the extreme end of absurdity to search down here – if the figure he had seen was in the theatre at all, it would be upstairs, hiding out in one of the lurking backstage holes, or mingling unnoticed with the audience. But he might as well look.
Very few people knew this sub-basement tunnel existed; Flynn only knew because James Roscius had loved the Harlequin and its history, and during his spells in London he had taught his protégé to love it as well. He had brought Flynn down here, and Flynn had never forgotten it, because he had never forgotten the professor’s glowing enthusiasm as he conjured up the theatre’s past, showing Flynn where the tiring rooms had been and the bricked-up stage door, and the ghost-outline of the old entrance to the original platform-stage with the cellar beneath.
Wonderful, Roscius had said, his eyes going over the dim, dusty walls. The Harlequin had suffered a bit from settlement, he added, but all old buildings suffered from that. It only meant that the foundations had slipped, leaving the structure that Scaramel Smith had known below street level. But this was the heart of the theatre, said Roscius, his eyes faraway, his voice with the faint Irish lilt taking on the hypnotic once-upon-a-time story-teller’s rhythm. If Scaramel walked anywhere, she would walk here: in this vaguely eerie, subterranean place that was filled with resonances and echoes. There were tales told of cloaked ladies with Restoration hairstyles and panniers being seen down here, and of bewigged gentlemen with satin breeches. Occasionally snatches of unknown songs and music were heard. It was probably all imagination; these stories drifted through the fabric and the folklore of most old buildings. Look at Drury Lane with its famous eighteenth-century gentleman ghost. It would be nice to think that the Harlequin had a ghost or two of its own, said Roscius, wistfully.
Flynn had never decided whether he believed in the Harlequin’s ghosts, but he was sufficiently Irish to not quite disbelieve. He approached the door to the tunnel. It would almost certainly be locked because this part of the building was deemed unsafe, and it would be quite dark as well, because there was no electricity down here, and no gaslight, even. I’m descending into the candlelit world of Scaramel and her glittering ragtail company, thought Flynn. There’ll be nothing to find, except maybe a tramp, or a few ghosts. I don’t think I mind ghosts, although I’m not sure about tramps. But now I’m down here I may as well go on.
The door was not locked. Flynn pushed it open and looked down at the steps, hesitating. He could just hear Aillen mac Midha’s ‘Lodestone Song’ beginning and Danilo’s voice soaring through the theatre, spinning its enchantment around Mab. This was momentarily disconcerting, until Flynn realised that he must be almost on a level with the old stage void.
He descended the stairs slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. It was not so very dark here after all; there was a spill of light from above. Flynn thought he would just look along the tunnel and then go back upstairs. He reached the foot of the stair and stood for a moment, scanning the shadows. Nothing. It looked as if it had been a waste of time, after all. He might as well go back upstairs – the dress-circle bar was serving a very good malt whisky.
He had half turned back when a dark figure bounded out of the shadows and knocked him to the ground. Flynn swore, and hit out at once, feeling his fist connect with bone and flesh. His attacker flinched and there was a swirl of dark silk. Flynn, half-dazed but recovering, thought, the cloaked figure! I’ve got him! Triumph surged up and he lunged forward, and Christian, caught off-balance, fell backwards. Flynn launched himself forward, and the two men crashed to the ground, struggling against one another and locked in a grim embrace. The cloaked figure was much smaller and much thinner than Flynn had thought, and there was a frailty about it. Flynn pushed away the sudden disconcerting thought that he was maltreating something small and vulnerable.
And then gloved hands reached for Flynn’s throat, and steely fingers tightened about his windpipe. The im
pression of frailty vanished at once. Crimson stars wheeled across Flynn’s vision and a huge suffocating weight pressed down on his lungs. He was forced onto his back, and as he fought wildly to dislodge the iron grip, his attacker half-knelt over him, tightening his hands around Flynn’s neck. Flynn could hear the other man’s harsh, ragged breathing, and he could sense the excitement coursing through him. The pressure on his throat increased unbearably, and Flynn, his lungs bursting, his mind spinning into suffocating unconsciousness, brought his knee sharply up in a last desperate attempt to escape. It slammed into his assailant’s groin, and there was a muffled grunt of surprise and pain. The stranglehold slackened at once, and Flynn, gasping for air but blessedly able to breathe again, struck out with both hands. His aim was almost random and his left hand flailed uselessly through the air, but his right hand, better co-ordinated, smacked against the black silken mask, touching flesh and bone beneath.
The instant Flynn’s hands touched his face, the man recoiled like a scalded animal, releasing Flynn properly, and throwing up his hands in the instinctive protective gesture Flynn remembered. He felt a surge of triumph – Got you, you bastard! And although he was still breathing as if he had run a mile at speed, and his throat felt as if it had been scraped raw with sandpaper, he dived forward, reaching for the mask.
The man flinched, but Flynn snatched at his face, and felt the silk tear free. The figure stumbled back, pawing at the air with a dreadful defensiveness, covering its face with both arms and cringing into the shadows. Flynn went after him, grabbing him by both arms, forcing him to turn around so that they were face to face. He thought he started to say, ‘I’ll know who you are, you bastard, if I have to beat your name out of you—’
