He fumbled with the light switch on the wall. The switch popped and the lightbulb hummed, growing brighter until it illuminated the tiny room. The closet was a mess, cluttered with boxes and crates, discarded marquee letters, a rolled up rug, and an assortment of cleaning supplies, but no shelves to keep anything on.
Mr. Niles fetched a key off a hook near the door. “Here is an extra key to the closet, so you don’t have to come find me to get in.” He handed it to Solomon. “I need to get back to the stage. If you need anything, let me know.” He stepped back into the foyer and tapped the side of his head. “Always be paying attention, Mr. Wade. Try to learn something every day you’re here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left then, and Solomon examined the crowded closet. He supposed he ought to start cleaning in the theater hall so he could watch and listen to the actors practice, as Mr. Niles suggested. He pocketed the key, gathered the supplies he needed, and with the broom over his shoulder and a dustpan in his hand, left the closet and quietly entered the theater hall.
Solomon swept the polished floor between the rows of chairs, listening as Damien delivered Antony’s lines. The actor stood on the stage, his voice as deep and commanding as a Roman general’s, speaking his lines with near perfection—though he read directly from the script for the entire scene.
When he had read the last of his lines, Mr. Niles called the end of the scene.
“Very good, Mr. Creighton,” said the director.
“Shall we run through it again?” Damien asked.
“Perhaps we should wait until we have our Enobarbus.” Mr. Niles checked his pocket watch and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. “I think that’s all for today,” he said, and pocketed the watch. “Depending on who shows tomorrow, we’ll pick the appropriate scene. I’ll see you all then.” He descended the stairs and headed for his office. Partway up the aisle, he spotted Solomon down one of the rows of chairs and stopped. “You can go home too, Mr. Wade. I hope you’ll return tomorrow as well.”
Solomon nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Oh, and here,” he said, holding up his script as he walked along the row of chairs. “You should have this. Perhaps it will help.”
Solomon set the dustpan down and leaned the broom against his shoulder. He took the paper-clipped pages from the director, spotting a few notes penciled in the margins. “Don’t you need it, sir?”
“I have plenty of copies,” he said. “I want you to have it so you can study Antony’s lines. When you are here, I want you to pay attention to how Mr. Creighton brings him to life. I think he’s the best study for you.”
“But that’s the lead.”
“It is,” he said with a nod. “I’ve written some notes for you in the margins.”
Solomon shook his head. “But sir, I—”
“Trust me.” Mr. Niles peered over his square spectacles and tapped the edge of the script. “Those are the lines you should be practicing.” He smiled encouragingly and bidding Solomon farewell, turned back toward the main aisle.
Solomon frowned at the script in his hands. “Sir?”
The theater director turned around. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I stayed here and practiced on my own, at least until you lock up for the night? That is, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Niles smiled broadly and nodded. “Of course. You can use the stage if you think it might help you.”
“Oh—” A cold lump dropped into the pit of his stomach. He shook his head. “Er—no. Thank you, but I’ll sit in the back of the theater hall, if that’s all right with you.”
“Very well, my boy,” he said. “Let me know when you leave. I may be here for a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Niles nodded and continued to his office.
Solomon glanced over the first page. Mark Antony’s lines were highlighted and the director had written a note at the top.
Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
It was a line from Measure for Measure, Solomon recognized. Folding the script in half, he wedged the pages under his arm and gathered his cleaning supplies.
Miss Appleton, Marion, and Damien walked up the carpeted aisle between the sections of seats, and Miss Appleton paused at his row. She smiled at him.
“Are you headed home, Mr. Wade?” she asked.
Marion drifted on ahead with the regality of an Egyptian queen, but Damien lingered behind with a frown, his narrowed eyes glancing between Miss Appleton and Solomon.
Solomon cleared his throat, his neck growing hot under the scrutinizing gaze. He tucked the dustbin under his arm and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I have a few things I need to do before I go. Is there something you needed?”
“And why would she ask you if she did?” asked Damien, stepping in and wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulders. “She has me.” He tugged her toward the exit. “Come on, Dahlia. It’s time I take you home.”
She frowned at him, resisting the pull of his grip. “I was just trying to be nice.”
Damien scoffed. “No need to be polite to the likes of him,” he said, gesturing dismissively toward Solomon. “Now come on, before I lose my patience,” he added darkly. He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward before she could say another word.
Solomon stepped forward, thinking to say something, do something, but they soon disappeared through the doors to the foyer, Dahlia dragged out of sight. Solomon curled his fingers into a fist, a fire burning in his chest. She didn’t deserve to be treated like that, to be manhandled and controlled, but there wasn’t anything Solomon could do. Even if he could—even though he wanted to—it wasn’t his business. He hardly even knew her.
He carried his supplies to the closet and then returned to the theater hall to practice. The chamber was empty and quiet now that everyone had gone. Rather than take the stage, he sat halfway down the back row of seats, reading his script by the faint light of the gas lamps beneath the eaves of the balcony.
He mumbled Mark Antony’s lines. “There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d . . . Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth . . .” He imagined Marion replying as Cleopatra, but the thought stifled the words in his throat. She was so perfect, so graceful on the stage, and he was . . . not.
Solomon sighed heavily and continued to read until the glass door at the theater entrance banged open and footsteps shuffled over the foyer carpet. He lowered his script and glanced at the door nearest him. A moment later Dahlia strode into the theater hall, stopping a few steps down the aisle, her fists clenched and head bowed. He could hear soft sobs amidst her deep breaths. Placing his script on the seat beside him, he stood up, the hinges of his seat creaking beneath him.
Dahlia whipped her head around at the sound, and when she saw him, turned her head away and hastily wiped her eyes.
“Miss Appleton, what’s wrong?” he asked, walking toward her.
She shook her head and pinned her loose curls back into the low bun at her neck. “Nothing,” she said with a feeble smile. She sniffled. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t know why I even came back here.” She shook her head again and turned to leave. “I should be heading home.”
“Miss Appleton,” he said more gently. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
She stopped and inhaled a shaky breath, turning her gaze to the theater stage. As Solomon drew near, he saw that her mascara ran in black lines down her cheeks, and she had chewed the lipstick from the middle of her bottom lip.
“I’m just being a bit emotional,” she said quietly, her voice wavering. “Woman’s curse, you know.” She smiled, but her trembling lip broke through again and she hastily turned her face away.
Solomon stopped a few chairs from the end
of the row and stared at her. “Miss Appleton, I have enough sisters to know that’s complete nonsense.” He pressed his lips together. “You can tell me what’s wrong.”
She drew her thin brows together and bit her lip. “No, I can’t.” Slumping into the seat at the end of the row, she pressed her fingers to her temple. “I really can’t.”
Solomon sat down in the adjacent seat but did not press her. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Dahlia lowered her hand, exhaled a shaky breath and gazed at the stage, her brows drawn.
“Would you like me to walk you home?” he asked after a moment.
She wiped her cheeks again and sniffled. Her makeup smeared across her face in gray streaks. “Don’t you have to work?”
“No.” He glanced back at the script balanced precariously on an armrest. “I’m done with work for the night.”
She sucked in a deep breath and smiled more broadly, her lips shaking. “Then I’d like that very much.”
He pressed his lips together and frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right? We can wait a bit longer if you need to.”
The smile wavered. “No, I’m fine,” she said, straightening her coat as she stood. “It’s nothing. Really. Don’t worry about me.”
Solomon suppressed a sigh.
“Shall we go?” she asked. “My mother will be expecting me.”
“Let me grab something first.” He rose from his seat and retrieved the script from where he had left it.
“What’s that?” she asked when he returned.
He folded the pages in half. “Nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow and snatched it out of his hands. She scanned the first page. “A script? This is Mr. Niles’s handwriting.” She looked up. “Where did you get this?”
“He gave it to me.”
She frowned. “But why?”
“To read.” He grabbed the corner of the script, but she didn’t let go. “Can I have it back, please?”
Dahlia narrowed her eyes and glanced down at the pages. “He’s highlighted Antony’s lines.” She tugged the script away from him again and arched an eyebrow. “If it be love indeed, tell me how much.” She glanced up at Solomon and nudged his fingers with the script. “Tell me, dear Antony . . . If it be love indeed, tell me how much.”
Solomon swallowed and peered over the top of the page, reading the line upside down. “Th-There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.”
Her half smile brightened and the shadows of sadness faded from her face. She read the next line. “I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.”
“Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.”
Dahlia lowered the script and searched Solomon’s eyes. “Are you one of Damien’s understudies? I thought—”
“No, I just—” He scratched behind his ear. “Mr. Niles wants me to practice. He says if I do, if I study Mr. Creighton on the stage, I might be good enough to win a part in the next production. I’m not any good now, but with practice . . .” He trailed off with a shrug. “Maybe I can be.”
She handed the script back to him. “Were you practicing just now, before I arrived?”
Solomon nodded.
“Well, you certainly can’t practice by yourself.” She gathered to her full height and straightened her coat. “You need someone to practice with.”
He shook his head, the heat rising in his face. “No, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. I’ll help you.”
He frowned. “You?”
“Of course,” she said. “Besides, I need someone to help me practice my lines outside of scheduled sessions. My mother’s too blind to read with me. It would be nice to practice with someone who can actually read the other parts.” She smiled broadly, revealing the gap in her teeth. “If that all right with you, I mean. If you’d rather not . . .”
“No, I would, but—”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me. Deal?”
“What about Mr. Creighton?”
Her smile faded and she bit her lip. “It—It’ll be fine.” She nodded hurriedly. “Yes. It’s just practicing, just work.” She lowered her voice and stared at the stage. “It’s none of his business anyway, is it?” Her chin trembled.
“Miss Appleton?”
She sucked in a sharp breath and looked at him, her dark eyes glimmering with tears. She sniffled and nodded again. “Yes. It’ll be fine.” She fiddled with her hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. “Now, I don’t have time to practice tonight, but we could start tomorrow, if you like.”
“Tomorrow is good for me,” he said.
Dahlia inhaled deeply and nodded once more. “Good.” She forced a shaky smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Wade,” she said, getting to her feet.
“Don’t you still want me to walk you home?”
Her smile faltered. “No. That’s all right.”
Solomon. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She exhaled slowly, wiping her cheeks. “It wouldn’t do for someone to see me with you,” she said quietly. “It’s probably best I go alone.” The way she said the word ‘someone’ made it perfectly clear to Solomon who she meant. “Besides,” she said more brightly. “I am perfectly capable of walking home on my own.” She stood then and raised her chin, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. A shaky smile graced her lips. “But thank you for the offer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THREE
At theater practice the following evening, Dahlia was talkative and cheerful again. She laughed easily when someone made a joke and happily conversed with Miss Lachance when they weren’t on stage, and on the stage, she delivered her lines with ease.
“Good your Highness, patience,” demanded Dahlia, her voice shrill amidst the whimpering departure of the messenger, a quivering boy.
“In praising Antony, I have dispraised Caesar,” said Marion, lifting her hand to her brow.
Dahlia nodded solemnly. “Many times, madam.”
“I am paid for it now,” she despaired, reciting her next lines with near melodramatic torment. Then she spun around, her motions weighted with desperation, and faced Mr. Brogan, the curly-haired chap who played Alexas.
“Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years,
Her inclination, let him not leave out
The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly.”
Mr. Brogan nodded and bowed deeply before leaving the stage at Mr. Niles’s command, and the actors went on until the director called the end of the scene.
“Exeunt,” he finished. He tucked his script under his arm and gave a brief applause. “Another night well done, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”
As the actors and actresses gathered their things and left the front rows of the theater seats, Solomon swept his way to the opposite aisle and collected the meager specks of dirt into the dustpan. As he returned to the supply closet in the foyer, the others treaded across the plush carpet and pushed through the theater entrance, dispersing through the streets of the second quadrant. Dahlia lagged behind, lingering near Mr. Niles’s office.
Damien jerked the collar of his coat up and combed his hair back with his palm, glaring at Dahlia. “Are you coming or not?”
Solomon busied himself with putting his cleaning supplies away.
“I need to speak with Mr. Niles about something,” said Dahlia.
Damien groaned. “Will it take long?”
“It might.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then find your own way home.” He turned on his heel and pushed through the door, leaving Dahlia alone in the foyer.
She closed her eyes and sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders.
Solomon shut the closet door and locked it. Pocket
ing the key, he peered around the edge of the wall and looked out the glass doors to Delaney Road, but he didn’t see Damien, only the snowless cobblestone street and jets of steam shooting from the vents along the curbs.
“Do you really need to speak with Mr. Niles?” he asked Dahlia.
She glanced at him, smiling nervously. “No, but we should probably let him know we’ll be here for a while. We don’t want to get locked in when he leaves.” She raised her hand to the office door and knocked.
“Come in,” said Mr. Niles.
Dahlia cracked the door and stuck her head through. “Evening, sir. I wanted to let you know Mr. Wade and I are still here. I was going to help him practice, and vice versa.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. I just have some paperwork to do. Let me know when you leave, or I’ll come find you when it’s time to lock up. I shouldn’t be more than an hour, but—well, you never know.”
“We’ll be on the stage, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine, Miss Appleton.”
She closed the door, crossed over to Solomon, and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, to the stage with you. Let’s see what you can do.”
A cold settled in the pit of his stomach, and he stopped in the doorway to the theater hall. “Do we have to practice on the stage? I mean I’m not really . . .”
Dahlia silenced him with a look, propping her hand on her hip. “Being an actor is being on the stage, Mr. Wade. There’s no better place to practice. Besides, the theater is empty now. Only me and you, and no one else to see.” She walked a few steps down the aisle toward the stage and waved him forward. “Come on, then.”
Solomon’s shoulders tensed, but he followed her into the theater and up to the stage. She climbed the steps to the left of the platform and took up position on one of many markers drawn on the brass surface. The electric limelights along the edge of the stage highlighted her blonde curls with a phosphorescent glow, and the stage lights along the rafters kindled stars in her eyes.
The Mechanical Theater Page 3
