“Didst thou behold Octavia?” asked Marion.
“Ay, dread queen,” said the messenger, his voice shaking.
“Where?” she asked.
He wrung his hands, and sweat shined on his face. “M-Madam, in Rome;” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I—I look’d—” He cleared his throat. “I look’d her in the—the—”
“Oh, come on, man,” said a voice in the audience. “Can’t you read?”
Mr. Niles glared at the first row of seats. “Mr. Creighton, quiet.” He faced the young man who was onstage and nodded. “Go on, Mr. Blair.”
The boy sucked in a rattled breath and looked down at his script, the paper shaking in his hands. “I—I look’d her in the f-face, and s-s-saw her—” He squeezed his eyes shut again. “—and saw her l-led b-between her brother and—and Mark Antony.”
He sighed and bowed his head, his shoulders slack.
Marion dropped character and gently touched his shoulder. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. “You’re doing fine. You just need to practice a little more and get used to being onstage.”
“I’m sorry.” The boy stared at the floor. “I don’t mean to be so . . .” He pressed his lips together. “ . . . so awful. I’m ruining it. I know I am.”
She shook her head. “You did well at auditions, Mr. Blair. I was there. I saw you. Be a little more confident, all right? I know you can do it. I believe in you.”
“Really?” he asked, raising his eyes to her.
A few of the actors in the chairs snickered, but Marion ignored them. “Yes. Really.” She nodded. “Now shall we try again?”
Mr. Blair nodded slowly. “All right.” He sucked in a deep breath and read the lines again, faltering less over the words and even projecting his voice with a measure of confidence.
“You see?” said Marion. “That was much better. Wasn’t it Mr. Niles?”
“Indeed,” said the director, his eyes on his script. “Continue.”
They rehearsed through the rest of the scene, and when it came to Dahlia’s lines, her performance was dull and dry, with no life at all, her apathy slowly dragging everyone else down. Even Marion faltered, distracted by Dahlia’s lack of character. When Mr. Niles finally called the end of the scene, Dahlia looked to have tears in her eyes.
“Mr. Blair,” said Mr. Niles. “You did much better this last run. Well done.”
The young man nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Then the director straightened and checked his pocket watch. “I think that’s all for tonight. You all should be getting home.” He pocketed his timepiece and flipped through the script. “Tomorrow, we’ll start with act three, scene four, and go through to—” He turned a few pages. “—scene six. So I need the actors for Antony, Octavia, Enobarbus, Eros, Caesar, Agrippa, and Mecaenas.” He glanced up. “Can everyone be here by five?”
“Yes,” they all said at once.
“Anyone else who wishes to watch the practice may come as well.” He nodded and tucked his script under his arm. “See you all tomorrow.”
The actors gathered their coats, scarves, and hats, and left the theater hall. Solomon dropped his broom against a chair and rushed to the other side, looking for Dahlia. She walked under Damien’s arm, her dark eyes blind to all but the carpet at her feet. She didn’t even acknowledge Solomon as they passed him, but Damien caught his eye and smirked, pulling Dahlia closer to his chest.
Solomon set his jaw. “Miss Appleton?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip but did not look at him.
He swallowed. “Dahlia, please.”
Dahlia raised her head and glanced back, her loose blonde curls framing her pale face. She bore the shadow of a bruise on her cheek, a day old at the least.
Solomon set his jaw and stepped forward. “Miss Appleton, I was going to stay a while longer. Would you like to practice your lines?”
Damien glared at him. “No, she wouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t asking you.” Solomon glanced at Dahlia again, but she only stared pointedly at the toes of her boots. “I could walk you home after,” he said more gently.
Her eyelashes fluttered and she bit her lip. “Solomon, I—” She winced as Damien’s grip on her arm tightened. “I can’t.” A line of tears trailed down each cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to him,” hissed Damien, still clutching her arm. He glared at Solomon “She doesn’t want to talk to you, all right? Leave her alone.”
“Maybe she could tell me that herself,” Solomon said, exhaling sharply. “Miss Appleton, I—”
“Do you want to have a go?” asked Damien. “Leave Dahlia alone or you’ll have me to answer to.”
Solomon curled his fingers into fists. “I just want to talk to her,” he said slowly. “If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’d like to hear it from her, if you don’t mind.”
Damien raised his eyebrows. “Fine.” He removed his arm from Dahlia’s shoulders and shoved her toward Solomon. “You heard him. Tell him.”
She staggered forward and raised her tearful eyes to Solomon’s.
“Dahlia,” he said softly. “Let me walk you home.”
She blinked a few times, and his frown hardened at the dark, yellowing bruise she had tried to hide with a layer of powder. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled sharply, casting her eyes to the ground. “I can’t talk to you,” she whispered.
Solomon dared to step closer. He breathed in the fragrance in her hair and clothes—a fresh, soapy scent. “Let me help you,” he whispered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, to comfort her. “Please.”
Damien loomed up behind her and gripped her by the arm.
She inhaled a shaky breath at his touch, and tears fell from her eyes. Her lips trembling, she raised her eyes to Solomon, her chin set. “I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Wade.” Her voice cracked on his name. “Leave me alone.”
Solomon pressed his lips together. “Dahlia—”
“See?” said Damien, drawing her back to him. “Now shove off.”
She didn’t take her eyes from Solomon, even as Damien pulled her under his arm. She blinked, and tears slid down her cheeks, leaving gray streaks of mascara under her dark brown eyes. But she didn’t speak. She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t say anything at all.
Damien smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Wade.”
They left the theater hall then, disappearing into the foyer. Solomon remained in the aisle, his eyes glued to the space of air that hung in the doorway. If she had asked for his help, if she had said something, anything at all . . . He sighed. He wanted to help her, but either she was too stubborn or too afraid to accept it. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled back to his cleaning supplies, wishing he could do something to help.
CHAPTER FIVE
Solomon awoke early the next morning, just after dawn. He sat up on the edge of his cot and stretched his arms overhead with a yawn, his stomach grumbling.
Constance had already put the kettle on the stove and had a steaming cup of tea sitting next to her on the table, book in hand. “Scones for breakfast, if you want some,” she said, noticing Solomon was awake.
He shuffled over to the kitchen cabinet and snagged a scone from the plate. It was cold and a little stale, but it was food. He took a bite. “Where’d you get these?” he asked through a mouthful of dry cake.
“Throwaways from the bakery.” A smile crept onto her lips, and she hid her face behind her book. “The baker’s boy—he saved me a bag yesterday.”
“Thomas? I didn’t know you had a thing.”
“It’s not a thing,” she said sharply, her eyebrow arching high over the edge of her book. “We talk sometimes, that’s all.”
Solomon swallowed the last of his scone. “In that case, I wonder what he’d give you fo
r a kiss.”
Constance lowered her book and gaped at him. “Sol!”
He grinned and moved out of reach as she tried to swat him with her book.
“You’re so awful,” she muttered, pushing her frizzy blonde hair away from her pink face.
Emily started coughing in the spare room, and they both stared at the door, their smiles gone. A few of the sleeping children fidgeted on the floor, beginning to wake.
“She’s not improving, is she?” he asked.
Constance shook her head. “No.”
“I thought Mrs. Handley gave her something better.”
“She did, but—” Constance sighed. “Emily is worsening faster than the medicine can help her. Matron thinks it’s turning into pneumonia.”
Solomon’s chest tightened and a chill stole through his blood. “But there’s medicine for it now, right? It’s not like it was.”
“Maybe,” she said, shaking her head. “But if there is, we can’t afford it. Dr. Handley’s remedy is all we have.” She slumped in her chair. “I would hate to think how sick she might be if we didn’t have that.”
“Is there nothing we can do for her?”
Constance pursed her lips. “Pray?”
“What use is praying? Prayers don’t work on sickness. We need medicine.”
“Well what can we do?” asked Constance. “She’s getting worse, and Matron says the medicine she needs costs too much.”
Solomon frowned. “How much?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He exhaled sharply. “I’m going to see Dr. Handley.” He crossed the living room to the coat rack and fetched his jacket and boots. He glanced at the clock over the mantel: a half hour before his shift started. He slid into his shoes. “I’m going to find out what Emily needs, and if I can’t afford it, I’ll work doubles until I can.”
Constance followed him across the living room floor, wrapping her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Sol—”
“No. I’ve already lost one family to this.” His voice cracked. He grabbed his jacket from the rack. “I won’t lose Emily too.”
Constance pressed her lips together and nodded, her eyes bright. “Don’t be late for work.”
The day was mild for December. Solomon crossed from Medlock to Andover and climbed the steps to the doctor’s house. He rapped his knuckles on the door and glanced down the hazy street. After a moment the door creaked open.
The maid stood at the top of the steps. “Can I help—” She stopped mid-sentence and narrowed her eyes, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” he said. “But I need to talk to Dr. Handley.”
The maid quickly glanced over her shoulder and then bustled out, closing the door behind her. She towered over Solomon on the top step. “Listen here, lad—Dr. Handley is in a mood and if he sees you out here, he may call the bobbies. You need to leave.”
“What?” Solomon stepped down a stair. “Why?”
“He found some medicine missing from his personal pharmacy stores—including the medicine Mrs. Handley has been sending to your sister—and he’s looking for the person responsible. So you best get on before he sees you and starts asking questions.”
Solomon backed down the stairs to the street and shook his head. “But it wasn’t me. I haven’t touched his stores. I wouldn’t.”
“I know,” she said. “But Mrs. Handley gave you a bottle of what’s missing, and no one ever paid for it. If Dr. Handley finds out—”
“But we did pay for it,” he said. “I gave Etta the money myself. Please. There must be a misunderstanding. My sister needs that medicine.”
The maid sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said more kindly. “But unless you can pay for the treatment she needs, then there’s nothing we can do for her.”
“How much is it—the medicine?”
The maid sighed. “More than you can afford, I’m afraid.” A bell rang inside, and she glanced back at the door. “I have to go.” She pursed her lips and her face softened. “I’m sorry about your sister. She’s in my prayers, and Mrs. Handley’s too.” Then she went inside and shut the door.
Solomon stared at the closed door, the iron knocker swaying back and forth, and shook his head. The maid couldn’t be right. Matron had paid for that medicine with the money he earned at work. She wouldn’t have stolen it. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and walked backward a few steps.
Or maybe she would. For Emily.
He turned his back to the doctor’s house and walked down Andover, kicking a loose cobblestone down the street. Maybe if he worked doubles the rest of the month, with a shift of rest between, he could earn another fifty percent more pay a week—if the foreman kept them at twelves for the month. If they went back to tens or eights, shifts would be harder to come by. He’d have to quit the theater. He sighed heavily. If that’s what it took, that’s what he would do.
Someone shouted behind him. “Solomon!”
He turned around to see Mrs. Handley running toward him in her house slippers. When she reached him, she thrust a bottle at him with shaky hands. “Here,” she said breathlessly. “It’s all I could get. I’m sorry. He found out what I was doing.”
Solomon shook his head and tried to push the bottle back her. “Mrs. Handley, I can’t take this. I’ll work enough to pay for it.”
She exhaled sharply, her lips trembling. “This bottle would cost you three pounds, Solomon, and it isn’t even what Emily needs.”
He stared down at the glass bottle she’d thrust into his hands, and the meager liquid within. “Three pounds?”
She nodded slowly. “She needs to be in the hospital. She needs better care, better medicine. If I could get her what she needs, I would, but my husband doesn’t keep that in the house.” She wrapped her coat more tightly around her shoulders. “This is the last bottle. I managed to smuggle it out of his bag before he took everything else back to the hospital.”
Solomon swallowed. “How much would it cost for proper treatment?”
Mrs. Handley sighed and shook her head. “At least twelve pounds a night, but likely more.” She raised her eyes to his. “Etta knows this. I know this. You can’t afford that kind of treatment.” She tucked a loose strand hair behind her ear. She drew her brows together and searched Solomon’s eyes. “There are cases of those who survive pneumonia without proper hospitalization.”
Solomon glanced away, heat growing behind his eyelids. “So, it is pneumonia.”
Mrs. Handley touched his shoulder and sighed. “Under Etta’s care, Emily has a good chance. And that medicine will help.” She gestured to the bottle in his hand. “One teaspoon a day, every day.”
He wrapped his fingers tightly around the bottle. Three pounds for one tiny bottle. Working double twelves for two weeks, he could almost afford that. But it held only a week’s worth of medicine. He closed his eyes and sighed. He’d have to find other work, something that paid better. Maybe he could grab another shift at one of the boiler stations in the subcity, under the University maybe. They always needed more workers. If he could get a job there and squeeze eighteen to twenty hours of work a day, he might be able to afford better medicine.
“Have faith, Solomon,” said Mrs. Handley, lowering her hand. “She’ll get better.”
He nodded and glanced down at the brown glass bottle in his fist. It was up to him to make sure that she did.
Solomon stared at the entrance to Le Theatre Mecanique. Snow blew through the streets, glittering in the rare stream of moonlight that managed to peek through the dark clouds. His breath hung in front of his face like a fog, the cold biting his cheeks and ears and stinging his toes through his shoes. He rubbed the warmth back into his hands and face, stomping his boots until he felt his feet again.
The dist
ant sound of the courthouse bell tower rang the late hour, and the hum of the city faded—shops closing, rickshaw drivers winding their engines down and snuffing out the pilot flames, the cobblestone street cooling as the subcity engines slowed after a day’s work. Steam vented in the streets, and the buzz of conversation faded as shop owners, vendors, customers, and bobbies evacuated the footpaths.
A light was on in the theater foyer, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk through those doors. He rubbed his eyes, staving off the fatigue of working another double in the boilers. The skin under his eyes sagged, the weight of sleeplessness clinging to every inch of his body.
Finally, he shook off the cold and stepped forward. He crossed the empty street and opened the theater door, then crossed the foyer, his wet boots soaking the red plush carpet. He passed the door to the director’s office and edged into the theater hall. Mr. Niles stood onstage with the actors, directing them through the current scene. Solomon thought about grabbing his cleaning supplies and tidying up one last time, but then didn’t see the point. Instead, he sat down in the back row and watched the actors rehearse, but soon, sleep caught up to him and he dozed off to the sounds of the actors’ performance.
He woke to someone nudging his shoulder. “Mr. Wade?”
Solomon jerked upright in his seat and rubbed his eyes.
Mr. Niles stood over him. “Having a nap, are we?” the director asked with a chuckle. “I missed you at last night’s rehearsal. Did your shifts get mixed up again?”
Solomon swallowed the tightness in his throat and stood. “No, sir. I came to tell you—” He slipped his hat from his head and rubbed the blackened brim. “I came to tell you that I can’t come to the theater anymore. I can’t work for you.”
Mr. Niles frowned. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He frowned. “I wanted to let you know in person so you wouldn’t expect me again.”
The director stared at him. “Why don’t you come to my office and tell me about it?” He removed his hands from his pockets and turned toward the door. “Are you in a rush to be anywhere?”
The Mechanical Theater Page 6
