The Jewel and the Key (16 page)

The same piano she had seen yesterday.

But the only thing on top of it now was a metronome.

“Come on,” Frida beckoned her. “You can put the teapot on the table.”

The waltz broke off, prompting a chorus of complaints, and the pianist called, “What have you brought for us, Frida, my love?” He twiddled the keys for punctuation and stood up, eyes sparkling. His mustache and pointy beard made him look like a merry devil.

A young woman with short, wavy dark hair clapped her hands above her head for attention and bellowed, “Provisions! Provisions for King Macbeth's court!”

“Don't say that!”

“You'll jinx us! We'll never sell any tickets.”

“Someone will get sick. We'll have to cancel opening night.”

But the woman just said, “Nonsense! Believe that and you'll believe what you read in the Hearst papers.” Addie stared at the smoky gray scarf around the woman's neck, so much like the one in the photo of Isadora Duncan that it made her skin crawl. She turned away without looking and tripped over someone's foot.

“Watch out!” A hand grabbed her elbow. She'd let the teapot tip to a dangerous angle, and the person who was holding her arm—a tall, ruddy guy with a shock of blond hair—righted it just before it spilled. “Whew!” he said. “Disaster averted.”

Addie smiled uncertainly at him, and put the pot down on the table.

“I'll run and get the cups and saucers,” Frida told Addie. She set down the platter and announced to the others, “It's catch as catch can. No plates.”

Within seconds, the table was mobbed by hungry actors and stagehands. Addie at first thought that she should be handing out the food, but abandoned the idea as one greedy hand after another whisked the pastries off the tray. Instead, she snatched up a warm scone before they were all gone and wriggled her way out of the press of bodies. She found a chair by the curtain dividing the stage from the wing and sank down onto it. The flaky pastry and oozing jam were reassuring. Something normal, to offset her prickles of fear and excitement.

But by now, excitement was starting to crowd out fear.

Could this Jewel of the past be the place she'd dreamed about? It seemed crazy. But then again...

“Which of you made these heavenly scones?” a voice thundered. It was the pianist, dragging a chair, which he positioned in the middle of the stage and sat down on backwards. Loud men always sat backwards on chairs, Addie thought, picturing her Algebra II teacher.

“I did.” Frida had returned with a tray piled high with crockery. She put it down and began pouring tea into people's cups. “And there goes the last one.”

“Go forth and fetch us more, Frida!” the pianist cried. “Banging these damned keys gives me an appetite.”

“I'll do that for you,” Addie offered, feeling sorry for Frida being ordered around so much.

“No. I'll bring another batch.” Frida handed Addie the pot and rushed backstage again.

“My wife could use a girl like that,” the pianist said to the blond guy who had caught Addie's elbow. “But would the Powells part with her, d'you think, Andrew?”

“Don't be silly, Peter,” Andrew said mildly, holding out his cup to Addie. “Your wife wouldn't want a Wobbly brat in her kitchen, would she?”

Wobblies again? Addie's ears pricked up.

Peter fingered his mustache. “Maybe you're right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Addie saw Frida returning, a second plate of scones in her hand.

“And trust me,” Peter added, “now that there's a war on, they won't even fight.”

The war,
Addie thought, and felt sick all over again.
World War One.

“That's true,” Andrew agreed. “Did you see the piece in the
Observer
last week? They're right, too. The Wobs are the best friends the Germans ever had.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply, one of the actresses standing near the table spoke up. “What strong opinions you have, Mr. Lindstrom. When can we expect you to do your bit?” She batted her eyelashes and smiled coolly.

Color swept from Andrew's throat to his forehead, and Addie felt glad someone had embarrassed him. She didn't like the way he talked about Frida. “As soon as this run is over.”

The piano player threw back his head and guffawed. “Unless a really plum role comes up, you mean! You're as ambitious as our beloved thane, Andrew. Don't tell me you'd go jaunting off into all that muck and mud when you could see your name in lights.”

Andrew flushed so deeply that Addie thought this must be true. She turned away for a moment and realized that a small line had formed, people waiting for tea.

“Maybe after the next run,” she heard Andrew concede as she refocused her attention on filling teacups. “I can't throw it all away now, can I? Now that I've got a good part. I have to establish my career. No one else is going to help me.” He turned to the lady who had teased him. “Some of us don't have family connections to get us work. But that doesn't mean I won't volunteer!”

“Of course you will,” Peter said mockingly. “Just in time to miss the heavy fighting.”

Andrew leaned angrily toward the piano player. “What do you mean?”

“Isn't it obvious?” he replied, unfazed. “The Hun will cave in once they've seen our boys on the battlefield! It'll be over a week after our ships touch the docks. Good timing, friend.”

“That's not true,” Addie interjected. The war didn't end until November of 1918. It was pretty much the only thing she remembered about this war from her American history class.

They all turned to stare at her, and instantly, she knew she should have kept her mouth shut. “I mean,” she amended, “it looks like it might drag on longer.”

Peter gave her a patronizing look. “A bit defeatist, don't you think, Miss...”

“Addie.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“McNeal,” she added, remembering that Reg and his mother had always used her last name.

“That's not the word on the street, at any rate, Miss McNeal,” Peter went on. “The enemy is demoralized. In retreat, in fact, on some parts of the line.”

“True,” the actress said. “It's go now or miss the chance of a lifetime, Mr. Lindstrom.”

“Oh, I'll fight,” Andrew retorted. “What about you, Peter? Can you miss the boat races this year?”

“Me? I'll get myself posted to Paris to play piano for the general staff. They say the girls are pretty, and the jazz clubs are open all hours for the boys on leave.”

“Where's the tea girl?” the woman with the long scarf shouted from stage left, where she'd been talking to some of the actors. “I'm dry as a desert!” She was advancing on Addie, her cup and saucer extended imperiously.

But then a calm, lovely voice drifted across the stage. “That's not the tea girl. That's Miss Addie McNeal, and she's supposed to be my guest, not serving tea to you ravening monsters.”

Emma Mae Powell crossed the stage to Addie. “Welcome, Miss McNeal!” Her hair was pulled back into a businesslike bun, and she wore a short jacket and fitted skirt. “We wondered where you'd got to. Reg said you'd drop by on Tuesday.”

“Oh—I—I'm sorry.” Of course. They thought
she'd
been the one who hadn't kept her word.

Mrs. Powell clasped Addie's hands in her own, radiating warmth. “Don't worry. Todays actually a better day, since we've finally moved everything over from the rehearsal space. Its always such an upheaval. But so much more fun rehearsing in the theater.”

A shudder rode down Addie's spine, and Becky Powell's words rang in her ears:
If we really wanted Emma Mae Powell to bring the Jewel back to life, I'm afraid we'd have to bring Emma Mae back to life as well.
For a moment, she held tight against panic. This couldn't be real. How could she get out of here? Was it even possible to get back to her own time?

Of course it was. As long as she had the mirror. “I—”

The woman with the scarf interrupted them. “Emma, did you see what Ben brought us for the cavern scene? Rhododendrons, for Gods sake. In a big pot. Did Paul know about that?”

“Rhodis? Not
tremendously
Scottish. What was he thinking?”

It helped, Addie thought. Their normal banter helped the fear recede.

Besides, isn't this where you wanted to be?
she reminded herself with a flash of irony.
At a real rehearsal?

The scarf woman was rattling on. “Well, gorse wasn't native to the Northwest last time I checked. Or heather. Ben and I thought maybe rosemary. Emma, have a sit-down. You look tired.”

“It was just the board meeting. I proposed the benefit, and they were fit to be tied.” Emma Mae glanced at Addie. “Sorry, dear. It's a flying circus today.” She turned back to the scarf lady. “I've missed the tea. Ask Frida to brew another pot, would you?”

“Sure.” The woman headed into the wing, shouting “Frida!” at the top of her lungs. Did she ever use a normal tone of voice? Addie wondered.

“Sit down, Miss McNeal.” Mrs. Powell sank into a chair and motioned to the empty seat next to her. “You take your breaks when they're offered here.”

Addie pulled the chair out from the long table and settled into it.

“Freeeeeeda!” she heard the woman roar again from the stairs.

“Poor Frida,” Addie said. “I wouldn't blame her if she's hiding in the pantry!”

“So you've seen our little invalid then? Up and fit as a corn-fedhen.”

“Oh, fitter than that.” Someone was leaning on the back of Addie's chair. She twisted her head and found herself looking up at Reg Powell. “Hello, Miss McNeal,” he said, and sat down on one of the thrones at the end of the table. A tiny thrill shot through her, and the last remnant of her fear dropped away.

He's an actor,
she thought in surprise. A metal circlet pressed his hair sleek to his head. He wore a tartan plaid across his shoulder, held in place with a pin, and a black shirt underneath.

“From what we've seen,” he continued, “it would take a mountain of bricks to knock Frida out.”

“Oh, don't tempt fate, Reg.” Emma Mae rapped on the table smartly. “We're superstitious, we theater people.” She smiled at Addie. “It's good to see you, Miss McNeal.”

“Yes, welcome back.” Reg hung his head in mock repentance. “I'm sorry I didn't come by your house. But it wasn't for want of trying. I must have mixed up the address because I just ended up at Meg's.” He slid down off his chair and knelt ridiculously on one knee. “Say you forgive me!”

Addie tried and failed to stifle a smile. “So you're rehearsing
Macbeth
?”

“Can't you tell?” Reg leaped to his feet. “You're looking at the usurper himself! Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, unrightful regent of the fugitive Malcolm.”

“
You're
Macbeth?”

“Miss McNeal,
must
you say the name quite so insistently?” Mrs. Powell exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Addie said, embarrassed for forgetting.

Reg grinned and sat down again. “Well, today I am—the usurper, I mean. Harrison is home sick.”

“So you're the usurper of the usurper?”

“That's right. Clever, aren't you? And not afeared to utter the name of the Scottish play aloud. The fellow who's the regular understudy enlisted, and he's already off for training.” Across the stage, Peter started another rag, and Reg had to raise his voice. “Officer training, right, Ma?”

Emma Mae nodded. “We'll need to forward Saul's pay. Where's he gone again?”

“Montana,” Reg said. “So here I am until they can find a real actor.”

“Pooh! We don't need a ‘real actor.' You're a wonderful understudy.” Emma Mae turned to Addie. “It's not favoritism on my part. Just convenience. And he
assures
me he will pass his exams next month. If he'd just give up his idea of playing soldier, he might have a part in the next production.”

“Stop worrying about that!” He pulled a face at Addie.
“Mother has started reading the news.
Always
a mistake. The yellow Hearst papers have filled her with dire forebodings.”

“Says the editor of the university paper! For goodness' sake, Reg, I think there's
some
reason for concern. They never give us any real numbers, but Meg says the British have already lost more men at Arras than we have in our regular army.”

Addie stared. “How is that possible? We have the biggest army in the world.”

“Who told you that?”

Oh, no. It was Mrs. T. And there was a woman with the same name in their time, she reminded herself. She
really
had to be careful what she said. She hesitated. “Mrs. Turner,” she said finally.

“Meg Turner says that?” Reg hooted. “When will that woman stop exaggerating? I'm sure she got that information from one of her women's peace organizations. Watch out, Ma, or she'll run for office and you'll be at loose ends.”

Well, at least they both seemed to think it was something that their Mrs. Turner was likely to say.

“Where is she, anyhow?” Addie asked curiously, her eyes sweeping the crowd.

Mrs. Powell gave her a puzzled look. “But—”

“Far away, I hope,” Reg said at the same moment.

“Reg!”

“Sorry.” He took the metal circlet off his head and rubbed his temples. “I'm not trying to be unpleasant. But she's been bossing me all day!”

“That's her
job.”

“Yes, Mother,” Reg said humbly. But his eyes were gleaming with mischief as he turned to Addie and stage-whispered, “There's the monster now!”

Addie followed his gaze and saw the woman with the short dark hair and the long scarf emerging through the curtain.