The Jewel and the Key (17 page)

Oh. My. Goodness.

But the next second she thought:
Of course its her.
The way the Powells described her, who else could it be?

“Five minutes!” the woman boomed to everyone in general. “Gulp your drinks! Put out your pipes! Al, get those rhodis out of here—no, wait. Get your fellas to drag the table away first.”

A guy in overalls detached himself from the crowd and picked up one of the chairs from the banqueting table. “Okay, Ben. Jake. You too, Sven!”

Addie couldn't take her eyes off this new, younger Mrs. Turner—Meg Turner—who was plowing toward them, a steaming mug of tea in her hand. She handed it to Emma Mae. “Here you go, Emma. Get that dishwater down you.” She shot a look at Reg. “Think you've got the lines, laddie-o?”

“Got'e m, Meggie-o.”

The man named Al grabbed the top of his chair and gave it a shake. “Move the royal keister, Your Majesty. Gotta set up the next scene.” Reg got up and calmly stepped out of their way.

“We've got defections in the ranks, Emma,” Meg was saying. “I've just sent Janie Beckett home.”

“Janie? Why?”

“She's come down with chickenpox. Or leprosy, or some other loathsome disease. I can't imagine how she has the nerve to come to work like that—pancake makeup a finger thick to cover it up! I told her not to come back. We can't have the whole cast infected.” She lowered her voice. “She can stay home, if you ask me. She's useless as an assistant. Can't do the simplest thing. Even the prop tables in disarray! We're losing things right and left. I've been chasing after swords and shields and I don't know what else till I'm practically run off my feet.”

“Well, I don't pay you to be a prop girl. I pay you to direct,” Mrs. Powell said mildly. “If she's not doing a satisfactory job, you should hire someone else—I won't stop you.”

Addie stared, remembering Mrs. T.'s words:
My great-aunt was a director....
Why hadn't she put this together before? Meg Turner was Mrs. T.'s great-aunt. So that was why Reg had ended up at Meg's house when he went looking for her.

“Who else could handle props?” Emma Mae continued, getting up as another guy returned for her chair. “How about one of the boys? They don't have enough to do.”

Meg gritted her teeth. “You're much mistaken if you think I would entrust props to any of
them.
You know I can't bear child actors.”

“The play hardly works without child actors, dear. Lady Macduff's poor little chicks, you know.”

“I feel like cheering when old Macbeth does them in,” Meg muttered.

Addie thought of Mrs. T. and the hen Messalina and felt laughter bubbling up inside her. So this
Mrs. Turner can't bear little chicks.

“What a bloodthirsty bat you are, Meg,” Reg observed.

“Bloodthirsty! At least I'm not proposing to enlist in the army to kill and maim in some lunacy we have no business in. If I were your mother, Reg—”

“Ha! About as motherly as Lady M.”

Meg Turner ignored this. “I suppose I'll just have to do without an assistant.”

“Well,” Addie began, and stopped. Was she crazy? She couldn't offer to work here! But Meg had already turned toward her. And somehow, she found herself saying, “I could help out, if you're in a tight spot.”

A warm smile spread over the directors face. ‘Well, what a lovely young thing you are.
Would
you?” She threw the end of her scarf over her shoulder. “Emma, can we give her an hourly rate, just for today?”

“Of course.”

“You don't have to pay me,” Addie protested.

Meg looked at her incredulously. “You're turning down money?”

“That means you have to be nice, Meg,” Reg pointed out.

The stagehands had just lifted the table by its corners when Meg whirled around and called, “Oh, my darlings, could you possibly put that down? And bring back those chairs? I didn't like the looks of that banquet scene, now that I think of it. I'd better run it again.”

Al jerked his head, and the men put the table down again. He was clearly trying to contain himself. “I'm sure there's something in our contract that says—”

“I'm sure there is,” she said airily. “And if we rehearse well we'll have a nice long run, and your crew will have steady employment. So fetch the chairs back, dear lambs of my heart.”

Reg broke up laughing at Meg's beatific expression.

“Yeah, yeah,” Al grumbled.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Emma Mae turned to Addie, putting her empty cup back on the table. “I promised to find you something besides costumes and makeup. But handling the props—for no wage!”

“I don't mind. If it needs to be done, I'll do it.” This was nothing like being consigned to makeup by Mr. Crowley. She didn't care if they asked her to wash the floors. She was finally getting the chance to be a part of a professional production!

Meg nodded. “That's the spirit. We all need to shine. The prop girl is as important as the proudest lady of the stage. Unless its that wretched Janie, of course.” She grabbed Addie's hand and shook it. Her heavy perfume made Addie's nose prickle. “Much obleeged, as the Limeys say.”

Addie grinned. “Obleeged myself.”

“Watch out,” Reg warned. He was twisting the golden circlet back onto his head. “Janie is Meg's personal slave. It's not just props. It's notes, and lines, and everything else—since for some reason there's no stage manager at the moment—”

“No stage manager?” Addie said incredulously.

“Meg fired her.” Emma Mae sighed. “We'll need to hire someone new.”

“And Janie's
supposed
to be assistant director—”

“Assistant
to
the director,” Meg corrected. “Who ever said assistant director?”

Reg pretended not to hear. “But Meg is too much of a dictator.”

“Yes, dear, I am.” Meg spun about to face the chattering actors, clapped her hands over her head, and called out in a ringing voice, “One-minute warning! Miss McNeal will assist me the rest of the afternoon. Let her know who you are so she can help you.”

Addie waved shyly at the crowd. A few of the men bowed and one or two of the actresses smiled, and then people were darting across the stage. Addie felt a surge of excitement as Meg Turner grabbed her wrist and led her behind the red velvet curtain to the prop table.

It was paint spattered and bore the marks of saw teeth and nails. Underneath and all along the walls were crates full of stuff. A woman in a black shawl was already waiting for her. “Hettie Longmere, First Witch.” She handed Addie a battered copy of the script. “You'll need this for prompts.”

Before she could ask a single question, actors swamped her. She was glad she knew the play fairly well and could figure out what item belonged to which character. The daggers belonged to the murderers. The candlestick was Lady Macbeth's. Still, it took a while to find what props were available and where. When she finally had a chance to pick up the script and go sit on a wooden stool in the wings, the banquet scene was over and a short scene between Lennox and some unnamed lord was already under way. Meg Turner was sitting on the edge of the stage, watching and writing notes to herself. Every now and then she'd leap to her feet and stop the action to say, “Put the emphasis on this word, not that one—see how that changes the meaning?” Or “Your light will be here, remember? Didn't we walk through this?” Addie watched, completely engrossed.

When the scene ended, she rushed backstage to the prop table again. Hettie Longmere and the other witches came to collect their cauldron and the toads and bats and other unpleasant things they had to throw into it, grumbling about some direction Meg had given them. Addie was mobbed with people needing crowns for the ghost king's procession. Then she heard Meg roar, “Act four, scene one! Witches, find your places!” and they were all gone as quickly as they had appeared.

And then she was alone.

Her head was swimming. Sensory overload...

Carefully, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the mirror.

A step creaked behind her. Startled, she jerked around, hiding the mirror behind her back.

No. No one. She took the mirror out again. She'd been aware of it the whole time, her lifeline—her way back. But as she examined it, she began to feel anxious. What if it was damaged? Should she find something to protect it, to keep it from scratching or breaking—a handkerchief or something no one would miss from the prop box? She put it down, just for a moment, and went to look.

Just as she pulled a scrap of green silk from one of the boxes, Reg darted through the curtain.

She hardly had time to drop the silk over the mirror before he thumped his hands down on the table. “Hello.”

“Hello, evil usurper.”

“I need the looking glass for the procession of kings.”

“But Macbeth doesn't carry the glass,” Addie said, careful not to glance at the green silk lying on the prop table. “The last king does.”

“Oh-ho! Our prop girl knows her Shakespeare.” He smiled disarmingly. “All right. I'll admit it. I came to fetch it so I could see how you were doing.”

“Oh.” Addie blushed. She realized she was smiling like an idiot, and looked away. “I'm—I'm doing fine, thanks. Just a—just a second.” Embarrassed, she crouched down to rummage in one of the boxes, hoping he hadn't noticed the color in her face. The prop must be here somewhere. The quicker she found it—

“Macbeth! Are you at your entrance?”

“Coming, Meg!” Reg shouted toward the stage.

Addie pulled out sashes, capes, and daggers, but no mirror. “Sorry. I don't see it....”

“Well,
I
won't hold that against you. But I won't vouch for Meg.” He leaned across the table, trying to peer into the boxes she was searching through. “Wait a second. What's this?”

With a sinking heart, Addie saw that he was holding her mirror. “Can't we use this?” he asked.

“No!” She scrambled to her feet. “I mean, that one's not a prop. Just wait. I'll find another.”

He turned toward the curtain, frowning. “But it's here with the props.”

“I know. But it's mine. It's—i t's...” She floundered. “I'm sure I can find you something.” She dived into another crate, practically throwing props around in her panic.

Nothing!

Then she felt his hand on her shoulder and glanced up to see him giving her a sympathetic look. “I know you want to impress Meg, but you don't have to try so hard,” he said kindly. “I promise, I'll return it as soon as the scenes over.”

“But—”

“Our thane! We await you!”

Reg flashed Addie a long-suffering look and rushed out to the wing, taking the mirror with him.

It was all she could do not to run after him and grab it out of his hand. What if someone looked in it? What would happen then?

But she couldn't barge in on the scene demanding it back. They'd just think she was crazy! Worried, she rushed out to the prompt stool to watch the rehearsal from the wing. All she could do was keep an eye on it.

But so far, there was no sign of it onstage. Reg was barging in on the witches' dance, looking every inch Macbeth even though he was way too young for the part. His black hair was crushed down under his crown, his face looked gaunt, and his every movement conveyed panic and distraction as he demanded the hags show him his future, demanded to know what threatened his hold on the throne.

The witches called up one apparition after another to bring cryptic messages of things to come—an armed soldier, a child in white robes splashed with blood, and, finally, the procession of the eight phantom kings. Addie remembered that the kings were accompanied by the ghost of Banquo, whom Macbeth had just murdered. They moved in a stately procession accompanied by a minor-key oboe melody.

Ah ha. She picked out the mirror in the hands of the last king and relaxed. He wasn't even looking into it.

But though she tried to keep her eye on him, her attention kept being drawn irresistibly back to Reg.

She was completely transfixed. Reg was the only person on the stage, as far as she was concerned. She watched him stare at the ghostly procession of kings in mounting horror as they wafted by him, evidence that all the crimes he had committed to win the throne were for naught. He spoke the Elizabethan poetry with such familiarity that it sounded like natural speech, what anyone would say when confronted with a future he should never have learned about because all that was to be found there was woe. It sent chills down her spine, and she didn't know if it was because he was so good or if she was just totally falling for him. All she knew was she couldn't focus on anything else while he was onstage.

 

                              ...
Filthy hags,
Why do you show me this?—A fourth? Start, eyes!
What, will the line stretch out to th' crack of doom?
Another yet? A seventh? I'll see no more.
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass
Which shows me many more....

 

She held her breath as the eighth king held up the silver looking glass to Reg to show an endless procession of Banquo's descendants, all kings of Scotland, all inheriting the throne that he had wanted for his own unborn children, wiping out his posterity.

And in that moment a truth hit her: Reg was an actor. A
real
actor.

And she ... she was good. But she would never be
that
good.

Then Reg took the mirror. He held it at arm's length, as if it were a dangerous object, one that might burn or bite, and Addie was jolted out of her reverie. She jumped to her feet. She'd forgotten that Macbeth looks into it! Oh, why hadn't she stopped him? Now anything might happen. Why hadn't she been able to keep him from taking it? She braced herself, wanting to dash across the stage, but knowing she couldn't possibly do that.