The Jewel and the Key (26 page)

“Don't we all,” Whaley said softly, and turned back to the mahogany.

Addie watched his arm moving round in patient circles, restoring the wood, and felt suddenly timid, not wanting to push, not wanting to kill the little moth of hope that was once again flittering within sight. “Whaley?” She was almost holding her breath. “How long do you think you'll help out with the renovation here?”

He shrugged. “Until I've worked enough to pay Mrs. Powell back.” Suddenly his voice warmed. “I'd like to, too. No offense to your dad, but working in a bookstore is kinda dull compared to bringing a wreck like this back to life. But”—he twisted around to her again—“I guess how long I work depends on whether we find any old pictures to match up with those shots you're taking. Otherwise, Mrs. Powell won't be able to renovate anyway. But if she does, sure, I'll stick around for a while.”

“What if we don't find anything?” It slipped out before she could stop herself. She grimaced, feeling as if she had struck a match and invited the moth to immolate itself.

“The army, for sure.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Now that I've got my papers back.”

Zap!
The moth flew straight into the hot center of the flame.

Addie turned quickly and hopped off the barstool. “Well, I'd better finish up these shots.” She hurried back into the auditorium.

She
had
to make sure Mrs. Powell got the information she needed to get the place declared a landmark. She had to. But as far as she could see, there was nothing here to help them.

Unless...

She hesitated only a second. Then she marched back down the aisles and up onto the stage. She crossed it, plunged backstage, ran down the stairs and into the back hallway.

Her heart was racing as she entered the office and scanned the mess she and Whaley and Mrs. Powell had left there just a few days ago. Costumes were heaped everywhere. She knew there was a pile here of the oldest clothes she'd sorted out—where was it?

Ah, there. She went and knelt by a mound of clothes on the love seat. But as she reached out to pick up the top garment, she stopped. These weren't the clothes that Mrs. Turner had given her. They belonged to the Jewel. Should she really be wearing them? What if she ripped something?

Well, a dress can be sewn back together,
she thought. But if she didn't do something right now, the Jewel might never be restored. And then Whaley would leave, and then who knew what would happen.

Hurriedly, she began searching through the jackets and trousers and vests, picking up, inspecting, and rejecting, until finally she found herself a dress. She peeled off her sweatshirt and her T-shirt. Then she wriggled out of her jeans and tossed them into the corner.

The dress crinkled and breathed as she shook it out and pulled it over her head: a pale, tea-colored dress of soft linen, with a square neck. Seed pearls were sewn into the yoke, and the sleeves ended halfway down her forearms. The skirt was straight, but then fanned out and swished at midcalf.

Once she had it on, she picked up her sweatshirt and took the mirror out of its zippered pocket. Holding it carefully at arm's length, she set it on Emma Mae's desk, face-down.

And now she started to feel nervous. Despite the damp spring chill seeping through the walls, sweat was trickling down her sides.

The dust in the air seemed to shimmer. She sat heavily in the chair, trying to psych herself up, like a diver standing at the edge of a cold, cold lake. Once you plunged into that water, what if you never came up again?

Fear rippled through her for a moment. But then, slowly, she reached for the mirror.

Trembling slightly, she held it up, hesitating to turn it over, like a solider about to throw a grenade for the first time. Then, deliberately, she brought it closer to her face and looked in. And for a flickering moment, she thought of Reg and realized there was something that scared her even more than diving back into his time.

It was looking into the mirror and seeing that nothing had changed at all. Because then she would never see him again.

The moment stretched, suspended like a bridge over a raging river. She could feel herself set foot on that bridge and step out into cold fog, icy uncertainty. It was as if she could hear the rush of passing decades clashing against one another and breaking on the rocks below. Her throat closed up.

And then she became aware of a whiff of heavy fragrance. Not the choking patchouli she'd smelled in the elevator at the courthouse. Something more complex, and elegant.

Behind her, in the glass, she caught a glimpse of a gray smoky scarf and the edge of a jade green blouse.

Nerving herself, she turned around.

Across the room, a woman stood in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob.

“My God, you frightened me!” Meg Turner said.

“What are you doing here? ' The director was gaping at her as she crossed the room. For a moment, Addie was afraid she had simply materialized in front of Meg Turner, like someone in a cheesy sci-fishow.

“I ... uh...” Quickly, she palmed the mirror and slipped it into her pocket. Then she jumped out of the chair. “I was looking for you.” It was the best she could come up with.

“Here? But this is Emma Mae's office.” Megs green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Mine is down the hall. Why were you looking for me here?”

“I didn't know whose office it was,” Addie began, but then remembered that the names were on the doors. Hurriedly she amended, “I was just looking for you. You said to drop by sometime—that you might need an assistant?”

Meg put her hands on her hips. “As I recall, I said that, and then—hey, presto!—you were gone like the magician's assistant.”

Oh, dear. What excuse could she give? She thought quickly. The gun. The police. “My friend came looking for me. About the gun. And then there was an uproar at home. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to just leave like that—”

To her relief, the director's face cleared. “That's right. Has your friend enlisted after all?”

“Not yet.” It felt odd to have this conversation—talking about Whaley with Meg Turner! “But he still wants to. And I keep having these bad dreams about it.”

“Dreams?” Meg looked as if she was about to say something but then thought better of it. “Well, if you think he might be open to persuasion, there's a woman I know who speaks around town against enlistment. Louise Olivereau. She and Kate Sadler. You've probably heard of them. If you can get him to listen to one of their speeches, it might convince him.” She began rummaging through the pile of papers on the desk—the very same desk that sat in the middle of the office of the present-day Jewel. “There should be a score here.... Not that I know if we'll even use it, but I wish I'd asked Emma Mae where she put it. Ah, here it is!” The director lifted a crisp white sheaf of papers lined with bars and musical notes. She began flipping through it. “Now,” she said, “about your question, Miss McNeal.”

Addie blinked. “My question?”

“About working as my assistant? Real assistant this time,
not prop girl. Do you want to show me what you can do?” Meg glanced at her watch. “This is your chance. I've got time to observe you a bit.”

“I ... uh...” Now? Was there any way she could be less ready for this?

Meg leaned back against the desk, examining her appraisingly. “You seem hesitant.”

Addie took a breath and, with conscious decision, threw herself into this new reality. “Of—of course,” she stammered. “I'd love to. Is it still
Ma
—the Scottish play?”

“
Macbeth,
you mean? Don't even mention that cursed thing! Everything is going wrong, and opening night less than a week away! We've had pretty sparse audiences for previews. Not to mention advance sales are sluggish. We need publicity.” She threw up her hands. “Sorry. The short answer is
no.
Mercifully, the cast of
Macbeth
won't be coming in until early evening. With our new stage manager, thank goodness! Right now, I'm fooling around with a new project, with some of the actors helping me. In exchange for food, of course. Lesson one: Actors will do anything for a good meal.” She laughed. “Oh, don't look like that! You make me feel like a wicked witch trying to lure you into my gingerbread house. This is extremely informal. Do you want to give it a try or not?”

“Sure.” Addie gulped. “I mean, yes. I'll ... I'll try to help you.”

“Come on, then. Into the dragons lair.”

Carrying the score, Meg led her out of the office and up the stairs. Addie dragged behind a bit, feeling apprehensive.

What if I'm nothing special, even as Meg's assistant?
The memory of the
Short Takes
audition still stung. These were professional actors. Addie glanced at the slender but sturdy figure ahead of her. What would Meg's scorn be like if she said or did something naïve? She was so inexperienced.

The voices of the actors rang out as she and Meg emerged into the wings. Addie peeked through the curtains. A few actors in their street clothes were reading through lines, scripts in hand. The stage was warm and buzzing with a relaxed energy, nothing like the tension of the
Macbeth
rehearsal.

“Come on. This way,” Meg said. Addie followed her down the steps and into the orchestra.

Instantly, her heart beat faster. It was like a jolt of caffeine: the stage lights, the smell of sawdust, the voices projecting against the back walls. The gorgeous colors in the auditorium, Isis and Osiris welcoming her back as if she were an old friend, the boats carved onto the balconies, gliding along the Nile, dodging hippos and ibises. Even with no sets, no costumes, no backdrops, it still ignited her imagination.

Meg had said
actors
but—would it be only the professional troupe here? Would Reg be helping out as well? She didn't see him.

No one paid any attention as they slid into seats in the third row. Purposefully, she scanned the group onstage until—yes—there he was, lounging on a wooden foldup chair in the center of the stage. His hand was on his chin, and there was a tremendous frown on his face. Andrew stood before him, clutching a cap in his hands, with Hettie Longmere by his side. Peter, of the devilish mustache and pointed beard, was sitting at the piano, hands poised on the keys, and Addie recognized a few other members of the cast of
Macbeth
gathered in a semicircle around the three main actors. They seemed to be blocking the scene, not just reading it.

Her eyes wandered back to Reg, as they would have even if he had not suddenly roared, “It's my daughter, then, you demand of me?”

Andrew preened like a fighting rooster. “Your daughter and the realm to her dowry, yes.”

Addie jerked upright in her seat.

Meg Turner noticed her reaction. “Do you know the play?” she whispered.

Addie barely managed a nod.

She watched Reg rise from his chair and stroll across the stage with the rolling gait of a much heavier man, full of middle-aged self-importance, like a college professor. But he wasn't playing a professor.

He was playing the old man of the Dovrë.

The troll king.

Her breath caught tight in her chest. It
was
the Jewel in that photo she'd found. And Reg—she thought of the masked figure in the photograph. Was he the troll king? How long would it take—a month, two, three?—to get to a full-fledged production in costume? Would he be acting in it? Her thoughts galloped. She couldn't wait to look at the picture again.

 

Ay, but stop, my lad;

 

Reg fixed Andrew with a baleful stare, then glanced at the script in his hand.

 

You also have some undertakings to give,
If you break even one, the whole pact's at an end,
And you'll never get away from here living.
First of all, you must swear that you'll never give heed
—

 

In her mind, Addie joyfully joined in:

 

To aught that lies outside Rondë-hills' bounds;
day you must shun, and deeds, and each sunlit spot.

 

She turned to Meg Turner. “It's
Peer Gynt!”

Meg laughed, taken aback. “I'm surprised you know it—at your age! Ibsen's quite shocking.”

“Really?” Addie's eyes fastened again on Reg, who was swaggering about the stage, having a fine time. Upstaging Andrew even in a read-through.

Meg Turner leaned back and put one foot up on the arm of the chair in front of her. It was a startlingly modern pose.
Ooh,
Addie thought,
won't she be happy when trousers become fashionable for women. When will that be? The thirties? But...
An odd dismay filled her.
She'll be middle-aged by then! They'll all be...

“So,” Meg whispered as the banter continued onstage, “what do you suggest? How can we bring this scene to life?”

Startled, Addie stammered, “B-Bring it to life? Um...” The performances already looked pretty good to her. Was that because she didn't know any better? What more could she do to stage this scene? Her thoughts spun. She'd directed all those backyard productions, hadn't she? Read director's notes? Yet it seemed pathetic. No preparation for the real thing.

“Let me ... um ... let me watch a bit more.”

Meg nodded, but her mouth betrayed impatience.

Addie bit her lip. She watched intently as Peer and the troll king bargained. Sometimes the actors stopped and suggested things to each other, but mainly they kept the scene rolling. The king's courtiers set about transforming Peer into a subhuman troll like themselves. He drank the trolls' sour wine, and they fastened a tail on him. Addie couldn't help noticing that Reg was hugely enjoying making Andrew look ridiculous. He was overflowing with geniality and good cheer as he joined Andrew's and Hettie's hands and commanded: