The Mechanical Theater (4 page)

Solomon sucked in a deep breath and nodded.

“Now try again.”

He said the lines again, trying to mimic the way she had spoken them.

“
Much
better!” she said, smiling brightly. “And now the next scene.” She and Solomon turned the pages of their scripts. “I’ll start at line eight, after the guard brings Antony to Cleopatra.” She cleared her throat and continued
.

It went that way for a while—­him stumbling over some of the words and Dahlia correcting him, and then he half stuttered the next lines, letting his courage falter until she encouraged him again. She was a good partner to practice with, never chiding or dispiriting him. Sometimes she repeated a few of Cleopatra’s lines, insisting that she’d missed emphasizing a word or had failed to convey the right expression. Solomon wondered if she did it to make him feel better about his own performance, or if she truly wished to be her best, even when practicing in an overstuffed supply closet.

An hour passed before they reached the last of Antony’s lines, and he tried to speak the words as if death waited for him at the end.

“Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o’ the world,

The noblest; and do now not basely die,

Not cowardly put off my helmet to

My countryman—­”

“Good emotion,” said Dahlia, “but a little slower and clearer.”

Solomon picked up again, giving each word its weight.

“—­a Roman by a Roman

Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going;

I can no more.”

Dahlia nodded encouragingly and then recited again Cleopatra’s lament for her lover’s death, Solomon reading along with her. As she came upon the death of Antony, he made a choking sound in the back of his throat and stuck his tongue out, letting his shoulders and neck fall slack as he forced a dead expression on his face.

“What on earth was
that
?” she demanded, placing a hand on her hip.

“Antony dying, of course,” he explained, trying to keep the smile from his lips. He stepped forward and pointed to the line printed on the page. “It says it there:
A
NTONY
dies
.”

She swatted him away with the script. “I know what it says. No need to be so smart.” A smile broke through her stern face, a laugh on her lips. “Oh, Mr. Wade . . .” She brought her hand to her forehead and shook her head with a sigh, still laughing. “If ever there was a display of Antony’s death, I have not heard the best of it until now.”

He bowed with a flourish, and her smile faded.

“You’re better when you’re relaxed, you know,” she told him. “You don’t stutter so much.”

The back of his neck burned, and he bowed his head. “Er . . . thanks.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “You’ll get better with time and practice. Everyone does.”

A door creaked somewhere backstage.

“Mr. Wade, Miss Appleton, are you still here?” asked Mr. Niles.

Dahlia jumped. “Yes,” she called, her voice strained. She cleared her throat. “We’re in the storage room.”

Mr. Niles’s light footsteps strode across the wood floor, and then he appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing back here?”

“Practicing,” she said. She glanced at Solomon and smiled kindly. “Mr. Wade, it seems, has stage fright.” She clutched her script to her chest and faced the director. “We thought a different setting might help.”

“And did it?” asked Mr. Niles.

“Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “He’s much better when he’s relaxed. I told him so.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He nodded and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Though I’m afraid you’ll have to reconvene your practice another time. It’s quite late. Paperwork took longer than expected.” He stifled a yawn. “Should I call you a cab, Miss Appleton? I don’t know if they run this late, but—­”

“That’s all right, Mr. Niles,” she said. “I thought Mr. Wade could walk me, if he doesn’t mind of course.”

Solomon straightened. “Not at all.”

“Very well then,” said Mr. Niles. “I’ll follow you out.”

Solomon snatched his hat from atop the treasure chest and they left the storage room and crossed the theater hall to the foyer. There, he grabbed his coat from the supply closet and met Dahlia at the entrance. “Where is it you live?” he asked her.

She wrapped the scarf around her hair and tucked the ends into the collar of her coat. “Do you know where the old Tuesenberry building is?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s me.” She pulled her gloves onto her slender fingers. “Are you ready to go?”

He nodded, and they followed Mr. Niles out the door. The cold night air bit at Solomon’s cheeks, and he plunged his hands deeper into his coat pockets to keep his fingers warm.

Mr. Niles locked the door behind them and tipped his hat. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned and strode down the empty street.

Solomon and Dahlia followed him for a block and then turned down Brancaster toward the fourth quadrant. The narrow street was slick with creeping frost, and patches of snow hid in the nooks and crannies along the brick walls.

Dahlia breathed in the winter air, her cheeks pink from the icy wind. “I should thank you, you know.”

“What for?”

She stared up at the smokestacks leering over the eaves of the buildings. “For practicing with me. It’s nice having someone to talk to, someone to laugh with.” She bowed her head, and a stray curl fell free of her scarf. “You know, for being a friend.” She glanced at him through her dark lashes, her gray scarf fluttering in the wintry breeze.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “I guess it is.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the street for the Tuesenberry, Dahlia pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders and sighed. “This is me.”

Solomon glanced at the faded green door to the old, run-­down building. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

She stopped at the door and looked up at him. “Of course. I look forward to it,” she said with a smile. “
To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Farewell sweet playfellow . . .”

She bowed her head with a laugh, and Solomon opened the door.

“After you, dear Hermia,” he said, gesturing inside.

Dahlia hesitated at the door and arched her eyebrows at him. “You know
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?”

He nodded. “It’s my favorite, the first play I ever saw.”

“Is it really?” She grinned. “I always thought it was a little girl’s play—­the fairies, you know.” She stepped through the door and walked into the atrium. He followed her inside. “I think Mr. Niles wants to do that play for our next production.” She pulled her scarf away from her hair and glanced back at him. “Do you think you’ll audition?”

“I don’t know,” he said, following her across the checkered floor. “I doubt I’ll be good enough by then.”

“It’ll be a few months.
Antony and Cleopatra
will likely run through March, longer if the play is a success.” She removed her gloves and looked up at the arrow over the closed lift gates, slowly spinning toward the ground floor. The lift rattled above them as they waited. “I’d like to try for Titania,” she continued. “What about you?”

Solomon stuck his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. “Puck, maybe? But I doubt I’d get such a big part—­if I got a part at all.”

Dahlia paused and touched his arm. “Don’t doubt yourself, Mr. Wade. You have months to improve.” She smiled. “You’ll get there.”

He felt his cheeks warm, and he bowed his head. “Er . . . thanks, Miss Appleton,” he said quietly, distractedly rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, please call me Dahlia.” She grinned more broadly, her rosewood lips framing the gap between her two front teeth. “You don’t have to be so formal now that we’re friends.”

The lift clanged down the shaft and came to a halt at the end of the hall. The occupant slammed the gates open and strode across the checkered floor until he drew even with them.

“Damien?” said Dahlia, her voice cracking. The color faded from her cheeks.

Solomon bristled, his muscles tensing through his back and shoulders.

Damien drew to his full height and stared down at her. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for over an hour. Your mother says you never came home after practice.”

Dahlia swallowed. “Well, I was just—­I was at the theater, and I—­Well, I spoke with Mr. Niles, and I—­uh—­”

“And they lost track of the time,” finished Solomon, stepping forward.

He snapped his gaze to Solomon and narrowed his eyes. “Who asked
you
?” he sneered, turning his attention back to Dahlia. “And what are you doing with
him
so late?”

“Nothing,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “I just—­He—­”

“I walked her home,” said Solomon. “To make sure she made it all right.”

Damien scoffed. “Why bother? Nothing would happen on those streets she doesn’t give out anyway. You know what she is, don’t you?” he sneered, glancing down at her. “The little harlot of Le Theatre Mecanique.”

“Stop it,” she whispered. “Just stop it.” She raised her chin and stared at Damien, her eyes bright. Dark splotches spread across her face, and she shook her head, loose curls falling around her flushed cheeks. “I would never—­” She exhaled sharply and squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I—­”

“You what?” Damien narrowed his eyes. “Don’t pretend to have dignity, Dahlia.”

Her lip trembled, tears shining in her downcast eyes. “Why must you be so cruel?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m cruel, am I? Don’t forget what I’ve done for you.” He grabbed her arm, and she resisted for a second before letting him tug her toward the lift.

The hairs on the back of Solomon’s neck bristled, and heat flushed through his tense muscles. “Dah—­” He pressed his lips together. “Miss Appleton, if you want me to—­”

She shook her head without looking at him. “Just go home, Mr. Wade.”

Damien jerked her into the lift and banged the gates shut. He slammed the lift control lever forward and the platform juddered upward out of sight, leaving Solomon alone in the entry hall. He clenched his fists. Part of him wished he knew what floor Dahlia lived on—­and what room—­so that he could help her. Standing in the middle of the Tuesenberry lobby, he was useless. But another part of him said to leave it be. It wasn’t his business.

He turned his back to the lift, and the muscles in his jaw twitched.

The problem was, he
wanted
it to be his business.

S
olomon leaned against the door to the spare bedroom and stared at Emily’s sleeping form. Her breath rattled and wheezed in her chest, interrupted by faint coughs.

“How is she?” he asked.

His sister Petra withdrew a damp cloth from Emily’s forehead and curled her fingers around the rag in her lap. “Worse,” she said with a sigh. Streaks of grease marred her cheeks—­another long night with her engineering work. Her amber-­gold eyes were bright with the beginnings of tears, but her cheeks were dry. “I sent word to Emmerich in Paris today.”

Solomon straightened. “Do you think he could send us the money we need?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if he can do
anything
but—­” She glanced at Emily and sighed. “The truth is, we need money, and I don’t know who else to turn to.” She tightened her fingers around the damp rag in her lap. “I hate to ask him. It’s not his responsibility to take care of this family. That’s
my
duty.” She glanced up at Solomon. “
Our
duty.”

“I’m doing what I can, Petra.”

“I know you are. I am too, but even with your two jobs and the little bit of money I’m able to bring home, it’s not enough. She needs better medicine, proper care. If Emmerich could send us even a small bit of money, we could give her that.”

Solomon crossed the room and placed his hand on Petra’s shoulder, but she brushed him away and dipped the rag into a bowl of cool water on the floor. She wrung the excess from the cloth and then pressed the rag to Emily’s forehead. The small girl shivered at Petra’s touch and coughed again.

“Is her new medicine having any effect?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

Emily sprang from her pillow and retched. Solomon snatched a tin from the bedside table and shoved it into her lap. Coughs wracked through her fragile body, and she spit blue-­tinged mucus onto the aluminum tray. Petra stood and gently rubbed Emily’s back. She coughed once more and collapsed back onto the bed. Solomon removed the tray from her lap, and Petra wiped her lips with a dry towel before replacing the damp rag on her forehead. She gently brushed Emily’s hair from her face.

Emily did not immediately fall back asleep. She glanced once at Petra and then her eyes rested on Solomon. “Is it true?” she asked quietly. “Did you really get a job at the theater?” Her voice was hoarse and feeble. She coughed again.

Solomon set the aluminum tray on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I did, though—­” He glanced at Petra. “—­not on the stage.”

“Could I come see it?” Emily asked. “I’d love to watch a show. Can I? Can I please?”

Petra leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She tapped her fingers on her elbow and frowned, fixing her gaze on the dim lantern atop the bedside table.

Solomon clenched his jaw and laid a hand on Emily’s bony ankle. “Of course you can go, Em. The next play doesn’t open for a few months, so you have plenty of time to get better.” He drew his brows together, forcing a smile on his face.

Emily nodded, and for the first time in weeks he saw a smile upon her thin face, but then a fit of coughs wracked through her chest and her face turned pale. Petra soothed the young girl with a gentleness Solomon didn’t know she possessed. Finally, Emily stopped coughing and lay back in her bed, looking up at Solomon.

“I’ll get better.” She smiled weakly. “I promise.”

He nodded firmly and stood up from the bed. “Get some sleep, Em.”

“Good night, Sol.”

Petra followed him into the living room and shut the door behind her. “You shouldn’t promise her things like that,” she whispered. “We can’t afford it, and she might not—­”