The Mechanical Theater (5 page)

“And so what?” His throat tightened and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s the good of her thinking she might die, even if it may be true?”

“I didn’t mean—­”

“I know.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But we can’t let her give up hope.” He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the door. “We can’t let ourselves give up hope.”

Petra rested her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes shimmered with tears, though she tried to hide them by glancing away. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t.”

She squeezed his shoulder and turned away, slipping back into the bedroom and closing the door behind her. Solomon leaned against the smooth wallpaper and closed his eyes, tears pressing against his eyelids.

He only hoped he could keep his promise.

CHAPTER FOUR

“S
ol,” said a faint voice. “Solomon. It’s late morning. Wake up.”

Solomon blinked, and the bright gray light of the morning sun dazzled his eyes. Constance stood over the side of his cot, shaking him by the shoulder.

He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

He jolted upright and his heart caught in his throat. “Nine?”

“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, shaking her head. “If I had realized, I would have woken you an hour ago.” She pulled him to his feet. “Where are your boots?”

“Under the cot,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

She grabbed the dirty boots from underneath his bed, and Solomon crossed the living room and grabbed his coat from beside the door, his heart beating in a panic. Constance dropped the shoes in front of him, and he shoved his stocking-­clad feet inside and tightened the laces, trying to stave off the lingering fatigue. He slipped his arms into his jacket with a yawn.

“Hurry up,” she said. “He might still keep you yet.”

Boots on, jacket buttoned, and hat secure on his head, Solomon stumbled out the door and down the stairs to the street. A blast of steam from the grates dampened his trousers as he walked toward the subcity entrance, the moisture freezing within seconds. His teeth chattered and goose bumps gathered on his arms, the cold of the winter morning clinging to him until he opened the door to the warmth of the boilers below. The hot steamy air washed over him as he climbed down the stairs and ladders to the boiler floor, the coal fires heating him through to the marrow of his bones until he broke out into the familiar sweat of his daily work.

His station was empty when he reached it. He dug his gloves out of the bin next to his post, and Russell mumbled a greeting as he shoveled coal into the furnace gate in front of him.

“Has the foreman been by?” asked Solomon, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

Russell tugged the brim of his hat down to his eyes and ducked his head. “Coming up behind ya now.”

Solomon quickly grabbed his shovel and dug into the scraps of coal left from the previous shift. The furnace gate snapped open and he tossed the meager coal fragments and black dust into the fire.

The foreman’s hand clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re late.”

Solomon slumped his shoulders and turned around, leaning on the support of the shovel handle. He avoided the foreman’s eye, scratching behind his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. I overslept. It won’t happen again.”

“This isn’t the first time, Wade,” said the foreman. “Last week you missed an hour, and the week before that you were late two days. What am I supposed to do about that, hm? I docked your pay last time, and that didn’t seem to have much of an effect.” He sighed. “I need workers who will be here when they’re supposed to be. You don’t seem to get that.”

Solomon bowed his head and wiped his nose. “I mean it, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Wade, I can’t have a worker who doesn’t stick to his shifts.” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to let you—­”

“N-­No, sir. Please.” Solomon straightened and clenched his jaw. “I—­I’ll make it up, the hour I missed. I’ll work two extra.” He searched for kindness in the foreman’s dark eyes. “I can’t lose my job, sir.” He closed his eyes and gripped the shovel handle until his gloves creaked. “If I don’t work, my family doesn’t eat. And my sister, she—­”

“You should have thought about them before you—­”

“Sir, I
—­
” He gritted his teeth and lowered his voice. “I’ll work a double to make it up, at half pay. Two shifts for one shift’s pay if it means I keep my job.” He drew his brows together and stared into the foreman’s sooty face. “You can’t get another worker at that price.”

The foreman narrowed his eyes. “That’s a twenty-­four, boyo.”

Solomon exhaled slowly. “I know, sir.”

The foreman raised his hand to his face and rubbed his temples. He sighed. “You can keep your job—­for now.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and raised his thick eyebrows. “But this is your last chance, Wade. I mean it. If I find you missing from your station, and you aren’t somewhere between here and the coal stores, I will let you go, and without the pay I owe you, understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He grunted in reply. “Now back to work before I change my mind.” The foreman turned on his heel and strode down the row of boilers, barking at someone else down the line.

Solomon exhaled sharply and relaxed his shoulders. It was going to be a long day—­a twenty-­four hour shift at half his wages. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he still had his job.

N
early a week passed before Solomon was able to transition from nights to days again at the boilers, an entire week of playacting practice lost, an entire week without seeing Dahlia. He tried practicing his lines at home, but between his twelve-­hour shifts, trying to sleep during the daylight hours, and helping Constance take care of the worsening Emily while Matron was at work, he didn’t have the time or the energy to do much of anything. When he finally switched to the day shift again and looked upon Le Theatre Mecanique, it was like seeing home again after a long time away.

He pushed through the front doors and fetched his cleaning supplies from the closet. The theater hall echoed with actors’ voices, the stage set for Rome. Damien’s voice echoed louder than the rest.

“The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring,

And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.”

The girl who played Octavia stepped forward and spoke louder, drowning the echoes of Damien’s voice with her own. “
Sir, look well to my husband’s house; and
—­”

“
What, Octavia
?” asked the young man who played Caesar.

Octavia arched an eyebrow. “
I’ll tell you in your ear
,” she said even louder.

Damien drew to his full height and shouted his next lines, his voice booming across the hall like cannon fire as he glared at the young woman playing Octavia.

Solomon carried his broom, dustpan, and bucket to the leftmost section of chairs and swept between the rows. He scanned the front theater seats and spotted Dahlia’s fair hair near the aisle. He hoped she had time to practice with him after their normal rehearsal.

On the stage, the actors continued with their lines. Damien and the girl who played Octavia continued to speak over each other, the loudness of their voices mounting until all the actors were shouting their lines, trying to be heard.

Finally, Mr. Niles called the scene with a rumbling bellow, “Trumpets sound.
Exeunt!
” He tucked his script under his arm and glared at them. “That was the
worst
performance I have yet seen at this theater. Miss Ferrier, you do not have to shout, and you, Mr. Creighton, do not have to—­”

“I wouldn’t have to shout,” said the young woman, clenching her hands into fists, “if you would have given me the part I auditioned for. I wanted to be Cleopatra, not Octavia.”

“You were cast as Octavia, Miss Ferrier,” said Mr. Niles. “And that is who you will play, or you will not be in this production at all, understood?”

Miss Ferrier narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “And why does
she
get to be Cleopatra?” she demanded, pointing at Marion offstage. “She’s no better than I am. I should be the lead, not her, but
you
decided otherwise. I demand to know why.”

Mr. Niles strode forward. “Because, frankly, Miss Ferrier, you do not have the poise or the grace of a leading lady. You are brash and sharp-­tongued, and you have no respect for me or this theater.” He adjusted his square-­rimmed glasses. “Now tell me—­why would I hire
you
as my leading lady if you cannot behave like one?”

She scoffed. “How dare you—­”

“Oh, I dare, Miss Ferrier.”

“Then I’ll—­” She sucked in a deep breath and haughtily raised her chin. “Then I’ll leave. I’ll go somewhere else.”

The other actors onstage fought the urge to snicker, and those in the front rows of the theater seats rustled nervously. Some of them giggled behind their hands or stared pointedly away from Mr. Niles and Miss Ferrier. Miss Lachance leaned over and whispered something in Dahlia’s ear, but she did not laugh or make any indication at all that she had heard her. Miss Lachance sat back in her chair, crossing her arms with a frown.

Mr. Niles sighed and removed his glasses. “Do you know why I hired you, Miss Ferrier?” he asked, his voice calm again.

Miss Ferrier did not answer, her bottom lip trembling.

He rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses on his nose. “You have the potential to be an amazing actress. I cannot deny your skill. I saw that when you auditioned.” He shook his head. “But I will not have a drama queen on my stage. I want actors—­
professional
actors. Even with all the acting talent in the world, a young woman with your poor attitude will not make it far in professional theater.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and examined the young actress. “Now, I
want
you to stay—­I do—­but you have to work on your professionalism. Otherwise . . . I’ll have to find another Octavia.”

The actress broke the gaze between them and stared off to the back of the stage, her cheeks red.

“Can you do that for me?” asked Mr. Niles, narrowing his eyes. “This theater could use your talents.”

She hesitated a moment before answering quietly, “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Niles smiled. “Good. Thank you, Miss Ferrier. Treat me with respect and I will treat you equally. Any actor here will tell you the same.” He glanced at each of the other actors onstage. “Now, let’s try this again.”

The actors ran through their lines again, and when Mr. Niles called the end of the scene, they shared a collective sigh of relief.

“It wasn’t perfect,” said the theater director. “But it was better.” He gestured to the stairs and checked his pocket watch. “We still have time to move on to the next scene.” He reopened his script and gestured toward the seats. “Miss Kozlowski, Miss Appleton, Miss Lachance, and Mr. Blair, if you will take your places . . .” He waved them onto the stage.

Dahlia rose from her chair and trudged up the stairs, no energy in her movements. She took her place next to Marion and stared blankly at the wall, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

The actors began their lines, and Solomon swept his way to the stage, listening to Marion berate the poor actor who played her messenger. The young man quailed under her gaze.

“
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?”