Kestrel and Zara arrive at the read-through late, but they come bearing gifts — small gold boxes of chocolate. Kestrel insisted on stopping at a specialty shop in the Village, forty minutes out of the way. “People need comfort right now,” she said. “They need to be reminded about life. How it’s here — a moment, melted on the tongue — then gone! A bite of perfect chocolate does that.”
Zara tugged away from the ridiculous plan at first, but then she was charmed by the odd taste of pear caramels, taken in by the rustle of fancy paper, even half-convinced by Kestrel’s words. She could almost forget the body crumpled in the orchestra pit.
As soon as Zara enters the studio, she remembers everything. Roscoe’s ragged breathing. How she never finished walking the boards.
The actors are already gathered around a long table. Everyone turns to look at her. Kestrel breezes away from her side, setting down the chocolates on the table. Zara is left standing alone, empty-handed.
And then she sees Leopold Henneman at the head of the table. Leopold Henneman, smiling gently at her.
Zara has seen pictures; she recognizes his uniquely light brown eyes, the steep angle of his features. What can’t be shoved into a frame is the amount of heady, unfocused energy he gives off. “My dear,” he says, and his voice wraps around her like a coat on a cold day. “Come.” He nods to the empty chair next to him.
On his other side is a woman with pink-white skin and short blond hair tucked behind her ears. “This is Meg,” Leopold says. “My personal assistant. Meg, you remember Zara Evans.”
Zara’s lips stretch into a thin, nervous string of a smile.
Meg gives a nod. Her pale-blue eyes have a dark stone of pity at the centers. Why? Because Roscoe died? Because Zara had to sit there, waiting for the ambulance, and watch?
She doesn’t have long to wonder, because Leopold stands. He takes in the room with a single, sweeping glance. “Welcome,” he says. “Or, as is the case with so many of you, welcome back.”
Zara knows those words aren’t for her. She’s not really one of the company yet. But she has to start somewhere — right? This is what Zara has been waiting for. Sitting in a plain studio on a spittle-gray afternoon. This is when she becomes one of the initiated, the people behind the curtain, making the stories. Someone who can be welcomed back.
“This is not what I would have wished for, but as always in the theater, we work with what we are given. Thank you, all of you, for cooperating with the police.” Zara had her moment with them, after the ambulance and hospital and before Kestrel’s apartment. She was so tired and their faces were so blank. They asked over and over again how she knew the theater would be open. I didn’t. Then how did she open the door? I didn’t. Then why was it open? I don’t know. Why did she go in that way? I just wanted to see the stage.
I’m an actor.
“They must follow their procedure,” Leopold adds. “The more help we give, the sooner they can leave our space. And while I cannot say anything officially, the police have informed us that Roscoe’s death was most likely an accident, caused by an unsafe lighting session.” These words are the air that Zara has been waiting for. Accident. Unsafe. She takes a full, round breath for the first time since yesterday.
“This is what we do,” Leopold says, “We push on. At the Aurelia, we stop for nothing, not even death. Perhaps it is most important to be making art when death is all around. This is when we need the perfect story.”
Leopold lets the room fall back into silence. His words make Zara feel bold and terrified all at once.
The stage manager invites them all to go around and introduce themselves. Zara shifts in her seat. Maybe things will settle in now. This could still be everything she dreamed, with no more dark edges.
The crew goes first. Sound design, set design, dramaturg. Leopold nods with each addition.
His energy changes, tightens, as the turn falls to a young man who fits the description of tall, dark, and handsome a little too snugly. “Barrett,” the young man says. “But you can call me the God of Props.”
“I make costumes,” says a woman whose deep voice is touched with an Italian accent. A white braid runs down her back, sleek against wrinkled skin. She’s unspeakably elegant. “My name is Cosima.” She must be the oldest person at the table by at least twenty years.
Next, they come to a girl with blue-green tattoos twining up her arms. A girl almost as young as Zara. She has curly black hair, glowing amber-brown skin. Her hands are filled with nervous energy. She’s so pretty that Zara assumes she’s an actress, then immediately changes her mind.
“Eli,” she says. “Assistant lighting designer.”
The silence shimmers with tension.
“As you know,” Leopold says, “the Aurelia has seen few designers with Roscoe’s level of dedication. We are sure that his assistant will be able to carry out his wishes for Echo and Ariston.”
“All right.” The stage manager sounds a too-sudden clap. “On to the actors.”
First up is a wisp of a woman with vaulted cheekbones. She might be in her early forties, but she looks a decade older. Her light-brown hair is brittle, her voice as pretty and sharp as a smashed mirror. “My name is Enna, and I’ll be playing the role of Echo’s mother, Amalthea.”
Then comes Echo’s father, a heavyset man with a blunt red face and stunning blue eyes. “I’m Carl.”
As soon as Zara sees the man playing Ariston’s father, she wishes she could swap. Toby is short, bald, and gay in every sense of the word. “I’m so glad to be back here with all my favorite chickadees,” he says. “Minus one, minus one. But Roscoe is going to the great big show in the sky.”
Toby’s words and his warm voice are almost enough to convince Zara that Roscoe is in a better place. But then her Jewish atheism kicks in, reminding her what she believes — when you die, you die. Besides, Zara doesn’t need a heaven. She has the Aurelia.
“I’m Kestrel,” her roommate says, standing up in a way that demands attention. “I’ll be playing the chorus leader.” Her fake smile lasts long enough for her to sit down, and then it vanishes.
Zara is the only actor left.
“Aren’t we waiting on one more?” she asks.
“She’s excited about Adrian Ward,” Leopold says with a dry chuckle. Zara shifts in her chair. That wasn’t what she meant. Still — how can she be Echo without Ariston? “We have a week before actors are called again, and Adrian, our Adrian, is still filming scenes for his upcoming release. Something about a warlike species of bugs that intend to take over the planet. He has to slay a few more before he can join us.” Leopold folds his hands and turns back to Zara. “Now. Shall we?”
“I’m Zara Evans,” she says as she stands up, even though her knees don’t seem to think it’s such a great idea. Her chair clatters, making twice as much noise as anyone else’s. “I’ll be playing Echo.” The words came out tilted, like a question. I’ll be playing Echo?
Into the silence, she blurts out, “I’ve loved this play since I was a little girl.”
Enna studies her with a series of rapid, dramatic blinks. “You mean since last Tuesday?” Laughter rises around the table.
Zara looks down and closes her eyes. Sees Roscoe on the floor.
Leopold rushes up from his seat. He puts a hand on her back, five points of pressure holding her up. “Our Echo has had quite the arrival,” he says. Then, like velvet in her ear, he adds, “Sit down, my dear.” She does. He tells the company how perfect she is, while Zara keeps her eyes on the scuffed table.
The stage manager calls a ten-minute break. Zara thinks it might finally be safe to look up.
The girl with the blue-green tattoos is watching her.