“We could try that,” Joanna said quietly.
“I’m not sure it’s what Lorca had in mind.”
“Are you sure?” Jago asked. “You might be surprised.”
Hell, they had the space for another ninety minutes. It couldn’t hurt to try something new. “All right,” Alex said. “From the top.”
“And change what?” Joanna asked. “You don’t want me to make it up as I go from scratch, surely?”
“Of course not,” said Jago. “The choreography you have is… fine. You just need to emphasise what’s underneath it. Let that rise through your movements. I mean, from the booth, I can see you, but… if I may?”
Alex caught on. “You want to sit out here while I work the lights?”
Jago shook his head, waving the suggestion away. “Forget the lights. Forget the music, even. Right now, I just… I’m sorry, I’m directing over you. I’ll stop.”
“I’d like you to finish your thought.” Alex knew he should have been pissed off, but he could also admit when he was intrigued.
“Take the scene where the Bride accepts the Bridegroom’s gift, the wax wreath of orange blossoms. She despises it and all it represents, yes? His wealth, security, safety… In her eyes, it’s not a decoration, but a cage, closed on her against her will.”
Joanna shook her head. “I know all this.”
“Of course, but are you feeling it? I see your rage in the moment. I see your rejection of the gift, but not of the bondage it represents. Of order, the favoured virtue of the Fascists.”
Alex ignored the faint rumble in his stomach. He was too fixed on the dark, animated face of this near-stranger who now spoke of their play—his favourite part of their play—as if it were his own. Damn it, he was right. “Just the orange blossoms, then.” He gave Joanna the nod.
Without a word, Joanna braced herself, lifted her arms high and began moving to the silent, memorised score. When shelifted the imagined wreath from her head, she threw it to the ground with such force that even the silent movement startled Alex. Feeling Jago squeeze his hand, he turned. Jago was grinning all over, completely in his element.
“Dark clouds,” he said, referencing the script. “A cold wind inside you. Doesn’t everyone feel it?Makethem feel it.”
They continued like this until the scene was done. Jago’s notes grew scarcer and scarcer as Joanna found them on her own, until she at last lay on the floor, hands resting on her throat. Jago’s hand remained in Alex’s until they both applauded earnestly.
“That was…” None of the words Alex fished for seemed adequate. “That was great, Joanna. Really, it was great.”
“Yes, what wasthat?” Vicente stood at the top of the steps, leaning against the house doors, his arms folded.
“What happened to you?” Alex asked.
“Train strike. Had to get a lift with Miguel and thenhehad a breakdown on the highway outside Fuenlabrada. Can you believe it? Joanna?”
She got to her feet, slow and steady as if they were new to her.
“How are you feeling?” Jago asked.
“Good! Good, I…” Joanna reached for her water and sipped. “I felt… You really liked it?”
“I said I did,” Alex answered.
“So did I,” added Vicente. “I just want to know what it was.”
“Jago was helping us with the rehearsal. You weren’t here, and he has some experience—”
“I did nothing.” Jago raised his hands in protest. “It’s your choreography. Your performance. I just reminded you of what was already there. But I should let you get to work.”
“You won’t stay and try one more scene?” Joanna asked, not taking her eyes off Jago.
“You don’t need me, and I’d hate to be in the way. You’ve a fine talent in good hands, mister director.”
Alex accepted a firm hug and a kiss on the cheek before Jago bounded up the stairs.
