“Cecily is one of our Negroes,” explains Elliott.
Sally narrows her eyes at him. “Notnobody, then?”
Elliott shakes his head slowly. Almost apologetically. “She was Maria’s chaperone. Last night.”
“I see,” says Sally. “So, she was at the theater?”
His face darkens. “Up in the gallery.”
“And you don’t think she made it out?”
“I…”
Sally waits.
“I suspect not,” he says, and there’s something about the way his voice shakes, getting the words out, that makes her feel a stab of sympathy for him.
Maria calls for the girl again, and this time Sally knows just what to say. “Cecily’s not here right now, Maria. What would you have me tell her?”
Maria balls up her fists so tight, Sally can see the whites of her knuckles even in the lamplight. “Tell her to come back.”
JACK
What we need,” says Placide,who is once again pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace in the tavern’s back room, “is another explanation for how the fire might have started.”
“Who has ideas?” says Anderson, and a few men raise their hands.
Caulfield goes first. “What if one of the stoves in the front of the house caught fire?”
“Like it tipped over?”
“Or maybe just sparked.”
Placide thinks for a moment. “That’s an option.”
“Could be one of the sconces, too,” says Twaits. “All it’d take is some woman standing too close to the wall. Her hair catches, and poof.”
Placide claps his hands together, like they’re getting somewhere, but Anderson scowls and says, “Those excuses won’t work.”
“Why not?” asks Placide.
“Everyone knows the fire started in the back of the house. Behind the drop curtain.”
The room gets louder, all of the men talking over each other, and it’s like Jack doesn’t recognize any of them. He knows they’re actors and that they lie for a living, but this is real life. Surely, it’d be better to play dumb than to go out with information that’s blatantly false?
Jack looks for Lydia, who is still sitting against the wall, where he left her. When her eyes meet his, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“Anderson’s right,” says West in a loud-enough voice to silence the room. “When Robertson made the announcement, no one in the front of the house could even tell there was something wrong.”
Jack is surprised West is willing to contribute to this charade. Rising stars like Anderson are always looking to get in the managers’ good graces because they want the choicest parts and to one day be made managersthemselves. But it’s obvious West, who’s a terrible actor, gave up on getting into Placide’s and Green’s good graces a long time ago.
“Well,” says Placide, “in that case, let’s think through what might have happened backstage.”
“I have an idea,” says Young. “Though it might be a stretch.”
Placide stops pacing.
Young bites his lip, as if he’s trying to decide whether to keep the idea in his head where it belongs.
