Chapter Four: Esselle

As Chester advised, I took the northern wagon back to Diamond Theater in the evening, fortunate for a coachman who did not eye me in looks of lust and adultery.

Again, I dressed in plain clothes—this time a linen kirtle. It was a breathable piece, great for mobility about the inner bar. Perfect for fetching nobs all that they desired in what little time they gave me to fetch. Of course, I truly preferred such a piece for the stealth of which it offered me whilst pilfering all that I could.

I entered through the back entrance and strode through the long hallway that wrapped around the stage. I prodded through herds of stagehands, all in a rush to get from one place to another. I passed by costume shops and dressing rooms and offices of sorts—passed by an alcove, props and dollies spilling from it, made of ironwood and wheels.

There were rooms where actors could splay their prettied bodies over velvet-coated sofas in waiting. I passed by one of those, too, hearing the actors beckoning me from inside, calling out to me like I were one of their stagehand servants—my only purpose in life being to lug them a vase of water. I ignored it, continuing to the door that opened to the foyer.

My place was waiting for me, as were the bitters and garnishes I'd prepared the evening prior. And Terrance, our ticketmaster, was waiting for me, too. He always made it a point to arrive first, even if only by a minute.

Terrance was unproportionate—lanky and gawky—he walked awkwardly. And though his neck was too long and his face a tad too narrow, the young lady alongside him would've made anyone look homely.

Though judging by her modest gown, I knew that she was one of us, and not one of them—not a nob, nor a patron, but another one of Terrance's attempts at finding a second bar-maiden. Disappointment twisted at my temper like a spinner twisting yarn. Still, I did my best to mask the feeling with a smile.

"I know you manage fine alone—believe me," Terrance started, rounding the bar-top, "But when patrons start to swarm, I'd figure it best to have a companion." He gestured to the blonde completely opposite me, "This is Willow."

"Like the tree," she offered, craning her neck to one side and smiling—her cheeks bunching into little rosebuds.

I offered one of my own, though it wasn't long lasting. My eyes darted back to the ticketmaster, where they weighed his curled lips—the thin line that they formed. I knew that line, had seen and read it many times before. It was his way of saying sorry without saying anything at all, his way of shrugging and telling me that his hands were tied—that it was policy to have two crew the bar.

He'd given me the spiel countless times before. The same way he'd fired the new hires time and time again, or watched as they walked out—the nagging nobs and stress of intermission service exacting a toll on their tolerance. I nodded back, a showing of understanding. Perhaps his hands were tied, but we both knew that "Willow, like the tree" wouldn't last very long.

"And do you weep like one?" I teased.

"Weep?" Her features bunched together.

"Like the tree." She blinked at me, entirely confused. "I tease."

"Oh!" She breathed, nervously laughing to fill the awkward air. "Well, I'll try my best not to weep tonight," she cackled. I pictured the swarms that awaited us. And truly had my doubts.

"Good luck with that," I muttered, and Terrance shot me a warning look.

Just then, the three of us were interrupted by a BANG!

It had to be a gunshot, reverberating through the foyer, causing us all to flinch at its closeness. I assumed the blast originated from the house. And if a gunman was in the house, the three of us had one minute—two minutes tops—before the gunman was in the foyer.

"Get down!" I hissed, crouching 'neath the bar-top, motioning after Terrance and Willow to follow suit. As soon as I did, the memories hit me at once. They overwhelmed me, engulfed me, and I began to panic. I shook my head and willed the images away, for now was simply not the time, but it was too late.

I was a child again, back in those bloody sewers.

Father and I were racing through ankle-high pass water, the slapping and splashing heard with every footstep, and slushing of it able to be heard with every stride. It was dark again, a hollow maze of tunnels and scurrying rodents. We could only traverse them so quickly, and Father was lagging behind.

"Hurry Pa!"

"Head for the grates! And don't look, just dive!" Father panted. He was winded. He only had so much fight left.

And then BANG! His body slammed down into the stone beside me, into the murky water. What's worse, I couldn't flinch, couldn't react—I could only do as Father said, head for the cliff-side grates and jump into the sea—

"Esselle," Terrance's voice and light touch snapped me out of my nightmare, where I fell back and realized that less than a shred of concern passed between him and the blonde. On the contrary, Willow seemed amused by my distress, for she did her best to bury the hilarity that glimmered in her icy-blue pupils. But I could see it there.

I already didn't like her.

"It's okay Esselle—it's the play. I planned to tell you." Terrance helped lift me to my feet. "It slipped my mind that they'd rehearse it." His hand dug through the pockets adorning his ruby suitcoat and trousers. "I know I have it… somewhere," he muttered, twisting to pat down the pockets at his back before searching the pouches inside. "Here." He pulled out a piece of folded parchment, its title reading: FINAL ACT in all caps and bolded calligraphy.

I was still confused, and my pulse was only beginning to slow.

"I got this from one of the dressing hands backstage—it marks the exact time of the faux gunshot. I thought you might want it. That it might help if you know when it's to come."

Apart from Chester, I'd never told a soul about that night those years ago—about why I had a habit of losing all sense of the moment when a loud bang or crash sent me back those thirteen years. But Terrance had witnessed it a time or two more than I'd wish to admit, and a part of him had to know of my trauma by now. That he'd thought of me at all tonight made my heart warm.

"Thank you." I meant it. Accepting the parchment, I queried, "Why a gun? You'd think a knife through the back would be far more romantic…" And scanning the parchment, read that at ten o' clock sharp, stager Blythe Pedigree would seize Antolie Diamond's pistol before sending a "bullet" through his head. At ten o' clock sharp two dishes would bang together to mimic the sound of a gunshot.

"You'd think…," Terrance agreed. Then it was Willow whose breathy voice filled the room.

"Is it true the stagers will revel at the bar from time to time?"

Terrance sighed. "It's rare, but I suppose from time to time… yes. After a show, of course."

Willow squealed, a shrill noise I'm surprised didn't shatter the crystal beakers I had stacked beneath the bar-top. "Does Antolie Diamond ever join?"

Terrance's eyes shot to me, and I willed mine not to roll back in their sockets. "Yes," he sighed, "He frequents the most, I would guess."

She squealed again. Something would have to be done about that sound. Just like something would have to be done about her high regards for the celebutante stager Antolie Diamond.

He was Pale's heartthrob, as he'd been given everything. Good looks, good charm, good coin—even the newest lead role was a gift. His father, Stoney Diamond, was the owner of the theater. It was by no means his only business—he did own half the city and nearly every trade east of the Cleft. The theater only happened to be his most prestigious.

Stoney was perhaps the only wharf known to rise to nobility. And he didn't just rise, he soared—becoming the richest man in all of Pale. All for marrying the right woman, the daughter of a DuPont, and much against her family's protest.

But his son, Antolie, only used his name and hand-me-down fortune to parade around the lower end with courtesans. His many exploits were rumored throughout every tavern of the west side, and the women he'd wronged or diseased—used and kicked to the curb without meed—were as abundant as stars in the sky. He was the worst kind of skirt-chaser. And everyone knew it, too.

Well… everyone other than Willow, it seemed.

"I spotted him once in the West Ristic markets," she blurted, "He's the best-looking in all of Pale."

I held back a scoff, as did Terrance, I'm sure. "Come," I said, tugging her wrist and changing the subject, "I'll show you around the bar."

I tugged her along the back counter, pulling open every drawer and cupboard. She studied the spirits, bitters, and garnishes as I showered her with details of our cocktail pamphlet. I warned her of our busiest hours and told her of our duties during the slowest ones, all throughout which she nodded like she understood.

And with one more glance at the folded parchment Terrance lent me, I shoved it in the drawer of corkscrews.

In minutes, the front doors would open, and the waiting nobles would flood in with an appetite for spirits.

Perhaps only then could we see how capable the newest hand was—if Willow was truly cut out for this, or if she was just like the rest.

➸

Willow's beauty was devastating. I'd never seen skin so porcelain, so pore-less. She was on par with a muse. Had she been blessed with wealth, I had no doubts she'd have become one—the posing inspiration for the city's artists and sculptors.

Looking to be in her late twenties, she had everything the ladies of Pale so-desired, minus the bangles and bobbles that illustrated wealth.

But the long blonde hair, thick and golden like honey—the high forehead, thinly plucked brows, and fair complexion—she had the face and the body. Long and narrow, with low-sloping shoulders and a braid extending down the long of her back. Her eyes, that shade of piercing blue, looked like glass with the fractured fragments of silver and white piecing together in rounded mosaics.

The two of us couldn't be more different, considering my tan skin, dark hair, wavy locks, fuller brows, and deep brown eyes so dark they almost looked iris-less. Pitch black.

While any other bar-maiden may have despised her allure—felt it somehow dampened theirs and sought out any minor fault to somehow ease their inhibition—I was too busy searching for something useful about the girl.

The spirits pamphlet I had carefully contrived was useless in her grasp, for she couldn't craft a single one, even with the recipes I'd scribbled in step-by-step directions. And then there was the matter of her lousy sleight of hand. The time it took Willow to take an order, fetch the proper carafe—pour it, log it, hand it off—was simply far too long, assuming the process had been carried out correctly to begin with.

In the hour prior curtain, I'd covered half her drinks. Mostly because they'd been ordered from the pamphlet, but she did manage to dawdle a few orders that called for none but straight bitters.

All that I'd told her of levies and ledgers was useless, for the logging slipped her mind for the first quarter. The guests she did manage freely reveled on the house. And considering the clientele our theater rounded up, free spirits were the last thing these nobs would ever need.

Then our patrons were seated, and the foyer emptied for acts one and two. During which, Willow cleaned beakers half way, scrubbed the bar and counter with hand-towels, and tipped over garnish trays I'd taken hours to organize.

Put simply, the girl was a nightmare.

Though none of her boggles from open to close were a match for her mid-way service. Intermission.

I thought the girl might swoon as I watched her head swivel in circles—to the many barked orders from nobs at every turn. Whirling about, like a teetotum top spun for gamble, I could swear a set of swirling stars must have flickered atop her head.

The crowd was lighter than usual, with only half of the orchestra fetching a drink. Of course, the balcony waiters could not be discounted, for they arrived with round, silver trays to fill with the fanciest of spirits. The balcony watchers were not to be trifled with. If they expected haste, there were no excuses for the dragging of one's feet.

I covered Willow's slack, doing my best to carry on the same as always. Needless to say, it was difficult with her being in my way at every turn.

And when all was said and done—patrons pleased and seated, beverage in hand—I leaned on the black marble bar-top, the weight of my upper half falling at my forearms, while my derrierè stuck out toward the back wall.

Drops of sweat beaded my hairline and nose bridge, snaking into larger beads that glided down my temples and cheeks.

It was finally empty, quiet again. That was its way, utterly chaotic or still as stock. But the peace would only last as long as the third act before the foyer was swarmed again and remained that way until early morning.

Willow's labored breathing was rapid and irregular enough for me to hear it where I stood. She was sitting, now. We weren't supposed to sit. Though judging by the night she had already, I left the lecturing to Terrance, only huffing and letting the marble feel so agreeably cool against my burning flesh.

I listened as she calmed and found her feet again. Then twisted at the sound of spirit bottles clanking together.

"What are you doing?" I queried at the sight of her snatching the tavern's hardest unmixed wine decanter. Either my words didn't register, or Willow ignored them entirely, for she ripped the cork with her teeth—the gesture so roguish. "Willow?" She continued to turn a deaf ear.

I could only stutter and watch for signs of Terrance when she lifted the decanter to her lips—no tankard, beaker, or pour—and guzzled, draining the grape from its bore. One gulp after another.

"Ahhh," she gargled, keeping the wine from coming back up with a hand over her mouth.

"Do you wish to be banned from the theater?!" I hissed.

"Oh please, pull your braid out from the crack between your fanny." Her eyes rolled to the back of her head before snapping back to lour. "If I'm facing the boot, you best bet I'm making the most of the night." Running a forefinger around the rim of the bottle, she dipped it into her mouth. I didn't know what to say. "Might as well enjoy my time—calm my spirits. It's better than dropping over torpid. Surely you've been drunk before?"

The way my eyes dropped to my shoes must have been answer-enough. I had never been drunk. I had never dared to risk losing control. I feared it.

"No?!" She sounded stunned. And her eyes somehow gained size when her brows lifted to the middle of her forehead. "With all of this?!" She gestured to the bottles and carafes, all lining the counter against the back wall. "This is high quality stuff. That wine I guzzled just about sank like water! My daddy had this bottle—this ale out from Houn, and I drank it all once he and momma went out hunting for some hares. It tasted nothing like that wine—real bitter and... anyways…" She rambled on, growing cheerier by the minute, her cheeks—like strawberries—more roseate. I'd recognize a drunken sort, and she was certainly that.

She was enjoying herself—more-so as time passed. And when the gunshot sounded at ten o' clock sharp, I knew the foyer would soon fill with peevish nobs, each ready to stretch their legs in song and dance and spirits.

If Willow couldn't handle it before, there was no telling what she'd do now. At least I could be certain that the evening would be anything but short of entertainment.