The Jewel and the Key (27 page)

 

Music-maid, forth! Set the Dovrë-harp sounding!
Dancing-maid, forth! Tread the Dovrë-hall'sfloor!

 

Down in the orchestra pit, Peter began to play. A waltz rolled off the keys, and Andrew and Hettie turned smoothly across the stage while Reg tapped his foot and beamed like a proud papa.

Okay. Somethings wrong here,
Addie thought. What was it? She watched the two dancers flow effortlessly around the stage. They danced so perfectly, and yet somehow it wasn't right. They looked like a couple waltzing at a ball, not trolls in the realm of the Dovrë king. She'd thought a lot about this scene when she was preparing to audition for
Short Takes,
and the picture of it in her head was very clear.

“It's not right,” she murmured.

“I agree,” Meg said, as if she'd been waiting for Addie to notice. “But tell me why.”

Addie pointed at the dancing couple. “Because they're too ...” She hesitated, but Meg was listening attentively. With more conviction, Addie went on, “They're too elegant. I mean, it's not a royal palace. It's the hall of the troll king—more like the monkey house at the zoo. So that music's too pretty. Hettie and Andrew are dancing too well.”
And Reg should definitely not be so good-looking,
she added to herself.
They really need to do something about that.

Meg Turner's bright red lips crooked up on one side, and for a horrible moment, Addie felt like the director had read her mind. “Good. So tell
them
.”

“What? Now? You mean, interrupt them?
On the stage
?”

“That's a director's job description,” Meg said. Her smile became positively impish, and Addie thought,
Shes not the wicked witch; she's the big bad wolf!
“What? You can't be scared of a pack of actors, can you?”

“No-o,” Addie said, as bravely as she could. She licked her lips and half rose from her seat. “Excuse me,” she squeaked, trying to get their attention.

But Peter just went on with his sweeps and flourishes. Hettie and Andrew continued waltzing. And Reg stared pointedly at Andrew's tail and inquired, “How like you it?” with infinite courtesy.

Okay,
Addie thought.
Actors project. So if you're going to interrupt them, you have to project, too.

“Excuse me!” Still no one heard. Her legs felt weak. Soon the scene would be over and she would have lost her chance.

Quickly, she slid out of her seat, went along the side aisle and up the little staircase into the wing.

The piano player had just lifted his fingers from the keys when she stepped out onstage and waved her arms for attention.

“Excuse me!”

This time, they heard. Andrew let go of Hettie. Reg, who had been thumping him heartily on the shoulder, dropped his arm as he caught sight of Addie, his stage smile fading.

She stood there, stupid with nerves. Her hands clenched in front of her chest as if ready to catch her heart if it leaped out of her rib cage.

“Hello, Miss McNeal,” Hettie Longmere said warmly, a smile creasing her round face.

“Welcome back,” Andrew chimed in.

Reg didn't say anything.

Addie's insides contracted. She'd really thought he'd be happy to see her. Why wasn't he? For a moment, she couldn't remember anything she'd been about to say.

Thankfully, Meg Turner interjected, “I've asked Miss McNeal to make some suggestions for the scene. If you don't mind?”

Andrew shrugged. “Fire away. Anything goes at this point.”

Addie's gaze jumped to Reg and away again. His face was emotionless. What was that about? Did he still think she was someone from a vaudeville house trying to worm her way into his mother's theater?
Ignore him,
she told herself.
Concentrate.
She stood up straighter, gathering her nerve. “All right.” Her voice sounded strange to her. “I think ... that is, you need—you need to think more about where Peer has just found himself. He's in the underworld, the kingdom of the trolls, where nothing is what it seems.”

They listened politely, but they already knew all this. Of course they did, she thought. They were professionals. Professionals would know the script.

She forced herself to continue. “So when you're in this scene, it's like ... everyone is living sort of this delusion.”
God, I barely sound literate!
She made herself slow down and speak in full sentences. “Every troll has a mote in his eye that lets him taste the sour wine as sweet, see the troll hags as gorgeous maidens, and the trolls' disgusting behavior as ... I don't know ... court etiquette.” She could feel herself gaining momentum. “But Peer's human. He's able to be fooled, but he's also got the ability to question. So he should be half hoodwinked and half aware.” She dared to look around at the actors, fearing their boredom. But then she caught a glimmer of interest in Reg's eye, and she said, more decisively, “I think the trolls really have to be trolls. You look too nice, all of you. Too smooth and polite. Trolls need to be much more...”

She was going to say
gross,
but she knew it wasn't a word they'd understand.

“Offensive?” Reg suggested.

Addie looked away quickly. “Maybe. Disgusting? Abrasive? I mean, Reg should laugh at his own jokes, slap his thigh and guffaw like a buffoon. But a threatening one.” She turned to Andrew. “And Peer should join in. He can mug to the audience to show he knows how obscene it all is, but then be sort of seduced by it, too.”

She turned to the piano player. “And you need to make that waltz wilder.”

“Wilder?” Peter plunked out a faster version of the same music. “Like that?”

“Maybe.... Try it and see, but the dance has to change. Andrew and Miss Longmere are dancing too well. Do you know what I mean? You should ... you should sweep along gracefully—that's when Peers hoodwinked by the enchantment of the trolls, and sees you as a beauty—but then, Andrew, you can blink and see her as she really is. Then, Miss Longmere, you need to slow down and plod awkwardly, right? He's just discovered you're not a princess, you're a troll!”

“Men always discover that about me,” the actress joked, and Addie instantly loved her for it. “So I dance like a princess, and then a troll, and then back again? Can you show me?”

“Well ... I'm not very good.” But when she glanced over at Meg Turner, she knew she had to.

Andrew held out his arm. Gritting her teeth, Addie stepped into position. “All right!” she cued Peter, who turned back to the keys and swooped into a waltz.

Andrew spun her around and she did her best to float along with him. She'd never waltzed, but it took surprisingly little effort. “Okay,” she called over her shoulder to Hettie. “So, three turns like this, and then”—she hunched her shoulders and slouched against Andrew—“look disconcerted,” she stage-whispered, and Andrew pulled a terrific face that made Addie laugh. “Now hustle me back up into princess form.”

“You mean, pull you up...”

“Jerk me to my feet. You can make it funnier as you practice it.”

Andrew yanked her up by the waist. Addie flopped over his arm like a rag doll.

“That's it!” she cried, pleased.

Hettie Longmere clapped her hands.

They stopped. “What do you think?” Addie called out to Meg in the audience.

“Brava!” Meg called. “Now what?”

“Well—” Addie looked up and saw Reg watching her. His expression seemed a fraction warmer. Maybe because he could see she was serious about this, not a fake or whatever he had been thinking. She returned his look and found herself smiling, just because it was so good to see him.

Slowly, he smiled back. Addie looked away to hide the color that shot into her cheeks. Then she turned to the rest of the actors with a sudden burst of confidence. “The music should get wilder, and the whole cast should join in. Doesn't Peer have a line soon about a cow strumming a lyre, and a cat, or a—”

“A sow,” Reg broke in. Even he was starting to sound enthusiastic.

“That's right. A sow dancing! So the whole scene should get out of control, and Peer should get scared. It's real troll land now.” She frowned. “I'm not sure the waltz is right for that. Any other ideas?”

“A mazurka?” Peter suggested.

“What about the Grieg I've got?” Meg called from the audience, waving the score. “It was written for
Peer Gynt,
after all.”

Peter frowned. “No. Something Scandinavian.”

“Grieg
is
Scandinavian!”

“But his music is so ominous! I mean more like a folk dance. Something from a peasant wedding.” He plunked out a chord or two. “Needs a fiddle,” he complained. He attacked the keys again, stopped, thought a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “All right. Try this. Ready?”

“Sure,” Addie said. Peter swung into a wild polka, and she and Andrew launched themselves back into the dance. But it still didn't work. They were lagging, and the music was accelerating.

“It's better, but still not right.”

“We can go faster,” Andrew suggested.

They tried to speed up, but Addie stumbled, and not to bring out the troll nature of the princess. It was a real stumble.

“Too many beats?” she asked in frustration.

“Possibly,” Peter said.

“I think I know,” Reg broke in suddenly. “Let me show you. Do you mind, Andrew?”

Reg was smiling at her, really smiling now, as he took her hand out of Andrew's and pulled her other arm around his waist. Then the music began again and he spun her across the stage, half jumping, half twirling in time with the wild melody. Addie raced to follow. At first she felt hopeless, like a klutz, but then she caught the rhythm of it and she was able to match his steps, heart thumping, feet flailing.

Both of them were laughing simply for the joy of it. Under the bright worklights, Addie noticed how blue his eyes were, as blue as the lake on a day of sun and wind. It felt as though the only thing anchoring her to the stage was his hand firm on her waist, pressing the thin fabric of the dress. It was the most wonderful feeling—the breathlessness, the warmth where their hands met, the slap as their feet touched down on the beat and flew up again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Addie saw Andrew grab Hettie and swing her into the dance. The others joined in. The whole stage came alive with the thumping of their feet. And the harder they thumped, the better it sounded. In her mind's eye, Addie could see the set swirling with dancers, could hear the stage ringing with stamping feet, and she knew this would be the scene everyone remembered.

The dance crashed to a conclusion. She and Reg whirled one last time and came to a halt, his hand still on her waist, their raised hands still clasped.

And then there was a burst of out-of-breath laughter and clapping, and Peter spun around on his bench shaking his long hands and crying, “Ow! That's stretched my poor fingers more than a week of ragtime!”

Meg Turner had climbed up onto the stage with the rest of them. Addie dropped Reg's hand and met the director's long, considering gaze.

“Not bad.” Meg Turner nodded.

“Thanks,” Addie managed to say, catching her breath.

Meg cocked her head. “You've got a job, if you want it. And if you work hard, Miss McNeal, someday you'll be sitting in my spot.” She grinned as wickedly as ever. “But remember: I don't intend to give up my place at the Jewel until they put me in the ground!”

They fiddled around with
Peer Gynt
for another hour, and then Meg declared that she needed to rest before tonight's rehearsal. As soon as everyone started to disperse, Reg grabbed Addie's arm. “Come on, lets get out of here. You need to breathe something that isn't actors' hot air. That can be lethal.” He put a hand to her forehead in mock concern. “It's affecting you already. You look dazed.”

“I'm not dazed!” Drunk with excitement, maybe. Dizzy with delight. She was so happy she hardly knew what to do with herself, and yet she suddenly felt she could do anything. Without a second thought, she followed him down the stairs and along the corridor to the back door.

Reg opened it and let her through first. “Wait here. I'll be back.”

Her head felt light. She paced back and forth on the loading dock, peering up at the nearly century-younger sky. It must have rained earlier. The air seemed washed and dazzling, and there were just a few tattered clouds lingering in the east. Even the alley smelled different, no longer reeking of pee and stale beer. The bins were piled high with garbage. She could detect rotting cabbage, coffee grounds, and a faint, delectable smell of baking wafting from the kitchen in the apartment. And beneath it all, the pungent smell of horse manure.

Reg emerged from the theater and handed her a greentinted glass. “Early-crop cider. You'd better drink it before you get brain fever from all that dancing and pontificating.”

Addie sank down onto the top step and gulped the cider, surprised at how thirsty she was. “I
wasn't
pontificating!”

“Isn't that what directors do?” Reg asked innocently.

She ignored his teasing. “Listen, I've just realized something.” And it came to her that of all the people in the world, Reg was the one she had to tell this to.

“So have I.” He lowered himself onto the step below hers. “But tell yours first.”

She put her glass down. “I've realized—” She stopped and gave him a quizzical look, suddenly struck by the oddness of his appearance. He'd thrown on a jacket and buttoned one side of a collar onto his shirt and then forgotten about it. The other side was springing out at a right angle to his neck. “Do you know your collar's sticking up?” She made as if to button it for him. He slid closer to her, and she dropped her hands, suddenly shy.