Panic welled up inside her. Othar! Othar had tried to kill her, just for being a Spark! She had barely managed to save herself by pushing the self-proclaimed hero over the side of the airship as they had escaped from Castle Wulfenbach.
Yet here he was, alive, larger than life, and evidently having a wonderful time. Well why not? He had just discovered an entire troupe of Sparks. He could fill his quota for the month without even having to open his eyes.
It was “Bumbling Minion Number Three” who saved the day. The actor had been warned that he might have to deal with a case of “first night nerves,” and he was ready. As Agatha turned to flee, he clung tightly to her hand, cleared his throat, and shouted: “Has the trap been set, Mistress?”
The gears of Agatha’s mind finally engaged. That was her cue. The response she had practiced so many times burst from her mouth before she realized what she was doing: “Yes! And soon, all of the Heterodyne secrets will be mine!”
And so the show went on. She’d just have to warn everyone when she got off stage, if Othar let her live that long. From the way he was cheering along with the crowd, he would at least let her finish the play.
She managed to remain Lucrezia Mongfish all throughout the first act, but as the curtain closed, she felt her hands beginning to shake. Before she could find a place to sit or collapse, she was grabbed from behind. The fastenings down the back of her dress were being released in quick sequence. She would have to be back on stage in only a few minutes, and required a complete costume change. “That was a great first act,” Marie said.
Agatha allowed herself to relax slightly. Othar still hadn’t attacked...
Trish nodded as she threw a new costume across Agatha’s shoulders and began to tighten a series of cleverly strung laces. “Very edgy! It was like you expected someone to shoot you or something.”
The idea made Agatha go tense again. She took a deep breath. “I think I saw Othar Tryggvassen out there! The big blond guy with the weird visor glasses?”
Trish grinned. “Oh, you saw him? Yeah, he loves our shows!”
Agatha blinked. “He’s—you’ve all met him before?”
The Countess whipped a huge bunch of false curls out of a hatbox and began to fasten it to the back of Agatha’s head. It felt like she was using nails. “He gets around a lot. We’ve seen him five—”
“Six,” Trish corrected her.
The Countess nodded. “Correct. Six times in the past year. He buys a lot of popcorn.”
“And he hasn’t shot anybody?”
Trish gave her an odd look. “Of course not. It’s good popcorn. He gets free refills.”
Then, Agatha remembered that the Sparks of Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure took pains to hide their true talents. Othar most likely saw nothing here but ordinary actors and sideshow wonders. The Spark could be hidden.
Finally, Marie stepped back and gestured meaningfully—it was nearly time for her next entrance.
Relief had lifted Agatha’s spirits, but the nervous energy that terror had lent her remained. When Lucrezia Mongfish strode into her laboratory in a towering rage and demanded of her three cringing minions: “Who has deactivated my beautiful frogs?” the audience pointed as one to Bill Heterodyne, who lay stripped to the waist and shackled to a huge wooden laboratory table. “He did!” they screamed.
All in all, it was a tremendous success.
The rest of the show passed in a kaleidoscopic whirl, and then... suddenly... Lars was kissing her.
They had carefully pecked at each other during rehearsals, but for the real show, Abner had ordered them to hold the kiss as long as the audience cheered them on.
The audience cheered them on for approximately six and a half years. When it was over, Agatha tottered dizzily backward, her face burning. She stuttered through her last lines and fled the stage with as much grace as she could manage.
The Countess caught Agatha as she entered the wings. She adjusted her hairpiece and tucked her disheveled costume back into place just as the final curtain fell. Then she spun Agatha about and gave her costume one last expert tweak, exposing shoulders and an alarming amount of decolletage in one quick tug before propelling her back onto the stage. She landed hard against Lars, who caught her expertly in the crook of his arm.
At her entrance, the applause doubled in volume. Cheers and whistles filled the air.
Agatha had never received such overwhelming approval as she was getting now—nearly everything she had done at the University had either been ignored or had gotten her into trouble. She drank in the adulation, astonished at how satisfying—how right it felt. She ventured a peek at the audience to see how Othar was reacting, and was surprised to see that he was gone.
Lars beamed as he waved to the crowd. He leaned down and whispered in Agatha’s ear: “I knew you’d be great!” He took her arm and led her toward the edge of the stage. “Now we head on down and mingle.”
Agatha nodded. Othar was much less likely to try to kill her in the center of the crowd—he might hit an innocent bystander—and she didn’t think that would fit with his delusions of heroism. She donned her glasses, pulled her costume back onto her shoulders, shook out her skirts, and straightened up to follow Lars—only to walk directly into Othar. He was standing patiently off to one side of the stage, obviously waiting for her. Agatha gave a little shriek of surprise.
Othar laughed genially. “So! Madame Olga!” he boomed, “You are, I’m told, a sayer of sooths and a teller of fortunes, yes?”
Agatha was taken aback. He couldn’t possibly have forgotten her already, could he? Lars leaned in and answered for her. “Indeed she is, sir!”
“Excellent!” Othar looped a muscular arm around her shoulders and began to walk her away. “I would like my fortune told! Now, if you please!”
Agatha was so stunned that she allowed him to gently steer her toward her tent. Less than a minute later, Othar was dropping onto a cushioned chair—leaning his elbows on the ornate little table that stood before Madame Olga’s skull-draped throne. Agatha took her time at lighting the vast collection of candles and lanterns that hung around the tent, trying to collect her thoughts.
“A fine performance!” Othar said as he leaned forward, peering at the dials and meters set into the huge brass-bound crystal orb that rested on the table.
“Thank you.” Agatha was confused. Othar’s body language conveyed no sense of menace whatsoever. Somehow, this only made the tall, jolly man even more frightening.
Othar idly scratched his beard. “You seem a bit on edge.”
Agatha spun about to face him directly. “The last time I saw you, you tried to kill me!”
“Oh, that.” Othar waved a hand in dismissal. “That was before I knew that you were a Heterodyne.”
Agatha started. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Why, not long after we—” he coughed politely into his fist, “—parted ways, I ran into a young man who I believe to be your cousin: a Master Theopholous DuMedd?
“You didn’t do anything horrible to him, did you?”
Othar paused, and a frown flitted across his features. “Ah, I see. No, I was unaware that he was a Spark.” He sighed. “What a pity. At any rate, he was traveling with a small group of the Baron’s hostages who had snatched the opportunity presented by my rather dramatic departure to affect their own escape from Castle Wulfenbach. All very nice young people, and all fans of mine, as it happens!
Young DuMedd told me everything. He was very glad to hear that you were in good hands as my spunky girl assistant!”
Agatha glowered. “I am not your assistant. You tried to kill me.”