The Prince had still been brooding over the news of the aforementioned guests, but at Tarvek’s question, he visibly perked up.” Quite a bit! An excellent magician, some song and dance, a sword mistress you would have enjoyed, I’m sure, and a hilariously bad midget in a cat suit.”
Tarvek eyed the stage. “Yes, I can see the bullet holes from the warning shots.”
The Prince chuckled. “I was laughing so hard I could hardly aim.”
Tarvek nodded as he spooned some caviar onto a cracker. “It’s good to see you so happy, father. I’ve been worried for you of late.”
The Prince sipped from his glass. “Thank you, my boy. Yes, this show is a welcome change of pace.”
On the stage below, Master Payne was booming out the traditional opening of the main event. The audience grew hushed as his stentorian voice rolled over them, setting the scene. Aaronev quietly continued, “I must confess, son, I...” He breathed deeply. “I have felt—for some time—that our task may be... impossible.” He sighed, “I—We have looked for so long.”
Tarvek leaned towards him. “There are certain realities that are undeniable. No one could say you were disloyal, father.”
Aaronev scowled. “They can! They have!”
Tarvek reached out and took one of his father’s gloved hands. He spoke earnestly. “Anevka and I—We both know you have given this task your all. I know that if The Mistress were here, she’d say—”
“KNEEL, YOU MISERABLE MINIONS!”
Both of the men froze in terror, and then whipped about to stare at the stage. Below them, Agatha, in an extremely tight leather outfit, strode about demanding to know if various implements of torture had been prepared to her unreasonable specifications. After a moment, the younger man slumped back into his chair and chuckled.
“Ho! That gave me a bit of a turn! That girl they’ve got playing Lucrezia certainly has a commanding voice, don’t—”
“Tarvek!” Aaronev’s voice cut across the younger man’s burbling. He had pulled a slim, metal box out from under his coat. Dials and small meters encrusted its surface. At the moment, all of the lights were flashing green. “It’s her.”
Tarvek stared at the glowing device like a bespectacled hamster looking at an approaching snake. “No!” He whispered. “Impossible!”
Aaronev thrust the device into Tarvek’s hands. “Look at the meters! The harmonics match perfectly!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “It’s her!”
Tarvek stared at the device. Viciously, he smacked it against the arm of his chair several times. The dials wavered, and then the needles swung back into the green. “The fuses must be old! This isn’t proof—”
His father grabbed his coat, and with surprising strength, dragged him to the edge of the balcony and pointed towards the audience.
Throughout the entire theatre, the audience, as well as the ushers, had dropped to their knees, and were staring, enraptured, at the figure marching back and forth upon the stage.
Tarvek stared at the tableau below them for a moment and then slowly collapsed backwards into his chair. “Oh dear,” he muttered.
The curtain came down for the final time. The audience was on its feet. The enthusiastic applause was beginning to taper off, but was still satisfyingly loud to the cast filing off into the wings. The Countess took a final look at the audience through a chink in the side curtain, and signaled Captain Kadiiski to bring up the house lights. She then turned away and smiled. “Good show, folks.”
Taki grinned as he removed the Baron’s pants from his head. “We have got to do that one more often!”
André rolled his eyes as he handed the giant screwdriver to one of the prop handlers. “Don’t be absurd! The catfight scene in the grease vat? That alone would get us jailed anywhere east of Bucharest.”
Guntar smiled as he wiped off his construct stitching. “If I can play one of the grease monkeys? So worth it.”
Pix sashayed over to Abner. Her diaphanous High Priestess outfit strained as she leaned in and gave him a deep kiss. He responded, but then realized that with this outfit, there were no publically acceptable places to put his hands.
Pix murmured, “I was worried that this play might be a bit too...” She glanced over at Agatha. “Sophisticated. But she did just fine.”
Abner smiled. “Yes, well, I had her rehearse her lines separately. She didn’t know the context.”
Agatha was peeking through the curtain at the exiting crowd. Lars stood beside her, giving her a gentle hug. “You did good.”
“But I’m not sure what I did.”
Lars coughed delicately. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to take some time and explain the nuances. For your own good, of course.”
Agatha felt her heart skip a beat. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like that.” She turned to Lars and shyly smiled. They looked into each other’s eyes, and leaned in for a kiss—
There was a brief clamor from one of the side doors, and an elegantly dressed retainer in a blue velvet coat and a powdered wig stepped backstage. He was met by Master Payne.
The retainer bowed his head respectfully. “His Highness wishes to convey his pleasure in your performance.” With this, he drew forth a thick leather purse, which he dropped into the circus master’s hand with a satisfying “chink.”
“How generous,” Payne murmured. It was certainly a surprise. Usually a Command Performance meant that, as one old showman had famously put it, “They command, we perform, nobody pays.” But this—
The retainer nodded and then continued. “In addition, the Royal Family was so taken with the young lady who played the Lady Lucrezia, your Madame Olga, I believe, that they have requested her presence at the palace for supper this evening.” His gaze found Agatha. “A coach is waiting.”
Several minutes later Agatha found herself the center of a great hum of activity. Several dressmakers were busy sewing her into a splendid lace confection colored a rather bilious sea foam green.
She critically examined a sleeve. “Um... I don’t know a lot about fashion,” she ventured, “but this color—”
“It looks terrible on you,” the seamstress said around a mouthful of pins. She sat back and eyed Agatha critically. “It would look terrible on almost anyone, but on you? It’s hideous.”
Agatha stared at her. “That’s good?”
The seamstress sighed. “It’s tricky. We can’t put you in rags, because that would be an insult. We have to put you in a good dress. But we want you to be subtlety unappealing enough that you won’t have to fend anybody off.” She spit a pin into her hand. “Princes hate being fended off. So we go for an off color. Simple, yes?”
Her hair was being plaited and set by two hairdressers and the troupe’s make up artist was delicately running brushes over her face. While this was going on, she was being given a crash course in court etiquette, which essentially boiled down to “Vaguely agree with everything, commit to nothing.”
Finally everyone was done and nodded at each other in satisfaction. Agatha turned to look at herself in a mirror and gasped in dismay. She looked... not terrible... it was a nice dress. Her hair was stylish and her make up was flawless, but she looked... totally uninteresting.
Even as she understood what had been done and appreciated the artistry behind it, it was a terrible thing to do to a young girl.