Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

"LADIES, MAY I HAVE YOUR FULL ATTENTION? WE ARE most privileged to have with us tonight the Pantomime Players of Covent Garden. They have prepared a most satisfactory bill of the story of Hansel and Gretel, by the brothers Grimm."

I was hoping that after vespers and dinner I'd have time alone with Felicity and Ann to tell them about Kartik's warning. But, just my luck, tonight Mrs. Nightwing has arranged a special evening of pantomime for us. My news shall have to wait. The younger girls are enthralled to bear witness to a grisly fairy tale complete with menacing woods and evil witch. The players of the company are introduced to us by the impresario, a tall, heavyset man with a powdered face and enormous whiskers waxed into fine curlicues. One by one, the players file out onto the ballroom's small stage. The men bow and the women curtsy. Or rather, the characters bow and curtsy. In truth, the pantomime troupe is comprised entirely of men. Even the poor soul playing Gretel is a boy of about thirteen.

"Players, to your places," the impresario bellows in a loud, deep voice. The stage empties. A pair of stagehands maneuvers a flat of wooden trees downstage. "Let us begin our tale where it should begin--in a house at the edge of a very dark forest."

The lights are lowered. A hush falls over the crowd. There is no sound but the incessant tapping of cold rain against the martyred windows.

"Husband," the shrewish wife cries, "there is not enough for all of us to eat. We must take the children into the forest, where they shall have to fend for themselves."

Her husband, a huntsman, replies with wild gestures and a voice so melodramatic it is as if he is mocking truly horrid actors. When it becomes clear he is not, it is all I can do to keep my composure.

Felicity whispers in my ear,"I must confess: I've fallen madly in love with the poor huntsman. I believe it is his subtlety that woos me."

I put a hand to my mouth to stop the laugh there. "I find I am strangely besotted with his wife. Perhaps something about her beard ..." "What are you whispering about?" Ann says, drawing a sharp "shhhh" from Mrs. Nightwing, who comes to stand behind us. We sit tall and silent as gravestones, feigning interest. I can only pray that tonight's plum pudding was dressed with arsenic, and I have only moments left to endure this spectacle of men in garishly colored folk costumes parading as women.

The mother pushes Hansel and Gretel into the woods. "That's it, children. Walk out a little farther. All you wish for is just beyond that forest."

Hansel and Gretel disappear into the woods and come upon the house of sweets. With wide eyes and exaggerated smiles, they pretend to gnaw at the painted gumdrop shutters.

The impresario struts about the edge of the stage. "The more they ate, the more they wanted," he intones gravely. A few rows away, some of the younger girls gossip behind raised hands. A giggle erupts. When more giggles follow, Mrs. Nightwing leaves her shepherd's station with us to watch over her flock elsewhere.

I want to tell Felicity and Ann about Kartik, but we are too closely watched to have this conversation now. Onstage, the hapless Hansel and Gretel have been lured into the witch's house of sweets.

"Poor children, abandoned by the world, I shall give you sustenance. I shall give you what you seek!" The witch turns to the audience with a knowing wink and we boo and hiss on cue.

The boy playing Gretel cries, "And will we be like your very own children then, dear Auntie? Will you love us and teach us so very well?" His voice breaks on the last part. There are titters from the audience.

"Yes, child. Fear not. For now that you are here, as I so often prayed you would be, I shall clutch you to my bosom and keep you

in my grasp forever!''The witch pulls Hansel hard into her enormous false bosom, nearly suffocating him. We laugh merrily at this bit of foolery. Encouraged, the witch stuffs a piece of pie in Hansel's mouth, eliciting more laughter from the audience.

The lights flicker. There is a chorus of sudden gasps and a few tiny shrieks from some of the more high-spirited girls. It's only a stagehand at work, but it has had the desired effect. The witch rubs her hands together and confesses her diabolical plan to fatten the children and roast them in her grand oven. This gives everyone the chills, and I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.

There is a sudden nip in the air, a damp cold that works its way into the marrow. Has someone opened a window? No, they are all shut tight against the rain. The draperies don't move to suggest a draft.