6
…but before the third of the wise women could speak her gift, there was a clamor and another came in…

 

Hers

 

The following Saturday, Rose spent the morning at the theatre, getting fitted for her costume with Donna and the other girls in the cast. The costumes were student-made or old costumes being altered, and some of them looked more promising than others. Rose frowned as she tried on her first dress. “Is the neck going to be this low?” she asked.

“Oh! I guess you’re not as large as the last person who wore that,” the head seamstress said. “I guess we can take it up—if you want.”

“Yes please,” Rose said, sitting back down on her chair. But she leapt up again immediately with a yelp. Someone had left a pincushion on her chair.

“Sorry! No, it’s all right. I just didn’t see it,” she said to the seamstress who apologized and took the cushion.

 Rose was sure that it had been deliberate, but she said nothing to Donna, who was whispering to Tara with a tight smile on her face.

After the fitting, Rose went down to the chapel to recollect herself. She had been at the receiving end of malice in school before, but nothing as personal or petty as this. Should I say anything to Dr. Morris? Or am I just making a big deal out of nothing?

As she entered the chapel, she saw a now-familiar figure in blue kneeling at the Mary altar. By the time she finished her prayers, the figure had risen and seen her.

“Hello Godmother,” Rose said softly, and the aging nun curled her delicate fingers around Rose’s outstretched hand fondly.

“Hello Goddaughter,” Sister Maria said. “My, it’s good to see you here so often. How are you?”

“Good,” Rose said with mixed feelings, giving an overall assessment. She got to her feet, being the type of person who disliked carrying on conversation in the sanctuary of a church, and followed the nun out to chat.

There was a bench in the foyer of the church, and Rose and the nun sat down.

“Tell me how your school year has been going,” the nun said. “How do you like Mercy College?”

“I love it here,” Rose said. “Although I am homesick sometimes. I’m learning a lot. And making friends.”

“But you didn’t look so happy just now,” Sister Maria looked at her with surprising keenness. “Is something wrong?”

With a sigh, Rose tumbled out the story of Donna and the play. Sister Maria listened quietly.

“I just don’t know what to do about her,” Rose said. “In a way, she scares me. But that’s silly, isn’t it? The thing is, I’m not usually afraid of people.”

Sister Maria sat thoughtfully for a moment. Rose could tell she was praying. “Perhaps you’re sensing that there’s something wrong with her,” Sister Maria said after a moment. “Have you been praying for her?”

“Actually, no,” Rose admitted. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I suppose that would be a good thing to do.”

“Is there anything else bothering you that my sisters and I can pray for?” Sister Maria asked.

Rose flushed. “Well, if you think it’s appropriate to pray for matters of the heart...”

“We have been praying daily for your future husband for years,” Sister Maria said tranquilly.

“Oh. —Really?”

“Of course. ” the nun said with a smile. “We have been praying for your vocation—and we always say, if Rose is meant to be married, then bless her future husband.”

“Well then,” Rose took a deep breath. “There’s this guy...well, actually, two guys now...”

She related a greatly abbreviated version of her relationship with Fish and expected Sister Maria to reprove her for flagrantly pursuing a man. But instead the nun became thoughtful. “And the other young man?” she asked when Rose finished her rambling narrative.

“Paul. He’s a student here,” she said. “He’s very nice. We’re friends.”

“Friendship is a great blessing,” the nun said. “And much easier on the student. Your mind can stay more focused on the person and not on your feelings or possible temptations. I hope you make many friends, of both sexes, while you are here.”

“I hope I can,” Rose mused.

“And your studies?” the nun asked.

Rose sighed and listed her classes. “And I’ve got this huge bioethics paper to do,” she said mournfully. “Mom said that my dad was doing some research on patient treatment when he was here years ago, and I wish I could find his notes. Mom said he was interviewing a nurse, and I thought if I found the notes, it might be fun to interview her...”

There was something odd in the nun’s face. She shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t think you will be able to do that.”

Rose paused. “Did you know about my dad’s research?”

Sister Maria nodded.

“Then you know what he was interviewing the nurse about?”

“Only slightly. He told me it was confidential, and he asked for my prayers.”

“Do you know who the nurse is, then?” Rose asked.

“No, I don’t,” the nun said, in a low voice, as though she were afraid someone would hear. “But I know she’s no longer alive. She was killed in a car accident, a few years after your family moved to New Jersey. Your father called me when she died.”

“Oh,” Rose said, feeling a twinge of disappointment and sadness. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve already been to the barn. There’s just tons of paper there. It would take me all semester to get through it.”

“Rose, you must be careful,” she said. “In all of these things, be careful.”

“I will,” Rose said, and added, “I’m glad I met you. I was having a rather rotten day.”

The nun squeezed her hand. “I’m glad our Lord arranged the meeting,” she said simply.

Much more contented, Rose strolled out of the chapel and went to the Student Commons to check her mail.

“Hello fellow gypsy!”

She turned to see Nannette, a student from her theology class who had invited Rose to join an impromptu band at Medieval day. Nanette, who had played flute, was from the Caribbean isle of St. Vincent. She had rich dark skin and the most delicious accent to her low-toned voice. Although she was not particularly handsome, she carried herself with a decorum that belied her sweet nature.

“How are you today, Rose?” she inquired in her velvety tones. “And your violin playing, is it well?”

“Quite well,” Rose said, ardently wishing that her own voice was so melodious, or that she could talk with a foreign accent. It was all she could do, at times, to keep from putting on Nanette’s inflection herself when the two of them talked. “We should play together again sometime. I truly enjoyed it.”

“Should you like to go for a walk? I am going to get some exercise,” Nanette said with a smile, stretching gracefully. “I’ve been working on a paper since last night and I’m very stiff!”  She said the word as steef.

“A wonderful idea,” Rose said, and after getting their mail, the two girls strolled outside. The air was still chilly, but at least the sun was out, keeping the air somewhat warm. Rose couldn’t help turning their path towards the men’s dormitories as they climbed the drive.

“Where are you going, Rose?” Nannette asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Why don’t we go by Sacra Cor?” 

“Oh, and is there any reason?” Nannette said playfully.

“No, except that it’s a very unusual place,” Rose said, a bit defensively. She elaborated, “You never know what will be going on there. One time, the entire dorm was sitting around wearing paper bishop hats and having an intense discussion about the Latin Mass. Paul Fester was making the hats for anyone who was pontificating.” She shook her head. “The very next day, they were all in the courtyard burning a couch in effigy while roaring ‘This Little Light of Mine’ at the tops of their lungs. Always something unusual.” 

“So I hear,” Nanette said, giving a smile. “All right. Let’s go.”  Rose led the way, hoping to witness something that she could use as an example of “vintage Cor.”

Sacra Cor was on the edge of the string of men’s dorms, and it always reminded Rose of a miniature motel with its three rows of rooms around a square courtyard, an empty flagpole in the center. But the colorfully-painted jagged rock and fire pit next to it gave it more the air of a knights’ compound. Rose had heard that Sacra Cor was one of the original dormitories on campus, back when the school had just started as a college for seminary students in the fifties.

On this particular Saturday, things were deceptively bland. She found Paul sitting on the rock in the middle of the courtyard and flipping through a stack of index cards, memorizing medical terms. When he saw them, he did a handspring off the rock and landed in front of them. “Hi Rose!”

“Paul Fester, meet Nannette,” Rose said.

Nannette gave her hand and said, “I’ve seen you in philosophy class.”

Paul grinned. “That’s right. You’re from the island of St. Vincent, right? I know Raoul from Mater Dei. He’s a countryman of yours, right?”

Their small talk was interrupted by a shout and Leroy, his thick hair standing up in a straight riff in the wind, pounded into the courtyard yelling, “I got it!” at the top of his lungs.

Rose barely had time to see what it was—white cloth wrapped around a long stick—when her attention was caught by a swarm of male students pouring out of Lumen Christi Dormitory—the largest of the guys’ dorms—and charging towards them. Instantly Paul snatched the white cloth from Leroy, thrust it into the bush beside them and yelled over his shoulder, “We’re under attack!”

From every corner doors opened and guys charged from the rooms of Sacra Cor to meet the onslaught as five guys from Lumen Christi sprinted into the courtyard and took after Leroy, who, cornered behind the trashcan, started hurling its contents at them. Paul turned another somersault with a tremendous yell and ran to his friend’s aid. Before Rose and Nannette had quite realized what was happening, they were stranded on the rock in the middle of a storm of battling students.

And not only male students were in the fray. Kate MacDonald, a junior who lived down the hall from Rose raced into the courtyard and took up a position by the bushes in one corner to fight for Sacra Cor. “Where’s the proctor?” she yelled to James Kelly, who had popped out of another door. James ran and pounded on Alex’s door. The door opened and Alex tumbled out, his black hair askew.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Sacra Cor’s atypical head demanded in a loud weary voice.

“Where’s the flag?” one of the attackers shouted at Alex.

“What? Is it missing again?” Alex exclaimed. “Keep your dorm a little cleaner, Luminas, and things like this wouldn’t happen!”

“He stole it!” cries went up around Leroy and Paul, who were fighting heroically from the trashcan. Paul picked up the can and dumped its contents on one guy, then threw the heavy plastic can at the rest. Leaping over it, he and Leroy ran back to the rock.

One of the attackers had slipped past Alex into the room and came out with a sword. “Raid!” he shouted. James saw him and leapt after him, yelling. Alex locked and slammed the door and took off after the thief. They cornered him in the pocket of the dorm.

“Where’s the flag?” Leroy panted, climbing on the rock next to Rose and a rather bemused Nanette.

“I put it in the bush,” Paul said. He reached down and snatched it out. But in passing it to Leroy, he was yanked down by one of the invaders. Rose quickly grabbed the flag and sat on it. “Hide it!” she hissed to Nanette, who sat next on the other end.

“Hey!” one of the invaders yelled, grabbing at Rose’s arm but she kicked at him.

“Unhand her!” Leroy hollered, leaping full onto the guy and wrestling him to the ground.

Another boy snatched the flag from under Rose, but Rose grabbed it at the last second and yanked it back. He let go once he saw she was serious about holding onto it, and she got back on the rock and brandished the flag, still wrapped around its pole, like a weapon, poised to knock anyone on the head who tried to grab it.

Kate had darted into one of the rooms and returned with her boyfriend, A.J., both of them brandishing cans of shaving cream. They started spraying the attackers gleefully, shouting something in Latin.

Alex had recovered his sword and ran back to his room, then halted cursing and feeling his pockets. Rose guessed correctly he had locked his keys in his room.

“Get his sword!” a few attackers yelled and Alex promptly backed into a corner and took a fighting stance, holding them off.

“The proctor’s coming!” someone yelled, and Rose saw a husky student with a blond crew cut in athletic sweats jogging over to the ruckus. She recognized Tim, one of the pre-theologite (future seminary) students, who served as the student director of Lumen Christi. When he saw the battle, Rose and Nanette expected him to blow the whistle. But instead, a playful grin came over his face and he shouted, “Lumen Christi!”

The battle cry was taken up all over the courtyard by its residents, and Paul bellowed back, “Sacra Cor!”

“Alex O’Donnell, I’m coming for you!” Tim roared, plunging into the scrimmage, swinging his powerful arms. Rose watched as Alex saw Tim coming, and could have sworn she heard him drop a curse word in mild trepidation. Tim was easily twice his size. Alex hurled his sword on top of the roof for safekeeping and readied himself. The two proctors went at each other, Tim lunging with his fists and Alex grabbing him around his neck. Rose lost sight of them as they pitched into the bushes.

“They stole Lumen Christi’s flag,” Nanette said in Rose’s ear as they stolidly managed to hold their ground. “Shouldn’t we give it back to the Luminas?”

Rose shook her head. “Let’s just see how things turn out,” she begged.

“All right,” Nanette sighed.

Finally things came to a head when Kate reached the rock, her hair askew and flecked with shaving cream. “Give me the flag,” she said to Rose. “Let’s put an end to this.”

She snatched the white cloth and unrolled it from the stick. “We got it back!” she yelled. “Come on, give up! We got our own back! Surrender!”

Rose could see now that the banner was actually the Sacra Cor flag, which was supposed to be flying from the flag pole. It had been missing for some time, she recalled, and when she had asked about it, the guys had seemed reticent to explain.

The combat seemed to die down. “Where’s the proctors?” someone yelled, and triumphantly, a bedraggled Alex, his black hair spiked in all directions, dragged Tim from the bushes.

“I surrender!” gasped Tim.

“Where’s our flag?” one of the invaders demanded, putting a foot on the rock.

“How should I know?” Kate shot back. “You’ve had ours forever!”

“You took ours first!”

“Not! You swiped ours first!” Leroy challenged.

Kate shrugged her shoulders. “We’ve got ours back, and that’s what this fight was about, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Tim said, brushing himself off and getting to his feet. “All right. The title for the semester’s dorm battle goes to Sacra Cor.”

There was a clamor of cheers and dissent all around him. Tim climbed on the rock and Alex leapt up lightly beside him. The two shook hands.

“But we won’t forget!” roared a Lumen Christi man, and he was echoed by his comrades.

“That’s right!” Tim grinned. “Revenge will be sweet!” He clapped his hands like a coach. “Okay, men—grab the center tables for dinner!” He leapt from the rock and took off towards the cafeteria, followed by most of the crowd from both dorms. Alex took the banner from Kate and brandished it for his remaining compatriots, who cheered themselves mightily. Kate took a picture.

“And thanks to Rose and—Nanette? Nanette—for guarding our sacred relic with their persons during the battle,” Leroy said formally, and the rest made loud noises of assent. Rose smiled.

“The pleasure, I assure you, was all ours,” she said.

“I motion that Rose and Nannette be officially inducted into the solemn order of the Ladies of Sacra Cor,” Alex said, raising his hand. “All in favor…?”

“Aye!” they yelled.

“Thank you,” Rose said, accepting Alex’s hand to jump off the rock. “Um… what does that mean?” 

“I was going to ask the same thing,” Nannette said, looking pleased but bewildered at the attention.

 “It means,” Alex said, helping Nannette down, “that if Cor can ever be of assistance to either of you when you are in distress, we will help you. In whatever way we can.”  As usual, he spoke without a hint of sarcasm, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world to offer a girl.  He and Leroy bowed, and Rose felt it was only proper to curtsey in return. Nannette did as well, with her usual grace.

“If you would do us the honor of accompanying us to dinner,” Alex said, wrapping up the banner, “we will escort you over.”

“Most certainly,” Nannette said, adding to Rose, “Well! You said this would be unusual!”

“And I picked far too mild an adjective,” Rose said.

At dinner, she and Nanette sat with Alex and Tim, the proctor of Lumen Christi, who was most enthusiastic about having been so soundly beaten.

“I have to hand it to you guys—you’re half our size and we can still take you on without feeling like we’re squashing a gnat,” he marveled, eating a hamburger.

“Why, thank you,” Alex said with mock politeness. “We like to be prepared. Smaller numbers, but better trained, I hope.”

“That martial arts stuff you do is really something.” Tim shook his head.  “I still can’t figure out how you took me down.”

“Simple shorinje kempo,” Alex said lightly. “And this time I was unarmed.  Maybe you should take up sword-fighting,” Alex said. “That would add another dimension to dorm fights.”

Tim laughed. “Football and basketball are enough for me.”

“Each to his own,” Alex mused. “I have to say that we’ve gotten on far better with Lumen Christi since you took over as proctor.”

Tim chuckled. “It’s all a matter of channeling energy in the proper direction. Other proctors try to stop the inter-dorm fights. I thought your idea of making it a formal thing was a better strategy.”

“So—now that I’m ‘Lady Rose,’” Rose said to Alex, “do I still get to learn sword fighting?”

“Now it’s practically required,” Alex said. “You and Nanette and Kate could be the Lady’s Sword Cor. She’s our other Lady, of course. Though she’s dating A.J. now,” he said reflectively. “That tends to happen to our ladies, somehow…”

Nannette winked at Rose, who was suddenly interested in her hot chocolate. Alex was so nonchalant she couldn’t figure out if he was being breathtakingly forward or simply making an observation.

 

HIS

 

It’s just another hearing, he told himself as he stared at his planner. There’s no need for me to get overwrought about it.

But now he either had to buy a plane ticket or plan for a long drive home. The plane trip would be quicker, but he knew that Rose had been hoping to go home sometime during the semester. After some debate, he supposed that he should check with her just in case she was able to make it home that weekend.

Finally he picked up his phone. “Rose, I just wanted to let you know I’m going home Thursday night for the weekend and wanted to know if you wanted to catch a ride home with me?”

“Sure!” she said suddenly buoyant. “It would be great to see Blanche and Bear again. And I can miss my Friday class, I think. When are you leaving?”

“This Thursday after class and work.”

“Oh—” she suddenly sounded despondent. “I—”

“You have play practice, don’t you?”

“Yes, and it doesn’t get out until ten.  But I don’t have practice the rest of the weekend, fortunately.”

“That’s fine. I might not get on campus until then. My night class ends at eight and I work till nine. I probably won’t be there until at least ten, if not ten thirty.”

“That would work well then,” Rose said. “Thanks so much for asking me to come.”

It would be good to see Rose again, he admitted to himself. On some level, he knew he was lonely at the university, a stranger among people he barely knew. On the days when he wasn’t teaching, he sometimes went an entire day without speaking to a soul except Dr. Anschlung. Also, he knew he was not looking forward to the hearing.

Then his Thursday night class was cancelled. So he had time to go back to his apartment, get packed, and then go to work at Dr. Anschlung’s office sooner than usual. And she didn’t have much for him to do.

“And all of the notes can wait until Monday. Why don’t you take the night off?” she urged him. “Go out someplace. You work too much, Ben.”

“Actually I’m driving home to New York tonight,” he told her.

“Excellent! Then you can get a head start. Have a safe trip!”

Hence, he got to the campus an hour before he had expected to be there. After asking directions, he found the theatre building on the edge of the campus, where Rose had said the cast of King Lear was practicing.

     The entrance to the building led into the theatre itself, and he found himself in a tiny auditorium with seats slanting down towards a proscenium stage. Rehearsal was still in full throttle. He recognized the scene—it was one of the more grisly parts of the play, where the loyal Lord Gloucester was tied to a chair and tortured by the evil daughters Goneril and Regan. The scene ended with them putting his eyes out as a punishment for his loyalty to the king.

Fish watched the play for a few moments. He recognized the tall blond girl as Goneril, and found her acting rather stiff. Regan was doing well.

“Oh he that will think to live till he be old, give me some help!” cried the blinded Gloucester, writhing against the ropes that held him in his chair.

“One side will mock the other—the other out too,” Regan’s voice dripped blood as she spoke to the actor playing her husband.

“Out, vile jelly!” screamed the actor playing her husband, making a feint towards the actor playing Gloucester, which was supposed to be the gouging out of his second eye.

Here the director stopped the scene and said in a stern voice, “That was good. Goneril, I told you to cut that out. Are you into this or not?”

Fish hadn’t noticed she was doing anything. She said defensively, “I am.”

“Good. Then act like it. Gloucester, that was good but...” and he began to give other notes. The cast on stage dropped their poses and started to listen intently to the director’s instructions, very much like soldiers going “at ease.”

Fish noticed Rose sitting in one of the seats with a big script on her lap. She looked tired.

“Hi there,” he said in a quiet voice, going over to her.

She brightened. “You’re here early!”

“My class got out early. So how much longer, do you think?”

She wilted a bit. “At least forty-five minutes. Goneril—Donna—is giving the director a hard time. He’s been letting her get away with murder up till now, but tonight he’s not standing for it, which I’m glad. She asked me to run lines with her after practice, but I don’t have to if you want to go.”

“No, that’s okay. There’s no rush. Are you studying your lines?”

“Oh, the script? No, I’m the prompter. It’s a student work job—I get paid for it. It’s good because Cordelia actually isn’t in the play very much. I watch the script during rehearsals and run lines with people after rehearsal if they need it.”

“Rose, first line!” the director said loudly, and Rose immediately said, “Ungrateful fox! Tis he!”

Regan said, “Ungrateful fox! Tis he!” and the actors were all in their roles once more.

Fish thought he would go. He didn’t have the patience to watch that rather odious scene thirteen more times in a row. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back in a while.”

Rose nodded, already completely enrapt in the scenario unfolding before her.

It was a warm night for late October. He walked down the hill towards the center of campus, looking at the few stars that had made their way through the smog from local factories, which gave off emissions at night. Pennsylvania still had its share of steel mills that kept the countryside from being completely country. Standing in the student commons, he sighed and glanced over at the chapel as someone came out the front door. The old wooden building was still open. He considered, and walked through the door.

Inside there were only votive candles burning on the side altars, and one spotlight on the oversized crucifix in the sanctuary. A few pews were occupied—lone sitters or couples, mostly. A small nun in a blue habit prayed in front of the tabernacle. A boy and a girl were kneeling before the statue of the Virgin Mary, praying a rosary together. He could hear the faint echo of the boy’s deeper voice and the girl’s answering tremor saying the responses.

He slid into a pew at the back and knelt down.

There wasn’t a chapel this close to campus at the University of Pitt, and although he had started the semester with a strong intention to attend daily Mass, it was easy for him to get too busy to go. As a result, he had been going only sporadically. That wasn’t good, he told himself. Thanks to Father Raymond’s tutelage, he was conscious of the need to cultivate a prayer life, even if it consisted of merely outward acts like praying the rosary and going to Mass. He had acquired something of a devotion to the Blessed Mother when his mom had been dying, and occasionally found time to pray the rosary when he was alone in the car.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Maybe for others, it would be, but for him, there were too many issues in his life that he had shelved and stuffed down, whole episodes of pain and sin and wounding he had just thrust out of his mind. Someday, he told himself, he would deal with them. But not now. Maybe at a stable time in his life, he would find a good priest, and start digging into the mess, but he didn’t want to touch it anytime soon.

His awareness of it only surfaced during times like these—when he was sitting in front of the Blessed Sacrament, without structured prayer. Or when he was around someone who knew him well enough to figure out that something was bothering him—like Bear. Rose didn’t know him well enough—not yet.

How long am I going to put you off, Lord? He doubted he was sinning by delaying this foundational self-examination, but all the same, he felt God preferred that he do it sooner, rather than later, because God expected more of him.

Just like Rose, he thought ironically.  Expecting more from me than I can give.  Or at any rate, she had expected more in the past. He had a sense she had moved on.

 

Hers

 

“Are you leaving, Rose?”

Donna’s voice cut into Rose’s thoughts as she packed up her books in her knapsack, and she jumped.

“I thought it was your job to run lines with those of us who needed it,” the blond girl said again, and her voice was slightly accusing, but she smiled, as though she were making a joke.

“Of course—I haven’t forgotten,” Rose said, looking around. “Who wants to run lines?” Dr. Morris was talking with several of the students in the corner of the theatre and the stage manager was putting away the props and scenery that had been used in rehearsal, but most of the student actors were packing up and leaving to go home for the night. Only Donna and Tara stood in front of her.

“We do,” Tara said. “Why don’t we start with our scene, Rose? I’m not quite off book for that one yet.”

“All right,” Rose said, pulling out her script. She knew the scene by heart, but she was willing to go over it again. “I’ll do everyone else’s lines as well, all right?”

“Right. Let’s go backstage so it’s not so loud,” Donna said, casting a disdainful glance at the remaining talkers.

Rose picked up her book bag and followed the two girls to the back of the theatre. There was a lot of scenery stacked up, and lumber, and tools scattered about, not leaving much room for working in.

“Do you want to work on blocking too?” Rose said doubtfully, looking at the cramped quarters. “There’s not much room to work back here.”

“Maybe later,” Donna said, with an odd smile at Tara. “Right now, let’s just focus on lines. Run the whole scene.”

Rose found the place in her script and began. The other two girls worked without scripts, and they seemed to know their lines well. First, following Donna’s assertion that “This was how we always did it in our local theatre,” they ran through the lines rapidly, without intonation, just to get the words perfectly. Then they began the scene again at the proper pace.

It was a good practice, and Rose, engrossed in her character, didn’t notice until they stopped that the theatre was unusually quiet. Remembering that Fish would be waiting, she said, “Can we stop now?”

“We need to do the Gloucester scene,” Donna said. “Dr. Morris said I have to be off book by next rehearsal.”

“Oh,” Rose said, a bit surprised. She hadn’t heard Dr. Morris say that, but then again, the director had talked to Donna privately at several points during the evening. She turned to the correct pages. “I’ll read all the other parts,” she said. “Shall I start?”

Tara cocked her head, listening. “I think the stage is cleared,” she said. “Let’s go back out.”

“But we need the chair,” Donna reminded them as they worked their way out of the back quarters. “Oh, there it is.”

Rose looked, and saw that Gloucester’s chair had been dragged backstage by the stage manager. “Well, let’s just do it over there,” she said. It was a bit less cramped than the space they had been using.

She crossed over to the chair and set down her book on the wide arm of the throne. “All right. I’ll be Cornwall.”

She began the scene:  “Post speedily to my lord your husband; show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the villain Gloucester.”

Tara spat, “Hang him instantly,” and Donna added with a sinister smile, “Pluck out his eyes.”

Rose continued as Cornwall and the other characters until Gloucester’s entrance. Then she stepped into the part of the captured lord. “What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider. You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends.” And added Cornwall’s harsh command, “Bind him, I say.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tara holding the rope that had been used in the rehearsal. Apparently she had taken the part of the servants.

Donna breathed, “Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!” and pushed Rose onto the chair, as the blocking commanded.

“Unmerciful lady as you are, I'm none,” Rose as Gloucester said, a bit indignantly, adjusting the book on her lap. She found Cornwall’s line. “To this chair, bind him. Villain, thou shalt find–”

She cut herself off in a surprise that was unacted as Donna and Tara pulled the heavy ropes around her. A fragment of a memory chilled her, and she struggled as they tied the knots. But Gloucester was supposed to struggle, she remembered, and went on as they continued their work. “By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done!...” 

The script slid off her lap, and, her hands being pinned to the arms of the chair, she couldn’t retrieve it. It flopped onto the floor, and there was silence except for the movements of the two girls working on the ropes.

She couldn’t remember what line came next. She needed the text. Now she pulled against the ropes insistently but they didn’t budge. No one picked up the fallen script. She became aware that Donna had not said her next line, and that she and Tara had finished, and were standing next to her, strange smiles on their faces.