Tyrian made his vow to Fabian, and the two of them left, and everyone applauded. I waited eagerly, but nothing happened. The stage was empty, the consort was playing, and the audience started talking and getting up. I worried that something had gone wrong, but no one else seemed concerned. Vendors came back selling bags of nuts and bunches of flowers. Some had little black silk rosettes and tiny silver swords for people to pin in their hats or on their sleeves as tokens of the two lead actresses to show which they liked best. The actress playing Tyrian was called Viola Fine. Her little sword appealed to me, but I thought I should buy a rose if I was going to see the Black Rose. In the end I did neither, but I did get a printed picture of the actor Henry Sterling in the role of Fabian, his arm raised to his brow in an attitude of anguish. They had colored ones, too, for more money, but I thought I could color it myself when I got home. I would ask my uncle to give me watercolors.
Then they blew trumpets, and we all found our seats again.
The second half wasn’t as good as the first, because they had to cut too much out, like Stella’s horse race and the terror of the hunting cats. Instead the actors made long speeches about love which were never in the book, and weren’t as good. I watched Tyrian more closely. Viola Fine was supposed to be an actual man, not a woman swordsman, but if you thought about it realistically, that’s what she was. Like me. Only not for real: my uncle was right, her swordplay was just for show. That huge disengage of hers would get her killed in a real fight. I wondered if she liked playing a man. When Viola Fine first went on the stage, had she
chosen
roles where she could stride about, her cloak swirling around her, or had she really been hoping to play Stella or someone with gorgeous gowns and luxurious curls and jewels that couldn’t have been real but glittered fantastically, and men saying they would die for her?
I was not the only person in the audience holding her breath when Tyrian approached Stella for the kiss. “You have done tonight,” she said, “what ten thousand men could not.”
“Now,” the Black Rose murmured low, but we could all hear it, somehow, “let me show you what one woman alone can do.”
She leaned towards Viola. Viola’s eyes closed languidly. The Black Rose came closer—and then her eyes opened wide, following the entrance of Mangrove’s minions on the roof (instead of the hunting cats).
It might be nice to be an actress, after all. I was a better swordsman than Viola Fine already, wasn’t I? Maybe someone would write a play just for me, one where a real woman could fight with her sword, and had many fine adventures and changes of costume. Maybe Henry Sterling would play a man who loves me madly but thinks I love only the sword, while really I am smoldering with passion for him. Or maybe Viola could play the hero, and I could play a woman who disguises herself as a man in order to get close to her and—what? We could have a terrific fight at the end, maybe, and kill each other, and the audience would be sobbing, the way they do at the end of the play when Tyrian cradles Stella’s head in his arms, rocking her and letting her think he’s Fabian, who’s already taken the potion, but Stella doesn’t know it.
I can make myself cry just thinking of it. And the way Viola rose to her feet, looking for someone to fight but there is no one left—there was such a look of desolation there. I wondered if she was lonely, too.
All around me, people were jumping to their feet and clapping and yelling and throwing things—flowers, nuts, handkerchiefs stained with kisses—and wiping their eyes, as well. A girl behind me said to her friend, “I’ve seen it eleven times now, and I always say I won’t cry, and then I do.”
“I know,” her friend said. “I keep wanting it to end differently, but it never does. Oh, there she is!”
The Black Rose swept back onstage, glowing with a tragic dignity. Her magnificent bosom swelled as she took a deep breath and bowed low to the crowd. The girl behind me started gasping, “I’ll die, I’ll die…Oh, just hold me! Isn’t she
fine
? I’ve written her a dozen letters, but she never answers.”
I thought smugly of the chain in my pocket that would gain me access to her dressing room.
But it turned out not to be that simple. There was a porter guarding the back door to the stage, and quite a few other people who were trying to get in, as well. Most of them had brought bunches of flowers, some very nice indeed. A couple of the biggest were carried by liveried servants, whose masters waited behind in their carriages, watching through the doors to see what transpired.
It was too late to go back for flowers, I thought; best get this over with. I shoved myself to the front of the crowd, right up against a woman with a necklace of silver swords strung around a turban on her head. She pulled away as though I had bitten her. “How dare you, fellow!”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, horribly flustered, for if I had been a man it would of course have been unspeakable for me to brush up against a woman like that. “I’m not—It’s all right, really it is. I’m a lady—like Tyrian, I mean Viola.”
“Rea-ally?” She looked me up and down. “Is it a new fad?”
“I wish I had the legs for it,” said the well-dressed older woman next to her, who wore a black velvet neck ribbon with a silver sword depending from it. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Katherine.”
“Is that a real sword you’ve got?”
“Do you like swords, Katherine?”
The people behind us were pushing forward, so that the ladies were very nearly on top of me. They smelled of powder and expensive perfume. Their only blades may have been finger-length, but I fell back before them as if they carried real ones, and I defenseless.
I stepped on the porter’s toe. “Oi!” he said. “None of that here. What do you think you’re doing?”
I turned around and looked up into his solid face. “My name is Katherine Talbert. I’m here to see the Black Rose.”
“You and half the city,” he grumbled. “Listen, kiddo, nice try, but the part of Tyrian is already booked. You want to act, you come back another time. Master Sterling don’t see new actresses but on Tuesday mornings.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “I’ll only be a moment. I’ve just got to give her this—” and I held up the chain in its sack, letting him hear the chink of metal.
“Nice for her,” he said gruffly. An aggressive servant shoved a huge hothouse bouquet in his face—as the porter tried to defend against it, I reached for his hand, stuck a coin in it, and, with the slippery little sideways wriggle that always worked when I needed to grab something from the kitchen table when the cooks were all busy, slipped past him and through the back door of the theatre.
It was a different world: quiet and frantic, real and imaginary, all at once. It smelt of oil and wax and sweat and fresh wood shavings. There were raw beams and intricately painted canvases, yards of dusty air overhead and people appearing and disappearing below.
“I’m sick to death of it!” One of Fabian’s friends strode past me with another, still wearing the top half of his costume. “He does it every time, on purpose, just to make me look cheap.”
“Of course he does, my dear; you threaten him.”
Against the wall I recognized props from scenes in the play: Stella’s bedroom candelabra, Mangrove’s velvet chair, the trunk from the sea voyage and halberds from the guards. A workman held one in his hand, shouting, “You’re mad if you think I can make another horse before tomorrow! What do I look like, a brood mare? Just nail the damned thing back together, and tell him I’m working on it!”
“Excuse me.” I tugged at his sleeve. “I’ve come to see the Black Rose.”
He nodded at a door across the way. “In there.” He raised the halberd again. “And tell them to be
careful
next time! It’s
not
a
real horse!
”
The door was not fully closed. I stood for a moment, trying to breathe normally, to get the feel for where I was and what I was doing.
I heard a woman’s voice inside. “God, you are the biggest tease in the world. I’ll have that kiss now, Rose, if you please.”
There was a low, throaty chuckle. I recognized it from Stella’s ball scene. “Why not? You worked hard for it.”
Stiff cloth rustled. Someone hummed. Then the voice that was not Rose’s spoke a line from the play, mockingly, romantically: “
I was a girl before tonight.
”
I put my head very carefully inside the door. A black head and a fair one with short, close-cropped curls were pressed together.
It was the missing kiss from
The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death
, the kiss Tyrian wanted but never got. Stella was giving it to Tyrian now, at last, as I watched them. I lifted my fingers to my own mouth, barely breathing. Viola was still wearing her costume; the Black Rose had changed into a loose gown over her chemise. Viola’s fingers were pressed into the Rose’s hair, pulling her head even closer. She moaned softly, and I think I did, too.
I felt a strange glowing in my body, right at the fork of my breeches. It was like nothing on earth I’d ever felt before, and it was right there where a man keeps his tool. Oh, dear god. Heat and cold touched me all at once. Was all this dressing up and swordfighting turning me into a man? Had it happened to the actress already, with her sword and her breeches and her cropped hair? No one had warned me. What could I do? I would die, I would die if I was growing one. Slowly, cautiously, I put my hand down there to see. I didn’t feel anything through my breeches that hadn’t been there before. I squeezed a little harder to be sure, and caught my breath at the sense that shot through me. It was indescribably, undeniably good. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter what was down there. So what if I was growing one? Men never complained of it, did they? In fact, if this was the pleasure they were always crowing about, I wasn’t sure I didn’t want one after all. I thought of Marcus. He had one, too, didn’t he? He could show me how to use it. I wouldn’t mind if he did. I squeezed a little harder.
My eyes were closed. I saw Tyrian kissing the Black Rose, and Viola kissing Stella. I thought about curling up in bed with my curtains drawn and reading the book again, but this time seeing the two of them kissing, kissing, kissing after the play was over and the real story began.
I squeezed harder still, and then I didn’t think anything at all except how I wished what was happening wouldn’t stop, only it did, rather suddenly, and I had to put my hand on the doorpost. The kiss had finished; they were looking into each other’s eyes.
“You’re a girl still,” the Black Rose told her. “Don’t let that sword deceive you.”
Viola laughed huskily. “Thanks for nothing. I know exactly what it’s good for.”
“Be careful,” Rose said. “Don’t let it go to your head. They come on strong, but they can leave you with nothing.”
“Speak for yourself, sweetness.” Viola straightened her jacket. “I know how to handle them.”
Rose shook her head. “You really don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind what?”
“The way they want you to be
him
for them.”
“Why not? I love acting. Don’t you?”
“In a well-crafted play, of course. But I don’t do private theatricals.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” As she turned to the door, I gathered myself together and knocked. “Adoring Public, Rose!” Viola cried jauntily as she passed me.
My face was still flushed, my breathing shallow. “Come in!” the Black Rose sang out melodiously, but when she saw me in my boy’s clothes she said, “Oh, dear.”
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “I’m real.”
She said, “Oh,” and then she said, “Oh,” again, in a different tone. “I know. You’re the duke’s girl.”
“He sent you this.” I fumbled the brocade pouch out of my pocket with my sweaty hand, and held it out to her. I couldn’t meet her eyes.
The Black Rose was very tall. She looked at me, and then she went and closed the door, and came back and sat down. She took the chain out. It was heavy, made of several links braided together, and very long.
“That’s worth a lot,” she said. She bent her neck and pulled her hair up out of the way. “Would you like to put it on me?”
She must have known my face would be in her hair. She smelled like nothing else on earth. I kissed her hair, and put my hand on her white hand that held it above her neck. She turned, and tilted her head up to me, and I kissed her on the lips.
Her lips were very soft and warm and full. I felt them curve in a smile under mine. I couldn’t help smiling back.
“I see,” she said. She lowered her hair and turned around, and reached up and kissed me again, a mother’s kiss. “What’s your name, sweetness?”
“Katherine. Katherine Talbert.”
“Well, Katherine Talbert, thank you for the gift.”
“It’s from my—”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Oh.” I felt my face color up, but I stood my ground. She must have liked the kiss, after all. I was sure I’d done it all wrong.
She weighed a length of chain in her hand. “He’s a kind man, your uncle. Thoughtful. Please tell him—since we are alone here—please tell him that I will have something for him soon.”
I said, “He likes other men, you know.”
“So do I.” The Black Rose smiled. She reached up her hand again and pushed back my hair. “You’re a pretty girl, Katherine. Did you like the play?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Come again, then. I’ll do better next time on the ‘I am a woman’ speech. I don’t think I quite nailed it tonight. Though the bit with Mangrove on the stairs went rather well, I thought….” There was a sharp knock on the door. “My dresser,” she told me. “You’d better go before the hordes descend.”
I went out the door. I felt as if I had no body, I was so light. It was not an entirely pleasant feeling; I had gotten used to knowing exactly where I was. I leaned against the wall and watched as the dresser opened the door to some well-dressed men with flowers. I heard the actress crowing, “My dear! It’s been ages! What hole have you been hiding in?”
I left the theatre. I walked for a long time, and not home to Riverside. When I stopped, I was standing in front of the house of the china painter, Lucius Perry’s mistress. The last time we were there, I had wanted to leave when they started kissing on the couch. But now I wished that I could see it, very much. I wanted to bang on her door until she came out with brushes in her hair, and make her invite me in for tea so I could ask her whether she really liked it, and if she’d done it with anyone besides Lucius Perry, if she even had, and why? But I didn’t dare. I was wearing my best clothes; I could not go up over the wall, either. And if I did, all I’d probably see was her painting china, anyway.