The house was quiet; all were fast asleep inside the Smith household. Agnes and her children lay in comfortable slumber in the upstairs bedrooms while Brenna lay curled upon her makeshift mattress in her little closet under the stair. She almost looked like an infant they way her legs curled into her chest and one arm wound round them while the other lay beside her face. Her hair was in a long braid that ran along her spine as her head rested on the deflated pillow that should have long been thrown out. Her blanket was moth-eaten but it kept off the cold well enough.

It was one of the few times of the day that the house was still, during the day Agnes’s children, Jane and Molly kept it in constant upheaval with their incessant bickering and frivolities. It seemed the two sisters could never get along, that is unless it concerned tormenting Brenna, and then they were a unified force to be reckoned with. How Brenna loved the night, loved when she had to work late at the theatre, then she could avoid them. Sadly this had not been one of those nights.

Brenna had come home early to her chores, which included cleaning the house and making dinner; not in that order. Ford, Agnes’ husband was of course at the pub and would not be home until late, a thankful occurrence for Brenna as she hated the way his eyes followed her as she served them their meal. Watching, he was always watching. Brenna often wondered if her aunt ever noticed but whether she did or not she never indicated. Their dynamic was such; Brenna made their dinner, served it and placed Ford’s aside if he wasn’t home, and then proceeded with her cleaning while they ate. She was not allowed to eat with them, she had to go hungry until her work was done, then she could eat and clean up after everyone. She of course had to stop what she was doing when the family was finished eating in order to clear the table and then she could continue. After all was done and she had eaten, Brenna washed the day’s worth of dishes and crawled to her closet to sleep. It was an exhausting ritual. This night she had been too tired to eat and had retired right after the dishes were done.

Sometime during the night Brenna woke to the sound of creaking above her, someone was on the stair. It lasted as long as it took the person to descend and then all was silent for a while until she heard the sound of the person’s ascent. She fell back into peaceful slumber after that. The peace of her sleep was broken with the slamming of the front door sometime later, how long she could not tell, and the sound of the heavy footfalls of boots in the house. Ford was home. She lay very still listening to him, a fear in her heart as his steps grew closer to the stair, and then relief as she heard him divert towards the kitchen. The sound of rummaging followed and the quickened pass of boots, which she thought odd. What was he looking for? Was he so drunk that he could not see his dinner right there? “Where’s my dinner?” the thunderous drunken voice of Ford Smith erupted, waking the whole house.

Brenna’s heart stopped in her chest. What was he talking about? She’d left his dinner right on the stove top to keep warm as she always did. What did he mean where was it? A panic struck her. She heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs as angry boots approached her closet, she coward against the back wall with her eyes fixed on the door. Moments later it was yanked open and a hand reached inside and grabbed her by the arm dragging her out, it was Ford and there was fire in his eyes. Brenna looked around her quickly, her aunt and cousins stood by watching as Ford interrogated her. “I left it on the stove as always uncle,” she said hurriedly, a hint of nervousness and fear in her voice. He dragged her to the kitchen, her feet moving quickly to keep pace with him and the rest of the family walking behind. “If you left it then where it is?” he bellowed. Brenna looked horrified at the empty place where she’d left his dinner. Where had it gone? Who had moved it? The questions raced through her mind, and then she remembered the footsteps on the stairs. Her eyes looked desperately at her aunt and cousins knowing one of them had done this to her, more than likely Jane or Molly. She tried to stutter an explanation but she could give none, she had left it there and no matter what she said the fact that it wasn’t there now meant only one thing to Ford, she had not left anything for him and that was not a good thing for Brenna.

“Get the switch!” he shouted and Brenna stood speechless as she heard the hurried steps of one of her cousins on the stair. Her aunt stood with her arms folded over her chest. “It’s one thing not to leave anything for him, but to lie about it too. You really are an ungrateful child.” Brenna looked at the floor and waited for the sound of her cousin returning, she did not have to wait long. Jane presented the article to her stepfather, and flashed a fleeting wry smile Brenna’s way as she turned to go back to her position beside her mother. It had been her on the stairs; this had been her repayment for Brenna accidentally revealing a love note sent her by a boy who worked at the grocer. Brenna had no idea what the paper was when she gave it to her aunt, she had found it on the floor and her aunt was the nearest person, she presumed it belonged to her. She did not read it; if she had it would surely have meant a flogging for her. Jane had gotten chastised and banded from speaking to the boy ever again, and then sent to bed without dinner for the note and had secretly vowed to get back at Brenna for it.

“You know what to do,” Ford ordered and Brenna saw that hint of pleasure in his eyes as she turned to back him and kneeled. Her nightdress was very simple, made by herself. It was made of calico fabric with a slit in the back that reached midway and tied at the back of the neck to keep it closed, it made it easier to get on and off since she was often in a rush or too tired. She untied the knot at the back of her neck and pulled the shoulders of her gown forward, still sure to hold it securely to cover the front of her body, opening the slit further as if removing it to show her bare back. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and waited. The wait for that first lash was always the worst, her eyes shifted nervously as she waited for that first hint of the switch cutting through the air. It came and she sucked in her breath silently and held it for the impact. A small whimper escaped her lips when it connected with her skin though she tried her best not to make a sound. Again she heard it and once more she felt the bite in her back. Four times she heard that sound and felt that sting before the sound of footsteps leaving the room were heard. As her uncle raised his hand one more time to strike her Jane entered the room with a plate in hand. “Father, is this what you were looking for?” she said sweetly, but not before Brenna felt the bite in her back one more time.

Ford turned, he looked at the plate and then took it from her as he dropped the switch on the floor and disappeared into the kitchen without a word. Agnes returned upstairs as did Molly, while Jane picked up the switch and stood beside Brenna, a content smile on her face. She whispered to her cousin, “That will teach you to get in other people’s business,” she said coldly and then she too retreated up the stair leaving Brenna alone on the floor. Tears began to fill her eyes but she refused to shed them there. She got up, her back aching, there would be welts there soon enough but he hadn’t hit her hard enough to break the skin this time. She grabbed her coat and tied it around herself to hide her apparel before sticking her feet in her boots, not bothering to tie them, and running out the door and into the night.

The streets were quiet as she ran towards her only safe haven, the Lindeman Theatre. There was a performance that night but that only meant that everyone would be distracted, she could hide there unnoticed for a while and comfort herself with the sound of the performance. She snuck in the back entrance that all the staff used; everyone was so busy she didn’t think they would notice her. She crept along the back wall away from the excitement and then crawled through the small trapdoor that led under the stage. She sat there listening to the play above her, Romeo and Juliet, one of her favourites. It was act two, scene two, the balcony scene. She listened and finally allowed her tears to fall. No one had said such words of love to her; she had heard nothing even close to it since her parents died. She missed them so much in that moment.

Stayed there for the rest of the performance and until she heard the theatre grow quiet, before crawling out of her hiding place to find there were still a few lurking about finishing their work. Her stomach was empty and she was tired, she was walking towards the ladder to the rafters when she heard someone call her name. Her face was now dry but her eyes were still red when she turned to face the voice.

Every time, during a performance, people would go where they weren't supposed to go; Bruce would find the patrons in the oddest of places. Naturally, they always claimed to be lost, but he had no patience with that excuse. How, for example, could one possibly get down to the furnace room by accident? He might possibly have believed that the couple in the corridor earlier that evening had just made a wrong turn, if the girl hadn't been quite disheveled and both of them extremely red-faced when they spun around to meet his eyes. The bloody people wandered around through everything and it was a serious chore to check everywhere to be sure he'd hunted every last one down and booted them out. He dreaded the approaching Easter Ball and the chaos that would surround the occasion. Bruce would have to be on his feet the whole damn evening making certain that people stayed where they belonged.

His job became especially unpleasant when a bloke gave trouble about it. Sometimes, a posh gentleman disliked being pushed around by Bruce. Then, if a little verbal pressure didn't suffice, he had to call the managers to throw the man out. If he dared to lay hands on and physically force someone to leave, unless they were actually offering violence to the theatre or its staff, he'd lose his job for sure. It was tiresome to be so impotent, but there it was, he had to deal with it.

He'd had to do that once already this evening for Ferdinand Mallister. He was positive that the man had arranged a tryst with some woman, it was just Mallister's style; the blasted fellow had been in the prop-room amidst the scenery, probably intending a romantic backdrop. But he'd refused to leave, arguing with Bruce until the night watchman had to send one of the maids who luckily happened by for the director. Mallister had been shepherded out by Mr. Wilkes and Bruce together, but Bruce had seen him lurking around in the street still and had gone about locking all the entrances to the theatre to make sure he didn't sneak back in.

Unfortunately, he hadn't yet found the girl that Mallister had been waiting for. He had combed most of the theatre for her, and was just heading to check the upper levels when he caught sight of a girl wrapped up in an overcoat by one of the ladders used by the prop-men to reach the workings above the stage. She had her back to him, but she didn't belong here, and there was a good chance she was Mallister's girl. In a high temper, the night-watchman stalked forwards until he caught sight of her profile when she turned briefly.

It was one of the maids. He recognised her. But she wasn't in livery; what was she doing here? "Miss Cleary," he called out briskly, marching forwards to accost her.

She turned to face him, and Bruce saw the stains of tears on her face and her reddened, swollen eyes. "Och, lass," he said involuntarily, then more kindly he asked, "Whatever is the matter, Miss Cleary?"

Miss Cleary. The voice startled her, but familiarity soon set in and eased the racing of her heart. Brenna looked at the night watchman as he stalked towards her. He was an imposing man compared to the seventeen-year-old girl who wasn’t even half his size and nowhere near his stature. At first she didn’t know what to say, she wasn’t supposed to be there. She’d worked the day preparing the place for the performance and had been permitted to have the night off. She had been disappointed to have to go home and miss the performance, however she had been tired and wanted sleep, and now that the night had turned out the way it had she wished she had begged to work instead.

His initial tone seemed rather annoyed to Brenna, and honestly it was the last thing she really wanted to hear. She had just spent what seemed like an eternity being yelled at and accused of something she hadn’t and at that moment she only wanted to hear silence, it was the kindest thing she was likely to get at that hour.

Brenna never had any trouble with Abercrombie; she was always pleasant to everyone including him. She couldn’t say she was friends with the man, more cordial acquaintances who exchanged pleasantries when they crossed each other’s path, usually as she was leaving the theatre and he was arriving to begin his duties. He seemed nice enough, but his job wasn’t the type that being all smiles and giggles was really beneficial. All in all she had to say she found him likeable.

The next words from his mouth however caused her lip to quiver momentarily. “Good evening Mr. Abercrombie, I was just…” she began, her words soft, but her mind failed her for a moment and she couldn’t remember what she was going to say. She tried to give an assuring smile but failed miserably in her attempts. She couldn’t tell him what had happened, she couldn’t tell anyone. As horrible as they were, they were her family and the last thing she wanted was to cause them embarrassment. Call it naivety but Brenna truly hoped that one day they would come to love her, though at times like these she wasn’t so sure it was possible.

“I wanted to see the play. The last act always makes me cry,” she lied, though not convincingly. She had seen this play so many times; she’d been there for the rehearsals and knew the lines by heart, seeing it performed was not likely to make her cry to such an extent. “I’m sorry,” she apologised knowing that she really shouldn’t have been there, and where she was heading to was definitely not where she ought to be, but it was the quietest place in the theatre, looking down on everyone, and she just wanted to escape.

“It’s nice to see you. I didn’t see you when I left earlier,” she tried to distract him from the topic of what was troubling her. She tried another assuring smile for good measure, but it never reached her eyes.

She fumbled for words, and faltered when she tried to answer him, speaking very quietly and with a betraying quiver in her voice. She had been going to deny crying, he thought, but there was no way that she could possibly hide it, and Brenna seemed to realise that as well after a brief assay at a weak, tentative smile, one that didn't last long and wasn't terribly convincing while it lasted. So she tried to cover herself in another way, one that Bruce knew at once was a lie, and a bad one at that. While he didn’t approach it in a logical way, he’d never seen anyone who actually cried at plays except for limp-brained ladies. Brenna was a lady by breeding, her mannerisms told him that she came from a gentle background easily enough, but she wasn’t limp-brained.

He wasn’t about to call her on the lie, however. If she wanted to tell him what was the matter, she could do that, or she could keep it to herself. Yet he couldn’t let it pass without some kind of comment. Carefully wording himself so that she would not guess that he knew there wasn’t an ounce of truth in what she said, Bruce told her, “No need to be sorry, Miss Cleary. You should have gone to someone, though; it’s never a good thing to be crying all on your own like this. There’s none as will laugh at you for it here.” He couldn’t quite say it straight out; that whatever was wrong she should damn well tell someone about it. Not necessarily him. But someone she knew and trusted. He knew she had friends in the theatre; some of the girls among the maids, and Mr. Broderick. Go to one of them, he urged her silently, and if it’s bad enough then you go to the police.

Bruce had been a copper long enough to recognize when something was all wrong. For one thing, she was wearing a night shift underneath that greatcoat; the hem of a flimsy fabric that no woman would ever use to make a day gown out of was poking out from the bottom of it. She’d come running here from home. Something was drastically out of place for this skinny little bit of a thing.

A gentleman wouldn’t have done it, but Bruce wasn’t one of that uptight breed, locked in propriety. He reached out one hand and rested it firmly on Brenna’s shoulder, with a comforting squeeze.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t offer her more than that. Bruce also had a job to do, and that was making sure that all unauthorized people were out of the theatre after hours. The Lindeman was locked up, and she didn’t belong here. He could hardly send her back home, though. She’d not want to be put in the director’s office; the director was something of an aweful figure for most of the junior personnel, and most of the maids would be gone; who else was here besides him?

There’d be some of the stagehands somewhere about, he was sure. Perhaps it wouldn’t take too much time to hunt down Mr. Broderick. He was Brenna’s friend, and she’d be safe with him; he could also count on Broderick to take her out of the theatre.

“If you’ll come with me, Miss Cleary, I think the stagehands could use some extra help with cleaning up after the play,” he remarked casually. “I believe that Tybalt broke a few things in his death-agonies. Sure, there’s a mess left behind.”

Her fingers fumbled against each other as she stood waiting for his response. Had she convinced him? Would he catch her in her lie and force the truth from her? She prayed not. It had been a weak lie but it was the only thing that she could say. She had seen women cry at plays, it was a plausible excuse for her current state. However, if he studied her attire too carefully she would have a hell of a time explaining away her apparel. Her state of undress was not coinciding with her excuse and she knew it, she was also aware that there was no explanation for it but the truth.

Her back was stiff, the slightest movement was painful, but she was so accustomed to these periodical thrashings that she knew just how to hold herself to inflict minimal discomfort. She wished she did not have to be familiar with them, that instead of the biting kiss of a switch she could feel the warm embrace of loving arms. Sadly there were no such arms, at least not for her.

She looked Bruce in the face, her eyes almost pleading him not to ask the questions she dread. It seemed her lie had worked, or Abercrombie was gentleman enough to call her the liar that she was. Either way she was thankful. She gave another weak smile as he told her that she needn’t cry on her own and none would laugh at her. How many times had she come here to cry? She could hardly remember them to count, there were so many, yet she had said nothing to anyone in all that time, not even to Alastair or Phelan. “Thank you Mr. Abercrombie. I shall remember that. I did not want them to make a spectacle of me in such a pathetic state,” she continued a sad smile still lingering in an attempt to prove herself perfectly fine.

She could never go to the police for her family. They were her family after all. She had no one else and she could never live with herself to know that she was the cause of their suffering. Brenna was that kind of girl, she couldn’t stand to see anyone suffer especially at her infliction. Ford and her aunt and cousins could call themselves lucky that she was not a spiteful girl or else she could have made life very difficult for them, instead she tried to keep things as peaceful as she could.

His action was unexpected and it took all her control not to react to it. As he lay his hand on her shoulder her eyes glistened and she had to look away to hold back the tears. Once she was sure they were in check she allowed her eyes to return to him. His action was so comforting, much more than she had expected. If he had been another man and this another place she might have fallen against his chest and wept, but they were who they were and this was the Lindeman Theatre, all of which dictated their actions. She smiled; words unable to express how much that little action had affected her; it was a smile that reached her eyes.

This had been the greatest exchange to ever take place between them and it had only proved to endear him to her. However one question remained. What would he do about her? She was where she didn’t belong, by rights he should throw her out, but would he? When he began to speak she was afraid he was about to throw her out, however politely it may have been, but she needn’t have feared. “Of course,” she replied as he instructed her to follow him, a tone of relief to her voice. “He did, didn’t he?” she said with a small laugh of relief.

She pulled her coat closer about her as she followed Abercrombie, her hope that no one would notice her clothing as she assisted with the clean up. She doubted they would, all that anyone would be thinking of now was of heading home, all but her. “Mr. Abercrombie…thank you,” she said as they walked, her words sincere. She was thanking him for more than not throwing her out, but for being so kind as to not press her on the matter and offering some form of comfort in the process.

(OOC: Nora's last post was in Nora's place. Also: This post takes place outside. I figured I didn‘t really have to make a new thread since this also takes place directly after a play.)

Nora was on the arm of one of her clients - or rather one of her clients’ son, because technically she had never really given him her intimate services and he had never paid her; his father had. It was dark, and the two of them were sitting on a bench in the theatre park, talking. It was an exception when this happened - Nora had few clients who really cared to converse very much with her - but then Tobias Green was exceptional in many ways, to his father’s great chagrin.
”I’m sorry. You can go home if you want to.” He was a thin man, not very tall - just about Nora’s height. His hair was brown with a red tint to it, his skin pale and soft, like a woman‘s, like the skin of an eager student. At the moment he was staring down in his lap, insecurely plucking the fabric of his trousers.
“I don’t,” Nora replied. “But thank you.” Waiting with him was the least she could do for the money his father gave her, and for the free play. He smiled and blushed furiously before he took off his glasses to polish them. She felt sorry for him. “Why would I want to go home?” she asked him warmly with a gentle touch of his shoulder. “The park is beautiful. The night is mild. And you have been so good to me. I’d much rather stay.” A shadow of a smile flashed over his lips, but he looked away, as if to hide it. “…if you don’t mind,” Nora added.
”No, no, I don’t... I don’t mind.” he muttered. He was uncomfortable around people. All people, but women in particular, it seemed. Or maybe it was just because she was a whore and he knew what he was supposed to do with her, and it bothered him. Because Nora was certain that he was not the type of man who would want a woman. He was the type of man - or boy, rather, because a boy was what he still was - who was attracted to other men. She could tell from his gestures, his voice, his way of interacting with others, but most of all she could tell from the way he looked at other men - and the way he did not look at her or other women. “Didy - ah… Did you enjoy the play?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, I always enjoy the theatre. It’s so magnificent and I feel like it is the only place where play-pretending is completely accepted, you know?” He looked at her with interest, but he did not really look like he knew. “But I thought they were silly, though. Those lovers.”
”Wh - Romeo and Juliet?”
“Yes.”
”You thought they were silly?”
“Yes. Childish. Selfish.” He stared at her, wide-eyed, and put his glasses back on. She looked down, rather ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t be so honest all the time, it just made it apparent how stupid she really was. “I’m sorry.”
”Don’t be sorry. But… You did not find it romantic?”
“Oh… Was I supposed to?” He laughed.
”Well, you are a woman. And it is Shakespeare!” She just looked at him, blankly.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She had not meant to make him upset.
He studied her for a while, clearly with newfound curiosity. He seemed to relax a bit more now than before. ”Why?” he asked after a while, and Nora bit her lip. She couldn’t discuss art with such a learned man! She couldn’t discuss art at all!
“Why do I not find it romantic?”
”That too. But why are you sorry?”
“Oh!”
”Are you of the opinion that one should feel the same as everybody else, or one is wrong?” Oh, hell. What had she gotten herself into this time?
“I… think that…” She tried to read him. Was he mad at her? He looked calm, but many people did look calm even if they were mad. “No, not one. One is not wrong, but I usually am. I don’t know very much about… things. You, sir, you are probably right most of the time, even when you don’t think the same as everybody else. You seem very… knowledgeable.” His hands had long since stopped fidgeting. Now they were lying still in his lap and he cocked his head at her, looking surprised and a little sad.
”Are you afraid of me?”
“Nono, I… No.”
”Yes, you are.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
”I assure you I am not a man to be feared. I am not like my father.”
“I… know. I’m sorry.”
”Please stop that.”
“I’m sor-… Um… Allright.”
”So why did you not find it romantic? Now it was Nora’s turn to anxiously fiddle with the fabric of her clothing. ”Go on," he urged her. "I won‘t be offended, I just like to hear other people‘s opinions, and I‘ve never before met a woman who did not absolutely adore Romeo and Juliet.” Nora looked down and shook her head, cursing herself for ever having opened her mouth on the subject.
“I don‘t… know…”
“Please… Do try?” He had noticed that she was afraid and that seemed to make him feel more confident, because he took her hand and squeezed it. He knew what it meant to feel insecure and this was an opportunity for him to be the strong one for once. Nora looked up at him and found him smiling at her. She smiled back.
“Um, well…I… think that… well, to live for another person only is like… worshipping someone besides the Lord. Besides, they hardly even knew each other, really. And they were so young!” He nodded.
”But you don’t find it to be a powerful proof of their love that they could not bear to live without each other?”
“No. It’s pathetic!” she erupted, sounding a bit sharper than she had planned. “…And… choosing to die because the other person dies and you are afraid of suffering is… cowardly.”
”Are you as strict as this in real life as well, Miss Nora?”
“Hm?”
”What if someone were to tell you they could not live without you?” Nora laughed heartily, but Mr. Green continued unaffected. ”Would you simply find them pathetic?”
“No one would tell me that and mean it,” Nora assured him, recovering from her fit of laughter.
”What if they did?” he insisted. She shook her head, but he went on. ”Use your imagination, what if they did?”
“If someone could not live without me,” she smiled, pointing to herself with raised eyebrows to remind him who he was talking to. “…then yes; they surely would be the most pathetic person alive.”

He leaned back on the bench, contemplatively pinching his chin. She wanted to ask him what he thought of the play, but was not sure if she dared.
”What about other romantic tragedies then?” he wanted to know. ”Have you read…Let’s see…”
“I don’t read, sir.”
”Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Quite allright.” They were quiet for a while. He had been reminded that they came from different worlds. She could see him blush again. “I would love to,” she said. “I just never learned. I love stories, and… yes.”
”Oh!” he exclaimed, straightening up on his seat, his face bright with enthusiasm. ”I just thought of the most splendid idea! - If you would like to, that is…”
“What?”
”Well, every time we are to spend an evening together, I can bring a play or a poem or… something. And I could read it to you, and we could talk about it.”
“Oh, Mr. Green…” Nora lifted a hand to her mouth. She doubted he would really follow through with it - why on earth would a man like him want to discuss literature with someone like her? - but oh, wouldn’t that be something if he did!
”Would you like that?” She nodded, speechless. ”Really?!” He looked as excited as a small boy on Christmas. “You’re not just saying it?”
“Oh, no! I would like that very much, sir - I would love it.”
”Capital!” He took off his glasses again and polished them carefully. ”Capital,” he repeated to himself, looking very pleased - almost relieved, and he probably was, too. This would make the evenings he had to spend with her so much more comfortable for him. And it would make them extremely pleasurable for Nora. She smiled towards the fountain and again they sat in silence for a while, waiting for the time to pass.

(OOC: Nora's next post is in The Easter Ball)

(OOC: And this is inside, backstage, after the show. :) )

Alastair wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was not hot behind the stage, but neither was it cool. The electric lights were mostly out, but the residual warmth from them was still hanging around. And cranking the curtain-wheel to raise the heavy main curtain was not easy labour. He was chosen for that task specifically because he had the muscles required to do it by himself. He was raising the curtain because a weedy little man on the other side of the stage was calling at him to get it out of the way. The man was the Theatre electrician, and he was there to rewire a light-bulb damaged during the play. Alastair was only part of the vast network of people producing this run of Romeo and Juliet, but he had to do his job.

At the moment, he was feeling mutinous towards Shakespeare. He knew it wasn’t fair, not being the dead playwright’s fault, but he did wish that old Will might have left out a cousin or two in his plays. They were absolutely no good, running around mucking up things for the hero. Killing his friends. Dying in ungodly displays of suffering. Alastair wasn’t normally so against plays. He could appreciate a good romance like Romeo and Juliet. He felt that, on the whole, this production was a success. The actors were good, the story classic, and the scenery beautiful—Miss Fjelde had done a fantastic job on Juliet’s tower, it was really the most spectacular set piece in the play—and was overall quite something for the Theatre to be proud of. With only one or two exceptions.

One of those exceptions was Tybalt. It was quite amazing, the drama that some actors flung themselves about with. Was it really necessary, Alastair wondered, to die with such gusto that your sword flew into the wings and knocked the brake from the curtain-wheel, causing your stagehand to have to make a desperate grab for the ropes to prevent a premature curtain drop? And then, while said stagehand was dangling, having his arms wrenched nearly out of his sockets while only being saved from shooting up into the lofty recesses of the ceiling because he had hooked his foot around the top rim of the curtain-wheel, was it really necessary to roll around in such dire agonies that you broke one of the market vendor props? Alastair was still not sure how Tybalt had managed to knock the stage-right fourth median light-bulb out, but now the electrician had to rewire it.

The entire affair had been a disaster. Alastair, being of a scientific bent, also thought that Tybalt had rather more energy in him than a dying man should be expected to have. And the rate of blood loss which the costumers had arranged—quite excessive, that—he should have been dead five seconds after he was stabbed, with hardly the strength to destroy a market vendor by slamming against it in a rage to attempt to strangle Romeo before falling at his feet. Fortunately, Tybalt had been reprimanded for his excessive death agonies and warned to make it less excruciating next time. There was still his mess to be cleaned up from this evening, but it could be expected not to happen again.

A call came from the weedy man for him to stop, and Alastair set the brake on the wheel. The electrician finally happy with the curtains out of his way, Alastair trudged over to begin repairing the vendor stall with another stagehand. Carpentry was not his skill, but the props carpenter had two days off to attend his wife while she was in her confinement, and so they had to make do with what they could. Since the other stagehand, Vincent Graves, had some skill in the area, Alastair was mainly pounding nails where Graves told him to. What a night this had been.

Brenna followed after Bruce, and the two of them headed through the sequence of corridors on a somewhat indirect route to backstage. Bruce was a night-watchman, after all, and he had to check to be sure everything was shipshape, not to mention that it would give Brenna a chance to get ahold of herself. Her eyes were a good deal too bright, and she was stiff and tense; she needed a nice quiet spot somewhere to herself, but Bruce wouldn’t have her wandering around the theatre all by her lonesome, so she’d have to have Alastair’s company.

The hallways of the theatre were quiet, more so than simply by virtue of being empty. The carpeting on the floor and the heavy wooden panelling ate up sound, muffling their footsteps. During a performance, no one wanted noise from the rest of the theatre intruding, so everything was built to deaden sound except for the stages. It was lit by gas lamps, of which many had been turned out already; in the silence, Bruce’s normal padding gait and Brenna’s light step were unnaturally quiet.

They didn’t have much to say to one another, at least Bruce had little enough to say to her. He wasn’t going to quiz her about her reasons for being there, and so he was left to his own thoughts. She was a very young thing, or at least she seemed so, and very small and thin; huge eyes and small features gave her an almost childlike appearance. She looked even smaller in the heavy coat wrapped around her, and he felt very badly towards the miserable girl; if he could have, he would have allowed her to be by herself the way she clearly wanted to be. Or he would have liked her to be willing to share with him what was really wrong; he’d have liked to be able to do something for her. It was a fair enough chance, however, that even if he knew, there wasn’t much a night watchman could do to help.

If Bruce had been a gentleman, he would have offered Brenna his arm, but he hadn’t thought of doing that, and so without realising it he was walking a little too fast for her. He only noticed it when she was no longer beside him, and he had gotten a few feet ahead of her. Doubling back, he slowed his pace to be by her side again, and escorted her thusly until they reached the backstage area. There were a fair number of stagehands working late; Tybalt really had made a particularly bad muck of things evidently. Bruce couldn’t spot Broderick at once, but he figured that Brenna would be able to find him before long. He was sure to be around here someplace.

Without much of an idea of ceremony, he gave her a companionable nod of the head, said, "Well, it looks like there’s quite the mess to clean up here; I’m sure they’ll find something for you to do," and left her side. He had to get back to work and find that bloody girl of Mallister’s, wherever she might be hiding.

(Exit Bruce, pretty much.)

Brenna walked behind the larger Abercrombie, her face still damp and her cheeks flushed and her eyes red. Her back was erect, extremely so, as she tried to hold it so that it would be as little pain to her as possible. The first time she ever felt the bite of a switch, she had been in shambles afterwards not knowing how to holder herself to ease her pain. Then she suffered under its wrath again, and again, and a gain until finally she had the process down to a science. The point was to keep as still as possible and if the skin were broken, to prevent you clothing attaching itself to the wounds. She knew all too well how horrible it could be to have that happen, and pain that came two-fold when one tried to pry material that was stuck to a fresh wound.

She continued along in silence, a small grimace escaping her lips as a stage hand rushed past her and brushed his elbow against her back. She looked up at Abercrombie’s back hoping he hadn’t heard her reaction, nor anyone else for that matter. She could not speak of the things she suffered; she could not and would not unload such pain and worry upon another. It was not their lot and not their problem, so who would care to hear it even if she were willing to tell. No, it was better to be silent on the affairs of one’s private life, less you be a host to ridicule and gossip. She dreaded that thought, of being gossiped about, of being the punch line to some crude joke.

Brenna found herself traversing areas she had not expected to on route to lend a hand in the clean up. It would seem that Abercrombie was using his time well to see to hid duties as well as seeing her safely to a more appropriate place. Or was it that he just wanted to make sure she went where he instructed and didn’t want to waste time having to come back to go over the same areas again for his check? Either way, she was seeing much more than she had expected to and said nothing about it. She held her coat firmly in her grasp, her boots thudding along softly against the wood floors, still unlaced and barely hanging to her foot. Her boots had once belonged to one of her cousins; a girl whose foot was larger than Brenna’s and therefore swam around the girl’s foot. Nevertheless it was better than having no boots at all.

She brought a hand to her face quickly to wipe away what felt like a tear; that hand settled in her lashes and was now running down her cheeks from her blinking. They weaved between corridors, some so small that she was surprised that Bruce was able to fit himself through them, and then others that were so spacious they could have walked side-by-side. There was nothing to say, no comment she could make that could dissipate the uncomfortable silence that lay between them. She did not wish to discuss what was wrong and she could think of nothing else that Bruce would want to know about at that particular juncture. He had found her in a most unexpected time and state and it was natural for anyone to be curious about the cause. Brenna simply could not say what the cause was. It would not matter what she said, no one could help her and she was afraid of what would happen to her if she did.

There was a lengthy space between her and the night watchman, as his stride was much larger and his pace far faster than her own. He seemed so determined about what he was doing that she did not say anything to him as the gap grew larger still, but it would seem that he noticed for himself the distance between them and turned on his heels and was once again walking instep with her. She let her eyes drift up to his face as he did so but they quickly returned to facing front as they continued and finally reached backstage.

There was much more going on here than in any other part of the theatre, and Brenna was able to see for herself the disruption Tybalt had caused. She had thought his deal much too animated but had not realised the extent of the damage he had caused in the process. Her eyes scanned the faces of those who moved past her in the course of their work. She was looking elsewhere when Bruce spoke again and caused her to turn sharply to face him, the action sending a pain up her spine that was most unpleasant but that she repressed well. “Thank you again Mr. Abercrombie. I am sure they will,” she replied as he told her they were sure to find some work for her to do. “Good night,” she added to his back as he left to carry on with his duties and she remained standing on her own.

She walked towards the curtain, seeing that there was some mess to be cleared there. She grabbed a broom on her way, trying her best to look as if she were supposed to be there, despite her odd apparel. “He really did cause a mess,” she said to herself as she looked at the electrician as he attempted to fix what appeared to be a broken bulb.

Alastair hammered where Graves told him to, and only bent one nail while he was at it. Fortunately, it didn’t split the wood of the soon-to-be-repaired vendor prop, and Alastair continued following the junior (but more skilled in this area) stagehand’s directions. A couple of the newer and very much younger maids went past; each was no more than sixteen. Alastair glanced up to see if he knew them, but he didn’t so he allowed them to go past without hailing them, absently listening to the tittering conversation between them without really paying attention. However, Graves, a younger man with more hormones in him, did pay attention. They were discussing the play, or rather, the actors.
“Romeo is so handsome!”
“I know! Juliet is so lucky!”
“Although I think I’d die if I had to play the part!”
“I’d forget all my lines!”

Vincent Graves, being a man whose face would inspire no such giggling and admiration, very sourly called to the maids, “You’ll never have the chance, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
This only brought on another burst of giggling, which intensified as one of the girls noticed Alastair next to Graves and nudged her companion. Alastair was forced to pay attention to them instead of allowing them to chatter on around him while he did his work when the companion said brightly, “Good evening, Mr Broderick!”
He looked up and waved vaguely with the arm that held the hammer, “Good evening, Miss.”
Both of them broke out in giggles again, and Alastair looked at Graves bemusedly. Graves, not as completely unwilling to jump to obvious conclusions as Alastair was, shrugged sourly. Alastair shrugged back as if to say, Women are odd, eh?

Graves returned to hammering, and Alastair did as well; when they finished, they carried the mended prop back into the prop room and then Graves split off to go about his tasks while Alastair headed over to supply room to get oil for the curtain wheel. As he went, he spotted a young maid already sweeping near it, and this woman he did know. It was Miss Cleary, one of the maids at the Lindeman. She was a very bright girl; he taught her mathematics and other sciences for the very most minimal price he could without being inundated by people wanting a similar price that would eat up his time. Alastair was not a man of the opinion that mathematics should be reserved for men; but then, he was not of the habit of thinking about such things at all. His general approach to any serious study was that learning was fun, and that whomsoever took it to their head to have a like-minded opinion was perfectly welcome to join in the enjoyment, regardless of whether he was eight or eighty or even that he was actually a he. He simply never thought of restricting any kind of learning from any one.

He hailed her as he was still approaching. “How do you do, Miss Cleary! I didn’t know you were working toni…” Alastair trailed off as he came close enough to see more than just the generality of Miss Cleary’s identity and observed the specifics. Her face was, if not red, definitely tingeing on the pink side. That could have been explained away as exertion in the warmth of the backstage area, but not when coupled with reddish eyes as well. Miss Cleary had been crying. The rest of her appearance was quickly noted: She was wearing boots, untied, that were much too large for her, and a coat that, while it completely covered the top part of her dress, could not disguise that she was obviously not wearing a petticoat nor that the hem of her dress did not hang far enough below the coat hem to actually be a dress. She was wearing a nightgown, with outer clothes thrown on over it, and had been crying. She certainly was not here because she was working.

Alastair immediately took the broom from her hands, mildly but firmly, and set it aside. She shouldn’t be working when something was obviously upsetting her. Taking her hands gently, for they were good enough friends for it not to be improper, he led her to a corner where it was somewhat quieter. Concern filled both his voice and his eyes as he asked gently, “Miss Cleary, whatever is the matter? Are you all right? What has happened?”

The broom felt almost foreign in her hand as she grasped the knobbly handle and began sweeping. Swish. Swish. Swish. The rhythmic beat of the bristles against the wooden floor, repeated around her. They were distant to her mind though, so far away that they were negligible. How many times a day did she grab a broom? How many times a day did she clean up after the enjoyment of others? Why was it never her turn to just enjoy life, even in its simplest measure? Here at the theatre it was the same, she swept the floors, brushed the chairs and sometimes had the most unpleasant duty of cleaning up the remnants of some lovers tryst. It was menial, it was arduous but at least at the end of it all she got her small paycheque as consolation, at home there was no such prize to work towards.

At her aunt’s home she swept the floor and washed it. She cleaned shoes and mended laundry. She cooked the meals and cleaned up after they were finished. She dusted and repaired where she could, and yet after all she did not once did she hear a kind word from anyone. In fact it seemed she only infuriated them by completing her work in a timely manner. She could never do anything right in their eyes.

She continued the monotone of her sweeping, her mind so far away from her current surroundings that she entirely missed the animated chatter of some of her fellow maids as they passed close to her location. She did not even see Alastair at work or else she might have tried to clean herself up more or hide from him.

Alastair Broderick was her friend, for all events and purposes. He taught her mathematics and science for pennies compared to what he could charge for her lessons, and she never missed a class. He was kind and patient and understanding about her education, or the lack of it. Unlike some, Brenna did not giggle in his presence or at the sight of him, on the contrary her reaction was completely the opposite. She grew quiet and somewhat nervous around him. Her eyes lit up and yes she did smile, but she was not a silly girl who dotted her sentences with giggles. She liked him to think her serious, for she was serious about the things they spoke about; work and maths and science. He was an educated man who Brenna knew could never see her as more than some poor illiterate girl who came to him for lessons, but still she was hopeful to think he considered her a friend. However at that moment Alastair was the furthest thing from her mind.

She wandered towards the older male’s direction, never noticing him and not doing so intentionally in an attempt to get his attention. She was simply following the dirt trail. Her shoes thudded softly with each step she took yet she didn’t stop to tie them, they were large and cumbersome but for the moment they could have been lead weights and she would not have noticed. She was busy trying to protect her sore and wounded back while simultaneously carrying on about her business unnoticed. She thought she was doing a good job of it, no one had noticed her or spoken to her since Bruce had left, which was a good sign. No one noticing meant no one saw her apparel for what it was and had cause to question. Then a voice called her name.

Brenna heard her name and stopped, her mind seeming to slow as she recognised the voice and what it was asking. “How do you do, Miss Cleary! I didn’t know you were working toni…” His voice faltered at the last but she knew who it was all too well. It was Alastair. What was he doing there? Working of course don’t be silly, she scolded herself mentally. She looked at his face, hers still red and puffy and only slightly moist around her red eyes. Her lips parted in a failed attempt to say something as her eyes met his and she realised he noticed their state. She averted her eyes immediately and tried to think of something to say, when she felt his hand grasp her broom and gently relieve her of it. she did not protest, but followed him as he led her away, her eyes searching to see if prying eyes followed them.

In a quiet corner he stopped and taking her hands in his he spoke. “Miss Cleary, whatever is the matter? Are you all right? What has happened?” Brenna looked at Alastair, the sadness in her eyes at his question despite her attempts to hide it. “I…” she began but she had yet to come up with a story to tell. The fib she had used with Bruce Abercrombie would never work on one such as Alastair, she had to think of something else, but the question was what. Her heart had stopped as he held her hands, such actions only reserved for those of a close acquaintance and one rarely shared between those except for the instance of dance, where it was proper and fitting.

“I had an accident but I am fine now,” she said softly. She was lying to him and it made her feel horrid to do so, but she could not tell him the truth. Alastair would never understand. “Really,” she added trying to convince him. She hoped she could convince him.

Miss Cleary looked at Alastair, her eyes sad, and he waited for her to tell him what the matter was. Alastair was nothing if not patient; he would not press, but simply wait until she found the words to say. She stammered, “I…” Alastair merely smiled gently and encouragingly at this slightly less-than-informative trailed-off sentence. Many people found it was difficult to say what caused them to lose their composure—he was even one of them, himself—and so he said nothing, only waiting, concerned. After a moment, she continued softly, “I had an accident but I am fine now.” Alastair’s eyes briefly scanned her face, taking in the residual inflammation indicative of recent crying, and she seemed to notice and think he needed more reassurance, because she added earnestly, “Really.”

Alastair was not the sort of person to suspect a friend of lying to him. Indeed, he was the sort of person who thought that everyone was telling him the truth, as a default assumption. He would only believe that someone might be lying to him after an extensive history of proven lies. Since Miss Cleary was both a friend and also had never, as far as he knew, lied to him, he never even thought about the possibility that she was not being entirely honest. She said she had had an accident; of course she had had an accident. However, the solicitude on his face did not lessen. She had been in some sort of accident, but he could think of a number of horrible accidents that she might have had. She might even be facing repercussions from her accident—had she ruined something beyond repair? What had the accident been?—and although not crying any more, she might still be not all right.

After all, when Alastair had gotten the news of his father’s death, he had assured everyone that he was fine, even though he wasn’t. And even if Miss Cleary was completely recovered from her accident, the fact remained that she was still a young woman in a nightgown not sufficiently covered by outer clothing, and would have to get home. It would not be safe for her to walk home alone like that, especially with the reports of ghastly murders in the papers revealing that there was a killer on the loose. It occurred to Alastair then that he did not know how far from the Theatre Miss Cleary lived; it might be a very long, very dangerous walk for her. He could of course not permit her to go alone. That would be the height of incivility, especially towards a friend. There was her safety to be looked after… and he still was not entirely sure that she really was all right.

So, concerned but guileless, he said, “I am so sorry about your accident, Miss Cleary. Are you quite certain you are all right now? You seem perhaps a trifle upset still. Is there anything I can do for you? You must at least allow me to escort you home; you cannot work like this and it would not be safe for you to go alone.” Here, it did not occur to him that perhaps she might not want his help; he was her friend, and she his. Of course if she needed anything, any help, he was someone she could ask for it from. Alastair was not familiar with the idea of a person hiding anything from his friends because he wished them to think better of them; he was familiar with not wanting to be a burden to them, and hiding things for that reason, but Miss Cleary, of course, could not have anything to tell him that would be a burden to him, since they would think of a solution for her troubles. Nothing was insolvable (except for his father’s death, pointed out his mind, which was why he hadn’t told anyone about it).

He noticed something else, standing there with her hands in his, and was compelled to comment on it. “Your hands are terribly cold, Miss Cleary.” She must not have gloves with her, otherwise she would have been wearing them already. So he made the only gesture open to him as a friend and a gentlemen; he pulled his own heavy work-gloves, the ones he used while hauling on the ropes, from his pocket, and offered them to her. “Use my gloves, if you haven’t yours.”