As she watched act two, Madge and the witches danced around a cauldron as the witch plotted the Sylph’s demise, creating a magic veil that would kill her. Mildred as Madge gave it to James, who was delighted, believing that it would bind the Sylph to him forever. In the forest, James and his Sylph danced. Maggie watched Sarah, now in the corps of sylphs, her technique flawless as always.
When James caught the Sylph around her waist and bound her hands as Madge showed him, the Sylph died, wilting in his arms like the last white rose of autumn, delicate and impossibly fragile. Madge had her victory, and James was heartbroken.
The curtain closed.
Really? Maggie thought as she applauded with all her heart. She’d loved seeing Sarah dance, but found it all too sad to bear. Really, in the midst of war, can’t we please have a happy ending? If only on the stage? Curse the witches of the world …
The curtain reopened and the corps took their curtseys. Maggie applauded so hard for Sarah her gloved palms stung. The lead dancers all took their turn. Finally, it was Estelle’s time in the spotlight. Smiling, she floated to the front of the stage. The dancer playing James presented her with a bouquet of red roses, which she took in her arms, plucking out one and giving it back to him.
Then she pulled out another blossom. She threw it at Richard Atholl, down in the orchestra pit. The crowd went wild as the conductor caught the rose and blew her a kiss. Estelle stood completely still in the center of the stage as the applause continued to thunder, and a few voices in the first ring cried, “Brava! Bravissima!”
As Maggie watched, a shadow passed over Atholl’s face. He spun around on the conductor’s podium and held out the flower. A stocky older woman with a round face in a black silk dress took it, unsmiling. Maggie guessed she was his wife.
And then, as the applause continued to build and the roars of Brava! began in earnest, Estelle crumpled to the stage floor in a heap of satin and tulle.
Chapter Seven
As the theater’s curtain closed with a billow of red velvet, the audience erupted: My goodness, what happened? Do you think she’s ill? Poor thing—much too thin, you know …
Maggie grabbed her pocketbook and made her way to a door at the side of the stage. She walked up a flight of stairs to the backstage area, dark and cramped, filled with ballet barres covered in hastily thrown-off sweaters and leg warmers, a broken mirror, and a box of rosin in the corner. The air was pungent with sweat and perfume.
When she reached the stage, it was clear the company was in complete chaos. Estelle was still lying on the floor. A tall man in tweeds, who seemed to be a doctor, was taking her pulse and shouting, “She needs an ambulance! An ambulance, damn you!” Burly stagehands in black hung back awkwardly in the wings, glancing at one another, unsure what to do. The atmosphere, charged with adrenaline from the performance, was now tinged with fear.
Atholl had also made his way backstage. The conductor went to Estelle and knelt beside her, pressing her limp white hand to his cheek, oblivious to the dancers and stagehands swirling around them.
Maggie tried to find Sarah among the throng of sylphs. Throng of sylphs? Exaltation of sylphs? Murder of sylphs? she wondered, scanning the dancers. They were all slim, graceful, and wearing white tulle and gossamer fairy wings, their faces painted in Kabuki-like exaggerated makeup. Maggie couldn’t tell one from the other.
Then one called her name, in a low voice of whiskey and honey. “Maggie!”
She knew the voice. Only it was lower and huskier than usual, followed by a deep, rattling cough. Yes! That sylph was Sarah—Maggie recognized her dark eyes immediately. But while they were lovely as always, they were also strained and frightened. Maggie ran to her and they embraced. Sarah smelled of her usual clove cigarettes and L’Heure Bleue.
“My goodness,” Maggie exclaimed. “I do hope she’s all right.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, kitten.” Sarah was thinner, even thinner than the last time they had seen each other, in London. While the outline of the delicate bones of Sarah’s sternum were visible up close, her arms were still wiry with visible tendons and strong muscles.
“For heaven’s sake, when is the ambulance going to arrive?” Sarah muttered, starting to unpin her flowered headpiece. Estelle still had not moved. “Our stage manager said he’d called for one!”
“Has she been sick?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered, putting one graceful hand to her bony chest and coughing softly. “But then again, it’s late autumn in Scotland—with the cold and damp in the theater and the hotel, who isn’t sick these days? I never thought she’d dance tonight. Which is why I invited you.”