“So, what is the show, exactly?”
“It’s music and lights, like the c-crazy old guy said. That doesn’t describe it well enough, though. It’s hard t-to explain. Good news is, you’re about to s-see for yourself.” Twitch grinned and nodded toward someone near the stage.
There were three people who did not appear to belong to the slums stepping onto the platform. The first was a woman all in black who took a seat on the stool. In front of her sat a huge instrument that looked like a fiddle but made three times larger. She stood it on the ground in front of her and held the bow in her other hand. She had a rather wide face, and her black hair was pulled back into a tight knot, giving her a severe look when coupled with her stern expression.
The second was a man in a fine brown coat and plumed hat, who made a point to pat the back of every person he passed on the way to the dais. He had a thin goatee, one that might have been mistaken for being penciled on if it had not jutted out from his chin. His boots jingled when he walked; the buckles seemed to wink in the torchlight.
The third person was the strangest of the three: they were wearing a very heavy fur coat that obscured the shape of their body. Their head was wrapped in a very long scarf with only a thin slit at the eyes for the sake of its wearer’s vision. All of this prevented identification as either a man or a woman. This person did not speak to anyone as he—she?—stepped up to the platform.
When all three were onstage, the man in the feather hat raised his gloved hands and waved the crowd closer. When he spoke, the crowd immediately quieted.
“Come one, come all! Gather around for a repeat performance of The Tales of Beuford Hall. For those who have yet to see this humble show of ours, we say ‘Welcome!’ To those who are coming back for more, we say ‘Welcome back!’” He flashed a toothy grin and winked to the crowd at large. His voice was deep and booming. He reminded Skate of some of the hucksters she’d seen selling oils and unguents to crowds before skipping town the next day. For some reason, that didn’t cause her to distrust him. “The Tales are thrillers, don’t you doubt, but you’re in for a treat this evening, ladies and gentlemen. For not only shall the stories be told—by none other than yours truly, Carsen Tillby,” he said with a bow and a flourish, “but they shall be accompanied by music provided by the lovely Miss Amanda, and images—moving images—designed and created by the inestimable Kibo the Magnificent!” At each of their introductions, the other performers acknowledged their parts: Amanda played a flourish on her instrument, which resonated with a deep, rich echo, and Kibo flashed lights and smoke out of her—his?—sleeves. “I must warn you, dear people,” Tillby continued, his deep voice growing serious, “that the Tales are sometimes dark and dreadful; and if you’ve not the stomach for such fare, you should depart before the story begins—else, you may find yourself too engaged to leave!”
His eyes roved over the crowd. No one left. He didn’t expect them to, Skate thought as his winning grin showed itself again. “You’ve been warned. Without further ado, make yourself as comfortable as you may, and prepare to enjoy The Tales of Beuford Hall!” He clapped his hands, and immediately, Miss Amanda began to draw her bow across the strings and Kibo brushed smoke and lights out of his or her sleeves. The light took shape in the sky, creating a young couple in a field.
The next thing Skate knew about the show was that it was over. The audience was showing its appreciation through applause, which was all such a crowd could hope to offer. She shook her head and joined in the clapping.
She was standing as she had been before the show started. She didn’t know what had happened, other than that the show had gone on for some time (some of the torches were burning very low, and drifts of snow had formed on the ground), and that she’d loved every minute of it. Tillby was thanking the crowd repeatedly, and had swung the plumed hat off his head into a deep bow. He began to shake the hands of those nearest the stage—people who were reaching out to him, hoping to get a handshake or even just to touch him. Kibo and Amanda did not go toward the crowd at all, but stood and sat respectively, both impassive and unnoticed.
Skate shook her head again and stopped clapping. What was the story? Who were the people in the field? Beside her, Twitch was still clapping and whooping along with the crowd. There was something familiar about the feeling she had, but it was slipping away like a dream in the morning. She lifted her head and focused on Miss Amanda. What was the music like? She couldn’t remember any of it. She tried to hum a tune from the show and couldn’t come up with anything. She only knew she’d liked it.
Skate stood and tugged on Twitch’s sleeve. He continued whooping and clapping, as did most of the rest of the crowd, so she pulled on his shoulder to bring his ear to her mouth. “What was it about?”
He shook his head, his gleeful expression unchanged, and continued clapping. Skate also shook her head, but did not resume clapping. How could she remember nothing of it? How could the music have been good—so good that she was sure she’d never heard anything like it—but she couldn’t remember the smallest bit of any tune played? The story, too, had been something incredible, but she knew nothing about it. How could that be? And images! No one in the history of performing had crafted such magical illusions!
But what had they been?
This didn’t make sense, and she didn’t trust any of it. Twitch had finally stopped his applause as Tillby and the others dismounted the stage, moving roughly together through the thinnest part of the crowd. Twitch was laughing, and he put a hand to his eye to wipe away wetness that had developed there. Something is wrong. Skate had known this boy for the better part of four years, but had never so much as seen his eyes water, either in mirth or in misery. She didn’t try saying anything to him, but moved to where the performers were trying to push through their chosen patch of people. Tillby was glad-handing, all smiles and compliments to the paupers who were eager to meet him and thank him. Several of the women were batting eyes and adjusting sleeves. A little ahead of Tillby, the other two performers were making much quicker progress, ignoring the sparse words of thanks and admiration that came their way.
Skate jostled through the crowd toward them. “Hey, hey!” she shouted when she got near, having shouldered past a handful of people who’d given up on meeting Tillby and were dispersing into the dark paths of the slums. “Hey!” The third shout got Miss Amanda’s attention, and she sneered when she saw who was shouting at her. She and Kibo quickened their pace into the dark. Skate reacted in kind, and soon overtook the pair. She tugged on Miss Amanda’s black dress hem, and the woman finally stopped and faced her.
“What do you want?” Her wide face was fixed in an expression of irritation. Kibo, who had seemed not to have heard Skate before this point, turned to watch the exchange between the musician and the young girl.
Skate noticed with a jolt of vague surprise that she still couldn’t see the eyes within the scarf. “What was it?”
“What was what?” Miss Amanda’s voice was low and unrefined, a voice of a woman who’d lived in spare conditions all her life.
“What was the show?”
Miss Amanda looked to Kibo, who turned to return her glance, before both returned their attention to Skate. “It was called The Tales of Beuford Hall. Check back tomorrow for another performance. Tomorrow will be our last one for at least a season.”