“Please, take a seat,” I say to her, careful to choose a chair across the table. Frederick ends up next to Candace, and I begin. “The costumer will measure the cast next week. If you have any special requests, you may tell her then.”
“Requests?” Candace asks.
“Carianna detests the feel of lace. Another actress I work with cannot bear collars that are tight on her throat.”
“One was intimidated by buttons,” Frederick says. “Remember that, Alex?”
Candace laughs. “Afraid of buttons?”
“The doctor called it koumpounophobia. She trembles at the sight of them.”
It was a wardrobe nightmare.
“I assure you, I am not afraid of buttons,” Candace says. “Nor do I have an aversion to lace or high collars.”
Frederick laughs. “A relief, to be certain.”
I then proceed to inform her about schedules and other minute details, dreading the real reason for the private meeting.
“And lastly, it’s time I introduce you to your counterpart. I’ve double-cast the role. You’ll be acting the part of Allora, and Sabine will be singing from backstage.”
Candace blinks at me. “Excuse me?”
“It’s all very standard,” I assure her in a rush.
Candace looks at Frederick for confirmation. He merely smiles, shrugging as if to say, “How would I know?”
“You, of course, will be on stage,” I assure her.
“Will she be listed in the playbill?”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
Candace twists her fingers in her lap, looking like she’s about to cry. “I don’t know… You didn’t mention it before…”
“Why don’t you meet Sabine?” Frederick suggests. “Perhaps that will put you at ease.”
“I don’t understand,” Candace says to me, ignoring Frederick. “If this woman sings so well, why didn’t you cast her in the part?”
“Because you’re perfect for the Lady of Prothero,” Frederick insists. “And your acting was impeccable.”
She scowls at her once-beau. “But apparently, I can’t sing.”
“Candie,” Frederick says soothingly, jerking his head subtly to tell me to give them a minute.
Trusting Frederick to take care of it, I step outside the room. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the wall, plagued with guilt.
“Mr. Devereaux,” a female someone says from directly in front of me. “Lydia and I spoke, and I believe I should play the constable’s daughter, and she should take my part as the third muse. Since the rehearsal hasn’t technically started, could we switch and see how you like us in the new roles?”
“Beatrice,” I say with feigned patience, cracking open one eye. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Yes, Mr. Devereaux.” The actress retreats with a hasty curtsy. “The third muse is fine.”
A few minutes later, Frederick steps out of the room. With a sigh, he stands in front of me. “Candace has come around to the idea.”
“How did you manage it?”
“By reminding her it would be a shame to deprive the people of a chance to see her on the stage because of a silly matter such as whether or not she can sing.”