Page 12 of A Snowfall of Silver

I look down, and Mr Cantwell is leaning forward, his elbows on the back of the chair in front of him. His expression is completely inscrutable.

“A very unusual scene choice,” he says at last. “Why did you choose it?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Strange not to do a monologue.”

I feel heat rising in my cheeks. “I didn’t think,” I manage weakly. “At home I often play all the parts. I suppose it was a little…”

“Bizarre,” says Mr Cantwell.

“Oh.”

There is a pause. “It was … interesting,” he says at last, delivering this most lukewarm praise grudgingly. “You are obviously untrained, but it’s possible you have an instinct. There’s a certain … watchable quality.”

“A watchable quality,” I repeat, excitement rising in me. The words sound so beautiful ringing in my ears. Rhys Cantwell thinks I have a watchable quality.

Again, he gives me a long, cold look, and then he returns his attention to the sheaf of papers, shifting the pages in his hands.

“Take her to see Miss Meriden,” he says, without lifting his eyes. “She may be able to help. And while you’re there, tell her I want to know when my thrice-blasted spectacles will be fixed so that she can have these monstrosities back.”

It seems these words are directed at Kit because he reappears from the side of the stage where – to be completely honest – I had forgotten all about him. He is still carrying Lou’s good coat over one arm and he quickly shepherds me off the stage and back into the cool, waiting darkness of the wings.

“Oh,” I gasp, the word coming out almost a sob. “Oh, oh, oh. Did that actually happen?”

“D’you mean, did you just perform in front of Rhys Cantwell and live to tell the tale?” Kit lifts a brow. “Yes, you did.”

“Was it… Was I…” I trail off uncertainly.

“You were good,” Kit says. “It was certainly something, seeing you switch between characters like that.” He grins at my worried face. “Honestly, it was good. He would have told you if it wasn’t. You can count on that.”

“He said it was bizarre.”

Kit chuckles. “It was a bit, but it caught his attention. Trust me, he liked you. Why else would he tell me to take you to Miss Meriden?”

“Who is Miss Meriden?” I ask.

“She’s his assistant.” Kit is guiding me back through the warren of the back of the theatre. We come to a stop in front of one of the doors, and Kit knocks lightly.

“Come in,” a voice calls.

CHAPTER SEVEN

My first impression of Miss Meriden is one of particular neatness. Her face, her features, her clothes are all as neat as the room we are standing in.

The room is a very tiny and beautifully organized office with a desk, a couple of chairs, and several tall filing cabinets. She is, I would guess, in her middle fifties, with dark hair pulled back into a severe knot and a grey tweed skirt and jacket worn over a silk blouse the colour of milky coffee. She looks up, and seeing Kit, her eyebrows rise.

“Well, Christopher,” she says to him, “what troubles have you brought to my door today?”

“No troubles,” Kit replies. “We got the issue with the set pieces resolved as you suggested. He wasn’t totally happy, but then, when is he?”

“He likes things the way he likes them.” Miss Meriden’s voice is firm. “And ours is not to question why.” Her keen brown eyes turn on me. “And who do we have here?”

“This is Freya Trevelyan.”

I hold out my hand and Miss Meriden shakes it. Even her handshake is brisk and efficient.

“Mr Cantwell has just seen her audition piece.”