Page 19 of A Snowfall of Silver

“I suppose I am,” I agree finally, surprised by something I’ve never considered. “I’ve always known what I wanted to do, and it never occurs to me that I might fail – that’s being self-assured, isn’t it?”

Nora laughs. “The dreams we have as children feel very certain. I suppose if you hold on to a dream from childhood then it carries that same feeling of certainty.”

I’m quiet at that. She’s right; being an actress is such a long-held dream, it has become a part of me, like my blonde hair or my dislike of licorice. I feel briefly uneasy for some reason, but then I shake it off. I am working in Rhys Cantwell’s production. All I have to do is prove myself to him, and the future will unfurl itself like a fat, beautiful peony. I’m sure of it.

Finally, the car rounds another corner and pulls up in front of an old wrought-iron double gate.

“Hop out and open that,” Nora says, and I do as I’m told. I pull the latches from the ground and open both sides of the gate. The van rattles past me, and I turn to take in the building behind me.

I am standing in a small walled courtyard where a couple of cars are already parked. One of them is Russ’s shiny red car, and it’s no surprise that he beat us here. The crumbling stone walls are covered in tangled vines, already looking skeletal and wintery. The building at the back of the courtyard is tall and thin, with lots of windows, and a slightly lopsided front porch. It looks as though it has seen better days.

Nora jumps down from the van, dusting her hands off, and comes to help me close the gates back up. “Here we are,” she says. “It doesn’t look like much, but they’re fairly decent digs. The woman who owns it used to be an opera singer and she takes us in for a bit of extra cash. She likes theatre types, so she doesn’t tend to mind if things get a little rowdy in the evenings, and she makes an excellent fry-up in the morning.”

“Are the others here?” I ask.

“Some of them, by the looks of things.” Nora starts shepherding me towards the front door. “Of course Rhys and Eileen won’t be staying here – they get put up in a hotel.” She reaches up and pulls at a bell, which I hear echoing beyond the door.

The staccato clipping of footsteps across the floor follows shortly after, and the door swings open, revealing a large, smiling woman in her sixties, swathed in a long red gown and clutching a mostly empty cocktail glass.

“Nora, darling!” she exclaims, her words ringing through the air with the perfect clarity one might expect from an opera singer.

“Hallo, Del.” Nora leans forward to kiss the woman on both cheeks. “Meet my new assistant, Freya. Freya, this is Adelaide.”

“Just call me Del.” She beams at me, her mouth a slash of scarlet lipstick. “Now do come in, it’s far too cold to be standing out on the doorstep.”

The inside of the house is exactly as I had imagined, dark and worn, and a bit of a warren. The walls are covered in framed posters, faded with age, and advertising operatic performances starring Adelaide St James. This, then, will be our home for the next three days.

Del is already off, leading us on a brisk tour, rattling off the information as though she’s shared it many times before.

“This through here is the kitchen,” Del gestures. “There’s gin in the pantry.” Then, after pause, “And milk, I think.” She carries on down the long hallway. “Here’s the sitting room, where folks tend to gather in the evening, post-performance.” The room is large, and contains a battered upright piano, several faded floral sofas, a record player, a large ceramic bulldog with a bowler sitting drunkenly on his head, and a bookcase that is full of empty wine bottles.

“Quite a few of your lot have arrived already. That girl, Viola, well, she’s quite the attraction, isn’t she? That hair and those eyes … very exotic. I wonder where she got those looks from.”

I think Del means the words as a compliment, but there’s something about the gleeful, hushed way she talks about Viola that makes me feel uncomfortable, even though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

Nora doesn’t reply and Del continues to rattle on as she leads us up the stairs. “And there’s Russ, of course – he’s been here before, asked if he could have his old room, that sweet boy.” Her face is pleased and rosy as she drains the last of the drink in her hand. “I’ve put you in your usual room, Nora,” she says. “And you,” she glances at me and I am suddenly struck by the unusual amber colour of her eyes, “you’re in here with … Alma! That’s it. Nice girl. Bit quiet.”

Del taps lightly on the door and without waiting for a response flings it open. Inside are two wrought-iron single beds with a small strip of faded blue rug between them. Sitting on one of the beds with a book in her hands is a girl about the same age as me.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in,” Del says and leaves with Nora in her wake.

“Hello,” I say a little awkwardly. “I’m Freya.”

“Alma.” The girl gets to her feet. She is tall and slender, with pansy blue eyes that study me carefully, and slightly mousy blonde hair. She is dressed simply, in a soft blue dress. Her face is rather long and serious, but sweet – like a painting of a saint. She looks as though she should be surrounded by woodland creatures, resting her hand on the head of a slumbering fawn. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice is low and musical, and it matches her face.

“Same here.” I step into the room and hold out my hand, which she shakes. “I’m the new wardrobe assistant.”

“I’m the understudy,” Alma replies.

Of course. Alma is understudying the roles of Cecily and Gwendolyn on the assumption that both actresses are unlikely to be off at the same time – more of the budget cuts Miss Meriden shakes her head over. Like Eileen, I haven’t run into Alma at the theatre yet. “So you’re an actress,” I say with interest, taking a seat on the bed across from hers.

“Trying to be,” Alma shrugs, attempting to affect a nonchalance that doesn’t quite come off. “This is my first tour, though.”

“Mine too!” I exclaim. “Although really it’s my first anything – I’ve barely even been away from home before, and it was absolute blind luck that I ended up here, I can tell you.”

Alma sits back down on the bed and pulls her knees up to her chest, toying with her long braid of blonde hair. “I expect you were hoping to be rooming with someone who could show you the ropes?”

“I’d much rather have a friend I could muddle through it with,” I say.