Page 43 of A Snowfall of Silver

“It’ll be fun,” says Alma, her eyes shining. “An adventure.”

“I think you’ll find it all quite snug,” Mr Pennington says, eyeing Viola coldly. “The theatre is a very special little place. In fact, why don’t I give you a tour?”

He leads us through the foyer and deeper into the theatre, talking all the while.

Alma and I bring up the back of the group. “So?” she asks. “What do you think?”

“I agree with you.” I wriggle in excitement. “Camping out in a theatre. What an adventure!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

It turns out Mr Pennington is quite right; the theatre is special. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I had wondered what it was that was bringing us to this small coastal town, but as we begin to look around I find that now I understand Mr Cantwell’s affection for it completely.

The Theatre Royale is a tiny, perfect chocolate box of a theatre, built – Mr Pennington informs us – in the 1780s. The boxes that line the wall of the auditorium are painted a pale, mint green, and are embellished with golden scroll work. The seats in the stalls are opulent green velvet, and the walls are painted a blushing peach colour. The ceiling is covered in a painted fresco of a swirling sunrise, and suspended from the centre is an elaborate golden chandelier that shimmers with the promise of mellow morning light.

The stage is slightly smaller than we have worked on before, and surrounded by swagged green curtains. The complete impression is one of delicious folly, as though the whole theatre has been constructed on a whim, like an oversized dolls’ house for grown-ups to play in. Even Viola’s frown vanishes, and she looks as enchanted by it as I feel.

The backstage area is less interesting, but scrupulously neat and clean. The dressing rooms at the back, being near the boiler, are deliciously warm, and I think we will be quite snug and cosy here.

Several boys appear muffled in thick coats, obviously drafted in by Mr Pennington, dragging camp beds which we set up in the dressing rooms, laden with thick quilts and downy pillows, donated by various generous townspeople. It almost feels like a dormitory. Nora, Alma, Viola and I will be sleeping in one room, and the boys in the other.

Russ and Kit arrive with the last of our bags, windswept and cheerful, and we scatter to unpack and make things as comfortable as possible. I can hear Dan next door, singing an Al Bowlly tune in his rich baritone.

Hubert Pennington returns with supplies – candles, bread, jam, butter, a whole carefully wrapped fruit cake and a crate of gently clinking bottles that contain – according to the handwritten labels – home-made ginger beer and elderflower wine.

“We are going to have quite the midnight feast later,” I say, and Alma squeezes my hand.

Now that the cold has worn off, I’m not sure there could be anything nicer than being snowed in at this little theatre. I was never sent away to school, but this is always how I imagined it might be. There’s something about all this, the unexpectedness of it, the feeling of magic, that makes me feel like a young child.

“This is a first,” Nora says, sitting on her bed with her back against the wall. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never slept in a theatre before. This will be a story you can tell one day, Freya.”

I hug myself tight. “It does feel like being dropped into the middle of a story, doesn’t it?”

“How long do you think we are going to be stuck here in limbo?” Viola asks, plonking herself in front of one of the mirrors and fiddling with her hair.

Nora shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. We can’t go anywhere until the road clears. We’re due to perform here for the next three nights – tonight is obviously cancelled, but who knows what we’ll wake up to? It could all be back to normal tomorrow.”

I hope not, I think.

The boys drift into our room. “Shall we investigate this wine, then?” says Russ.

I feel a light, familiar touch on my shoulder.

“Do you want to go and explore?” Kit asks.

“I’ve been waiting for you to turn up,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We slip out of the room, leaving Viola and Russ arguing over the bottles. I think Alma is the only one to notice us leave, but then she’s a noticing sort of person.

We leave the dressing rooms behind and step into the heavy silence of the theatre. It’s strange, this silence, in a place that would usually be filled with such noise and energy; it leaves us creeping quietly, talking only in hushed tones.

Behind one door we discover what must be the wardrobe department, filled with rails of costumes.

“Kit, look at these,” I exclaim, the excitement in my voice splintering the quiet, my hand trailing over the dresses. Some of them look a hundred years old. “Nora is going to be in heaven.”

There are dresses, tissue light, like something spun by fairy magic, rich velvets in jewel tones, rippling silks in every colour of the rainbow. There are gowns that flash, heavy with glass stones that weigh a ton, and elaborate frock coats made of swirling jacquard or severe black silk, delicately embroidered.

I reach out and stroke a stiff apricot silk gown shot through with gold, that looks like something Marie Antoinette would wear. “Viola would look so beautiful in this,” I say, without thinking, imagining how the simple neckline and elegant lines would suit her.