Page 109 of A Rare Find

“Butchery!” Mr. Arbuthnot reared back. “I have heard the bard abused, mangled, put on the rack, but you, my child, you have disemboweled him with a truncheon.”

Elf was pressing her fingers to her throat, a smile spilling off her face.

“I know the bard will recover.” Her voice shook but only slightly. “You and your company give him new life every night.” She gazed at Mr. Arbuthnot, and then out at the dozen players, all staring back at her. She was shaking visibly now, but she continued. “So would Georgie Bowen there. If you need a new player to help you captivate the public, look no further.”

Every pair of eyes swung to Georgie.

There was only one pair that they saw. Deep as the sea. Deep as their love.

Help.

“I can even fence,” they said, forcing themself to focus on Mr. Arbuthnot.

“In that case”—the manager pinched the bridge of his nose—“Tybalt. And if you prove yourself tolerable, I’ll engage you for Manchester.”

Georgie grunted as Sally, Charlotte, and Louisa rocketed into them. They went down under a giggling pile of congratulations.

“Zounds,” they breathed, as they struggled upright, grinning in all directions. “I am peppered.”

“That’s my line,” said Mr. Garnet, mildly.

“We’ll rehearse in the morning.” Mr. Arbuthnot lumbered to his feet. “Is that a sea monster?”

It was Roscoe, back in the pond. Georgie charged after him, and so did Sally, Charlotte, and Louisa, shrieking, and Phipps, with a mighty yawp. Georgie’s steps slowed as the water pushed on their legs and pulled on their shift, and they dove. When they surfaced, they could hear Mr. Arbuthnot’s distant voice. He was singing a ballad about Robin in the greenwood, derry derry downs floating on the air, growing fainter as the wagon creaked away through the trees.

Georgie emerged from the pond, all chattering teeth and racing thoughts. There was no one on the bank. They wrapped themself in their discarded Roman habit and padded to the willow.

“I’ve never been here at night,” said Elf, as though in explanation, as they ducked through the fronds, relief coursing through them to find her there.

“Me either.” They sat next to her, resting their damp head on her shoulder. The air was warmer in this curtained place and smelled of green growing things. A breeze whispered through the leaflets.

“I think I’d like being anywhere with you,” they said. “Even that cave was delightful, in retrospect.”

She laughed. “No, it wasn’t.”

“This is more delightful.” They sighed. “You were wonderful tonight.”

“You forgive me my crime against Shakespeare?”

“You spoke in front of a whole crowd of strangers. It was as bold as when you attacked the bandit, who turned out to be me, but never mind. It was bolder even.”

“You hummed.”

“I know. I’m a twit.”

“I hummed.” She said this with all the surprise she must have felt still there in her voice. “I knew I was embarrassing myself, so I didn’t dread embarrassing myself. Somehow that helped. And my vocal cords weren’t waiting for my brain anymore. That helped too.”

“It’s the twit’s creed. Speak first. Think never.”

Her shoulder made a small, exasperated movement. “You’re not a twit.”

They lifted their head. “You wouldn’t give me so much credit last time. Have I risen in your esteem?” They couldn’t determine anything about her expression, only that her face was turned toward them.

“Thank you,” she said, after a pause. “For humming.”

“Thank you.” They reached out slowly, until their fingers touched her jaw. “For what you said about me. I’m not going with them, of course. But thank you.”

“Not going.” Her tone was as unreadable as her face.