She must be here in this theater for a reason. Her soul had drawn her here; why?
She pushed through the crowd, moving along the side of the amphitheater until she could see the stage. The wooden planks had been covered with a thick, hemplike matting made to look like rough grass. Two full-sized cannons stood like guards near either wing, and a row of potted orange trees lined the back wall. Not far from Luce, a rickety wooden ladder led to a curtained space: the tiring-room--she remembered from the acting class she'd taken with Callie--where the actors got into their costumes and prepared for their scenes.
Wait! Bill called as she hurried up the ladder.
Behind the curtain, the room was small and cramped and dimly lit. Luce passed stacks of manuscripts and open wardrobes full of costumes, ogling a massive lion's-head mask and rows of hanging gold and velvet cloaks. Then she froze: Several actors were standing around in various stages of undress--boys with half-buttoned gowns, men lacing up brown leather boots. Thankfully, the actors were busily powdering their faces and frantically rehearsing lines, so that the room was filled with short shouted-out fragments of the play.
Before any of the actors could look up and see her, Bill flew to Luce's side and pushed her into one of the wardrobes. Clothes closed around her.
What are you doing? she asked.
Let me remind you that you're an actor in a time when there are no actresses. Bill frowned. You don't belong back here as a woman. Not that that stopped you. Your past self took some pretty grand risks to get herself a role in All Is True.
All Is True? Luce repeated. She'd been hoping she would at least recognize the title. No such luck. She peeked out of the wardrobe into the room.
You know it as Henry the Eighth, Bill said, yanking her back by the collar. But pay attention: Would you like to venture a guess as to why your past self would lie and disguise herself to land a role--
Daniel.
He'd just come into the tiring-room. The door to the yard outside was still open behind him; the sun was at his back. Daniel walked alone, reading a handwritten script, hardly noticing the other players around him. He looked different than he had in any of her other lives. His blond hair was long and a bit wavy, gathered with a black band at the nape of his neck. He had a beard, neatly trimmed, just a bit darker in color than the hair on his head.
Luce felt an urge to touch it. To caress his face and run her fingers through his hair and trace the back of his neck and touch every part of him. His white shirt gaped open, showing the clean line of muscles on his chest. His black pants were baggy, gathered into knee-high black boots.
As he drew nearer, her heart began to pound. The roar of the crowd in the pit fell away. The stink of dried sweat from the costumes in the wardrobe disappeared. There was just the sound of her breathing and his footsteps moving toward her. She stepped out of the wardrobe. At the sight of her, Daniel's thunderstorm-gray eyes glowed violet. He smiled in surprise.
She couldn't hold it in any longer. She rushed toward him, forgetting Bill, forgetting the actors, forgetting the past self, who could be anywhere, steps away, the girl this Daniel really belonged to. She forgot everything but her need to be held by him.
He slid his arms easily around her waist, guiding her quickly to the other side of the bulky wardrobe, where they were hidden from the other actors. Her hands found the back of his neck. A warm rush rippled through her. She closed her eyes and felt his lips come down on hers, featherlight--almost too light. She waited to feel the hunger in his kiss. She waited. And waited.
Luce inched higher, arching her neck so that he would kiss her harder, more deeply. She needed his kiss to remind her why she was doing this, losing herself in the past and seeing herself dying again and again: because of him, because of the two of them together. Because of their love.
Touching him again reminded her of Versailles. She wanted to thank him for saving her from marrying the king. And to beg him never to hurt himself again as he'd done in Tibet. She wanted to ask what he'd dreamed about when he'd slept for days after she'd died in Prussia. She wanted to hear what he'd said to Luschka right before she died that awful night in Moscow. She wanted to pour out her love, and break down and cry, and let him know that every second of every lifetime she'd been through, she had missed him with all her heart.
But there was no way to communicate any of that to this Daniel. None of that had even happened yet to this Daniel. Besides, he took her for the Lucinda of this era, the girl who didn't know any of the things that Luce had come to know. There were no words to tell him.
Her kiss was the only way she could show him that she understood.
But Daniel wouldn't kiss her the way she wanted. The closer she pressed to him, the farther back he leaned.
Finally he pushed her away completely. He held on only to her hands, as if the rest of her were dangerous.
Lady. He kissed the very tips of her fingers, making her shiver. Would I be too bold to say your love makes you unmannerly?
Unmannerly? Luce blushed.
Daniel took her back into his arms, slowly, a bit nervously. Good Lucinda, you must not find yourself in this place dressed as you are. His eyes kept returning to her dress. What clothes are these? Where is your costume? He reached into a wardrobe and flicked through the clothes pegs.
Quickly, Daniel began to unlace his boots, tossing them on the floor with two thuds. Luce tried not to gape when he dropped his trousers. He wore short gray pantaloons underneath that left very little to the imagination.
Her cheeks burned as Daniel briskly unbuttoned his white shirt. He yanked it off, exposing the full beauty of his chest. Luce sucked in her breath. The only things missing were his unfurled wings. Daniel was so impeccably gorgeous--and he seemed to have no idea of the effect he was having on her by standing there in his underwear.
She gulped, fanning herself. Is it hot in here?
Put these on until I can fetch your costume, he said, tossing the clothes at her. Hurry, before someone sees you. He dashed to the wardrobe in the corner and rifled through it, pulling out a rich green-and-gold robe, another white shirt, and a pair of cropped green pants. He hurried into the new clothes--his costume, Luce guessed--as she picked up his discarded street clothes.
Luce remembered that it had taken the servant girl in Versailles a half hour to squeeze her into this dress. There were strings and ties and laces in all sorts of private places. There was no way she was going to be able to get out of it with any sort of dignity.