Maskerade

“Well, dear, we generally nip out to—Oh, no, they’re going for a curtain call!”
    The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled.
    Her fellow gypsy nudged Agnes. “Look at Dame Timpani,” he said. “There’s a nose in a sling if ever I saw one.”
    Agnes stared at the prima donna.
    “She’s smiling,” she said.
    “So does a tiger, dear.”
    The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again…
    Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn’t too much to do in the next act. She’d tried to memorize the plot earlier—although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both.
    Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious.
    “…so Peccadillo (ten.), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar.) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop.) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar.) claims that…”
    A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings.
    “Lose the countryside, Ron.”
    There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above.
    The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend.
    “…then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes…”
    The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was interrupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside-down and not at all well features of the late Dr. Undershaft.

    Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past.
    Well, that had been fun.
    She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs. Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new.
    She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren’t supposed to see.
    Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that’d mean she’d have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he’d turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding.
    There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams.
    She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage.
    No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point.
    People were running backward and forward, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stagehands tried to fan her with a script.
    Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means.
    “I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,” she said as she ambled past.
    “Good heavens, madam, there’s enough panic in here as it is!”
    Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stagehands.
    Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in.
    “Let me through. I’m a nosy person,” she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does.
    There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn’t the nicest end, although it could be quite colorful.
    “Oh dear,” she said. “Poor man. What happened to him?”
    “Mr. Bucket says he must have got caught up in the—” someone began.
    “He didn’t get caught in anything! This is the Ghost’s work!” said someone else. “He could still be up there!”
    All eyes turned upward.
    “Mr. Salzella’s sent some stagehands to flush him out.”
    “Have they got