The Mechanical Theater by Brooke Johnson Read Free Book Online

the right expression. Solomon wondered if she did it to make him feel better about his own performance, or if she truly wished to be her best, even when practicing in an overstuffed supply closet.
    An hour passed before they reached the last of Antony’s lines, and he tried to speak the words as if death waited for him at the end.
    “Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o’ the world,
    The noblest; and do now not basely die,
    Not cowardly put off my helmet to
    My countryman—­”
    “Good emotion,” said Dahlia, “but a little slower and clearer.”
    Solomon picked up again, giving each word its weight.
    “—­a Roman by a Roman
    Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going;
    I can no more.”
    Dahlia nodded encouragingly and then recited again Cleopatra’s lament for her lover’s death, Solomon reading along with her. As she came upon the death of Antony, he made a choking sound in the back of his throat and stuck his tongue out, letting his shoulders and neck fall slack as he forced a dead expression on his face.
    “What on earth was that ?” she demanded, placing a hand on her hip.
    “Antony dying, of course,” he explained, trying to keep the smile from his lips. He stepped forward and pointed to the line printed on the page. “It says it there: A NTONY dies .”
    She swatted him away with the script. “I know what it says. No need to be so smart.” A smile broke through her stern face, a laugh on her lips. “Oh, Mr. Wade . . .” She brought her hand to her forehead and shook her head with a sigh, still laughing. “If ever there was a display of Antony’s death, I have not heard the best of it until now.”
    He bowed with a flourish, and her smile faded.
    “You’re better when you’re relaxed, you know,” she told him. “You don’t stutter so much.”
    The back of his neck burned, and he bowed his head. “Er . . . thanks.”
    “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “You’ll get better with time and practice. Everyone does.”
    A door creaked somewhere backstage.
    “Mr. Wade, Miss Appleton, are you still here?” asked Mr. Niles.
    Dahlia jumped. “Yes,” she called, her voice strained. She cleared her throat. “We’re in the storage room.”
    Mr. Niles’s light footsteps strode across the wood floor, and then he appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing back here?”
    “Practicing,” she said. She glanced at Solomon and smiled kindly. “Mr. Wade, it seems, has stage fright.” She clutched her script to her chest and faced the director. “We thought a different setting might help.”
    “And did it?” asked Mr. Niles.
    “Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “He’s much better when he’s relaxed. I told him so.”
    “I am glad to hear it.” He nodded and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Though I’m afraid you’ll have to reconvene your practice another time. It’s quite late. Paperwork took longer than expected.” He stifled a yawn. “Should I call you a cab, Miss Appleton? I don’t know if they run this late, but—­”
    “That’s all right, Mr. Niles,” she said. “I thought Mr. Wade could walk me, if he doesn’t mind of course.”
    Solomon straightened. “Not at all.”
    “Very well then,” said Mr. Niles. “I’ll follow you out.”
    Solomon snatched his hat from atop the treasure chest and they left the storage room and crossed the theater hall to the foyer. There, he grabbed his coat from the supply closet and met Dahlia at the entrance. “Where is it you live?” he asked her.
    She wrapped the scarf around her hair and tucked the ends into the collar of her coat. “Do you know where the old Tuesenberry building is?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, that’s me.” She pulled her gloves onto her slender fingers. “Are you ready to go?”
    He nodded, and they followed Mr. Niles out the door. The cold night air bit at Solomon’s cheeks, and he plunged his hands deeper into his coat pockets to keep his fingers warm.
    Mr. Niles locked the door behind