Passion (23 page)

THIRTEEN

STAR-CROSSED

LONDON, ENGLAND • JUNE 29, 1613

Something crunched under Luce’s feet.

She raised the hem of her black gown: A layer of discarded walnut shel s on the ground was so thick the stringy brown bits rose up over the buckles of her emerald-green high-heeled slippers.

She was at the rear of a noisy crowd of people. Almost everyone around her was dressed in muted browns or grays, the women in long gowns with ruched bodices and wide cu s at the ends of their bel sleeves. The men wore tapered pants, broad mantles draping their shoulders, and at caps made of wool. She’d never stepped out of an Announcer into such a public place before, but here she was, in the middle of a packed amphitheater. It was startling—and riotously loud.

“Look out!” Bil grabbed the neck of her velvet capelet and yanked her backward, pinning her against the wooden rail of a staircase.

A heartbeat later, two grimy boys barreled past in a reckless game of tag that sent a trio of women in their path fal ing over one another.

The women heaved themselves back up and shouted curses at the boys, who jeered back, barely slowing down.

“Next time,” Bil shouted in her ear, cupping his stone claws around his mouth, “could you try directing your lit le stepping-through exercises into a more—I don’t know—serene set ing? How am I supposed to do your costuming in the middle of this mob?”

“Sure, Bil , I’l work on that.” Luce edged back just as the boys playing tag zipped by again. “Where are we?”

“You’ve circled the globe to find yourself in the Globe, milady.” Bil sketched a lit le bow.

“The Globe Theatre?” Luce ducked as the woman in front of her discarded a gnawed-on turkey leg by tossing it over her shoulder. “You mean, like, Shakespeare?”

“Wel , he claims to be retired. You know those artist types. So moody.” Bil swooped down near the ground, tugging at the hem of her dress and humming to himself.

“Othel o happened here,” Luce said, taking a moment to let it al sink in. “The Tempest. Romeo and Juliet. We’re practical y standing in the center of al the greatest love stories ever writ en.”

“Actual y, you’re standing in walnut shel s.”

“Why do you have to be so glib about everything? This is amazing!”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we’d need a moment of bardolatry.” His words came out lisped because of the needle clipped between his jagged teeth. “Now stand stil .”

“Ouch!” Luce yelped as he jabbed sharply into her kneecap. “What are you doing?”

“Un-Anachronizing you. These folks’l pay good money for a freak show, but they’re expecting it to stay onstage.” Bil worked quickly, discreetly tucking the long, draped fabric of her black gown from Versail es into a series of folds and crimps so that it was gathered along the sides. He knocked away her black wig and pul ed her hair into a frizzy pouf. Then he eyed the velvet capelet around her shoulders. He whipped o the soft fabric. At last, he hocked a giant loogie into one hand, rubbed his palms together, and welded the capelet into a high Jacobean col ar.

“That is seriously disgusting, Bil .”

“Be quiet,” he snapped. “Next time give me more space to work. You think I like ‘making do’? I don’t.” He jerked his head at the jeering throngs. “Luckily most of them are too drunk to notice the girl stepping out of the shadows at the back of the room.” Bil was right: No one was looking at them. Everyone was squabbling as they pressed closer to the stage. It was just a platform, raised about five feet of the ground, and, standing at the back of the rowdy crowd, Luce had trouble seeing it clearly.

“Come on, now!” a boy shouted from the back. “Don’t make us wait al day!” Above the crowd were three tiers of box seats, and then nothing: the O-shaped amphitheater opened on a midday sky the pale blue of a robin’s egg. Luce looked around for her past self. For Daniel.

“We’re at the opening of the Globe.” She thought back to Daniel’s words under the peach trees at Sword & Cross. “Daniel told me we were here.”

“Sure, you were here,” Bil said. “About fourteen years ago. Perched on your older brother’s shoulder. You came with your family to see Julius Caesar.”

Bil hovered in the air a foot in front of her. It was unappetizing, but the high col ar around her neck actual y seemed to hold its shape. She almost resembled the sumptuously dressed women in the higher boxes.

“And Daniel?” she asked.

“Daniel was a player—”

“Hey!”

“That’s what they cal the actors.” Bil rol ed his eyes. “He was just starting out then. To everyone else in the audience, his debut was ut erly forget able. But to lit le three-year-old Lucinda”—Bil shrugged—“it put the re in you. You’ve been quote-unquote dying to get onstage ever since. Tonight’s your night.”

“I’m an actor?”

No. Her friend Cal ie was the actor, not her. During Luce’s last semester at the Dover School, Cal ie had begged Luce to try out with her for Our Town. The two of them had rehearsed for weeks before the audition. Luce got one line, but Cal ie had brought the house down with her portrayal of Emily Webb. Luce had watched from the wings, proud of and awed by her friend. Cal ie would have sold o her life’s possessions to stand in the old Globe Theatre for one minute, let alone to get up on the stage.

But then Luce remembered Cal ie’s blood-drained face when she’d seen the angels bat le the Outcasts. What had happened to Cal ie after Luce had left? Where were the Outcasts now? How would Luce ever explain to Cal ie, or her parents, what had happened—if, that is, Luce ever returned to her backyard and that life?

Because Luce knew now that she wouldn’t go back to that life until she’d gured out how to stop it from ending. Until she’d unraveled this curse that forced her and Daniel to live out the same star-crossed lovers’ tale again and again.

curse that forced her and Daniel to live out the same star-crossed lovers’ tale again and again.

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 mat ing made to look like rough grass. Two ful -sized cannons stood like guards near either wing, and a row of pot ed orange trees lined the back wal . 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 Cal ie—where the actors got into their costumes and prepared for their scenes.

“Wait!” Bil cal ed as she hurried up the ladder.

Behind the curtain, the room was smal and cramped and dimly lit. Luce passed stacks of manuscripts and open wardrobes ful 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-but oned gowns, men lacing up brown leather boots. Thankful y, the actors were busily powdering their faces and frantical y rehearsing lines, so that the room was fil ed with short shouted-out fragments of the play.

Before any of the actors could look up and see her, Bil ew 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.” Bil frowned. “You don’t belong back here as a woman.

Not that that stopped you. Your past self took some pret y grand risks to get herself a role in Al Is True.”

“Al 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,” Bil said, yanking her back by the col ar. “But pay at ention: 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 stil open behind him; the sun was at his back. Daniel walked alone, reading a handwrit en script, hardly noticing the other players around him. He looked di erent 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 ngers 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 fel 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, forget ing Bil , forget ing the actors, forget ing the past self, who could be anywhere, steps away, the girl this Daniel real y 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 Versail es. 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 al 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 tel 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.

Final y 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 nd 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 icked through the clothes pegs.

Quickly, Daniel began to unlace his boots, tossing them on the oor with two thuds. Luce tried not to gape when he dropped his trousers.

He wore short gray pantaloons underneath that left very lit le to the imagination.

Her cheeks burned as Daniel briskly unbut oned his white shirt. He yanked it o , exposing the ful 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 e ect 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 ri ed through it, pul ing 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 Versail es a half hour to squeeze her into this dress. There were strings and ties and laces in al sorts of private places. There was no way she was going to be able to get out of it with any sort of dignity.

“There was, um, a costume change.” Luce gripped the black fabric of her skirt. “I thought this would look nice for my character.” Luce heard footsteps behind her, but before she could turn, Daniel’s hand pul ed her deep into the wardrobe next to him. It was cramped and dark and wonderful to be so close. He pul ed the door shut as far as it would go and stood before her, looking like a king with the green-and-gold robe wrapped around him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where did you get this? Is our Anne Boleyn suddenly from Mars?” He chuckled. “I always thought she hailed from Wiltshire.”

Wiltshire.”

Luce’s mind raced to catch up. She was playing Anne Boleyn? She’d never read this play, but Daniel’s costume suggested he was playing the king, Henry VI I.

“Mr. Shakespeare—ah, Wil —thought it would look good—”

“Oh, Wil did?” Daniel smirked, not believing her at al but seeming not to care. It was strange to feel that she could do or say almost anything and Daniel would stil find it charming. “You’re a lit le bit mad, aren’t you, Lucinda?”

“I—wel —”

He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. “I adore you.”

“I adore you, too.” The words tumbled from her mouth, feeling so real and so true after the last few stammering lies. It was like let ing out a long-held breath. “I’ve been thinking, thinking a lot, and I wanted to tel you that—that—”

“Yes?”

“The truth is that what I feel for you is … deeper than adoration.” She pressed her hands over his heart. “I trust you. I trust your love. I know now how strong it is, and how beautiful.” Luce knew that she couldn’t come right out and say what she real y meant—she was supposed to be a di erent version of herself, and the other times, when Daniel had gured out who she was, where she’d come from, he’d clammed up immediately and told her to leave. But maybe if she chose her words careful y, Daniel would understand. “It may seem like sometimes I—I forget what you mean to me and what I mean to you, but deep down … I know. I know because we are meant to be together. I love you, Daniel.”