Like a Wisp of Steam by Thomas Roche (best reads of all time txt) 📕

the Midwinter tree, wrapping gifts for her children, and childishly snacking on treats.

He had seen her name on the handbill promoting the play, considered attending, then decided against it. But before long, everybody from Davis to the stagehands were talking about the scandalous new play. Eventually Chel told him, "It's been a year. Go see her."

As the other characters entered and the plot unfolded, Ricar found the story was so familiar—the cozy household, the threat of blackmail, the missing documents—that he wondered what the fuss was about.

In the second act, Naro's husband gave her a present: an Innocent's blue and white dress, for her to wear to a party.

Later, Naro offered to play any role her husband wanted—the Innocent, the Pet, the Harlot, even the Fatale—if he would let her blackmailer keep his job at her husband's bank. Yet the man dismissed her pleadings as childish whims.

In the third act, the husband and wife returned home from the party, dressed as the Prince and the Innocent. The incriminating letter finally came to light, and Vartold turned on Naro, calling her a liar and a thief, even though she had forged his signature to save his life. Ricar had seen, and played, the Prince menacing the Innocent hundreds of times before, but to see a man berating his wife like a common criminal had an impact he didn't expect at all.

At the last moment, the threat of blackmail was removed, leaving Vartold's position secure. Ricar relaxed. Vartold would forgive Naro, and their marriage would only be strengthened.

Instead—and this is when the grumblings from the audience began in earnest—Naro turned away from him. She left the room, then entered again, in her traveling clothes, and left the Innocent's dress hung over the back of a chair.

She seemed to tower over her husband, even without her height, as she told him that their marriage was founded on lies, that she could not be a good wife and mother, and that she would leave and search to find herself.

The last moment was the door slamming as Naro left her house and her husband. As the curtain fell, Ricar felt frozen to his chair, one hand clasped over his mouth. It was astonishing, yet made perfect sense.

The applause was scattered and mixed with grumblings and loud hissing. Ricar clapped the loudest and longest.

As the audience got up, Ricar hurried through the lobby—

passing a man haranguing a group of listeners, "...Not only nonsense but obscene nonsense. I'd rather my own daughters were lying dead in a ditch than they should see that!"—and made his way around the theatre to the stage door.

He waited there until the door creaked open, and Miss Alwyx peered out cautiously. He politely doffed his top hat to her and bowed. "Your admirer, Miss Alwyx."

She blinked in surprise, then emerged from the door.

"Mister Donal, I didn't expect you here. We've had some problems with harassment after shows."

They exchanged a few pleasantries, and she told him, "The leading lady resigned when the director wouldn't change the ending, and she took all the other actors with her. I worked in Black Veil company for a while, Servant and Harlot mostly, but started going to theatre auditions as well. I was lucky enough to be at the right one. The pay is a pittance, but as you can see, the playhouse is packed. We're good for a full season, if the city watch doesn't shut us down."

He started to say something professional about the production, but instead he changed his mind. "Miss Alwyx, you were extraordinary up there. I believed every word."

"Thank you, Mister Donal." Her smile was different, no longer a child's.

Emboldened by the new possibilities that smile opened, he quickly said, "The Oyster Club isn't far from here. Would you care to join me for a late supper?"

Her umbrella tapped against his walking stick. "That wouldn't take a miracle."

An Extempore Romance

Jason Rubis

Quite out of nowhere, Mary Ann said, "He's in love with you."

Amelia Lessington, down to her girdle and bloomers but still struggling with her boots, looked up and frowned. "What?

Who's in love with me? What on Earth are you on about?"

The chimera, motionless by the dressing-room door, regarded Amelia with unblinking yellow eyes. She stood with her hands behind her back, like a child prepared to give a recitation. There were some unusual features concealed under her skin—she'd hardly be worth calling a chimera otherwise—

but on the surface, except for her strange feline gaze, she looked like a pretty, petite girl of eighteen or so.

"That daguerrographer. He's been making sheep's eyes at you all day, from the moment you shook his hand. I shouldn't wonder he's written you a sonnet by now. That's what men in love do, you know."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad to have the benefit of your extensive experience in matters of the heart. After all, you've been out of the vat, what, a whole month now?" Amelia extended a long leg. "Make yourself useful and help me get this bloody boot off."

"English ladies don't use words like 'bloody,'" Mary Ann pointed out. But she readily went on her knees, deftly undoing the buttons on her mistress's boot.

"No, and they don't show bare feet and bare legs to the loving English menfolk, either."

"Why are you doing it, then?"

"Times change," Amelia grunted, bracing herself on the chair's arms as the boot came off her foot. "Besides, it was Edward's idea. It'll be charming for these pictures he's insisted on having for the new books. It's a bid for my lost girlhood, all in keeping with my professional reputation as spinner of childhood dreams; barefoot innocent days of youth, that sort of thing. Of course, when I was a girl my feet weren't so crabbed and ugly."

"Your foot is still pretty, I think," Mary Ann observed, turning it in her hands. She poised a fingernail over the damp sole and turned an innocent face to Amelia's stony glare. "Is it ticklish?"

Amelia allowed herself a tight smile. "Try