she was satisfied. Even the misspelling of her name on the program no longer irritated her.

Then, while mouthing with him one of Irving's funniest speeches, and gesticulating unseen in the shadows, she heard a faint shout. She strained to listen, but Irving's delivery was good and loud. She had, in a moment, forgotten the sound. Then it came again. This time she was sure of it. It was a yelp of pain and terror. From downstairs. The boys' dressingroom. Dared she risk leaving the cast alone on stage without a prompter? A third yell, that she feared the audience had heard, decided her. Furious, black eyes snapping, she stepped into the hall.

The noise of shouting and struggle that banged up the narrow stairway sent her scurrying down. "Damn fool crazy kids," she muttered. She slammed into the dressingroom. Nobody was there. She turned. The commotion was in the boys' washroom, and she recognized the loudest voice as that of David Reece. Maybe she had no business there, but this was an emergency. She crossed the hall and flung open the door.

Directly across the room, in the meager light from the hall, she saw Damien Prince. Except for shoes and socks he was stark naked. His sculptured back and marble buttocks were toward her. He was bent over a helpless figure in postman's uniform on the floor, clutching it between his knees and shoving its head down into a toilet bowl. The victim's bellows of rage and despair were sepulchral. Water sloshed out of the bowl with every ducking.

"Drown, drown!" chanted the Greek statue between clamped jaws. "Drown in the toilet, you son of a bitch."

In a dark corner Zoe suddenly made out Bob Nickerson's white face, twisted with anxiety. He was nearly as naked as Damien, having poked one arm into a shirt sleeve. And he was clutching against his chest Dick Nelson's camera. "Bob, Damien, David!"

Her fingers fumbled for the light switch, the other hand trying to push the door shut behind her to keep the racket from escaping upstairs.

"What's going on here, for heaven sake? Stop that, Damien. Let David alone. What's the matter with this stupid light?" Desperately she yanked the door open again. "Come out of here right now, all of you. And stop your noise. They can hear you upstairs. You'll ruin the show." She grabbed Bob's arm and flung him into the hall. "Hold open that door." Then she set upon Damien. He paid no attention to her. He was still methodically trying to cram Reece's head into the toilet. Clutching his naked midriff, she dragged him away. He stared at her vacant-eyed. "Get your clothes on," she told him, panting, "and get over into that dressingroom."

Then she turned to the soaked and bedraggled Reece, who sat sagging on the floor, back against the metal partition, his whole body jerking with infuriated sobs, too enraged even to try to get up.

11.

"A fairy!" Aggie snorted. "Nothing but a common, garden variety fairy." She pushed him backward onto the lumpy sofa and stood in front of him. She was still in her coat and the good red dress she'd worn to the play. He sat still, hunched forward, and stared at her cheap red shoes and thick ankles. The shoes were sharply pointed, made up of narrow, patent-leather straps. The heels were like red enameled spikes. He was afraid she might kick him in the face with them, put out his eyes.

Back of her, in the striped brown suit that had been his special wear ever since Bob could remember, Jack Nickerson shifted from one foot to the other. His face

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