The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  Stunned, Addie took in the room. The stove against the right wall was an enormous black iron monster with a heavy white door on the oven. The girl lowered the tray onto a table, and Addie saw it was heaped with jam-filled scones. She lifted the teapot and grabbed a towel to mop up the liquid. “Looks like a blizzard hit, don’t it?”

  The emptiness in Addie’s stomach was turning queasy.

  She drew in a deep breath. With deliberate calm, she walked over to the flour-covered table. Pastry had been rolled out and cut into tart crusts, and next to them was a bowl loaded with pitted cherries and scented with almond. She looked up at the girl, forcing herself to act normal. “Those smell good.”

  It was absurd—making small talk about baked goods when she had just slipped out of her own century. Again.

  “Too early for Rainier cherries, but I couldn’t wait.” The girl gave Addie a confiding look. “I’m trying to measure up to the legendary Olga. Are you one of the people who tried to bribe her to stay even after her baby was born?”

  “Bribe?” Addie felt like she was emerging out of some sort of deep sleep. A coma, maybe. “No,” she murmured. “Who’s Olga?”

  “Aren’t you one of the actresses? I’m sorry. Mrs. Powell only engaged me last week. I don’t know everyone yet.”

  “Engaged you? What do you mean?”

  “Hired me, of course.” The girl laughed. “Isn’t that right? We speak Swedish at home, and sometimes I confuse things.”

  “Are you ... her cook?”

  “Cook, maid of all work, wardrobe assistant—well, I iron a lot, anyway. Whatever she needs, I’ll do.” She hung the towel on the handle of the oven. “Hot work, though, when that things blazing. I wish she’d get one of those fireless stoves.” She wiped her brow with her sleeve, revealing a puckered yellow-blue wound just below her hairline.

  Addie clutched at the nearest hard surface—which proved to be the oven. “Ow!”

  “You’ve burned yourself!”

  “No, I’m okay.” Addie stuck her hot fingers in her mouth. A wave of heat boiled the air around her, turning it viscous and slow and distorted. It was all she could do not to turn and run.

  She took her fingers out of her mouth and drew in one shaky breath, then another, willing herself to calm down.

  This girl, with the smudge of flour on the curve of her cheek, was the half-conscious girl she’d seen at the Powells’ house the day of the earthquake. It was Frida. It really was.

  “You’re the girl that got hit with the brick,” Addie said unsteadily. “One of the—what did he call it? One of the Wobs’ kids.”

  Frida stiffened. “Who told you that?”

  Addie shut her eyes as adrenaline surged through her. The time is out of joint.... She swallowed and opened her eyes, half expecting to find no one there. But Frida was standing not two feet away, looking at her with open suspicion.

  Addie patted her pocket. She could feel the mirror. Irrationally, she was comforted to know it was there—the key, in some way she didn’t understand, that unlocked the door between Frida’s world and her own.

  “I was at the Powells’ house,” Addie managed, feeling somewhat more confident, “the day you got hurt. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, I don’t.” Frida picked up the tray.

  “You don’t remember me?”

  “Get hit with a brick and see what you remember,” she said shortly and headed to the door.

  “You’ve left the teapot!” There, Addie thought. She was acting nearly normal. She could feel herself shifting, fitting into this new reality, however insane it was.

  “Pick it up, then.” Frida kicked the door open.

  Addie did and followed her into the hallway. “I’m glad you’re better now.” She could tell she’d offended her in some way, though she wasn’t sure how.

  Frida slowed her pace halfway up the corridor, allowing her to catch up. “Thanks,” she said curtly. But then, seeming to sense that Addie meant well, she added, “I don’t know what would have happened to me if it hadn’t been for the Powells. Aren’t they wonderful?”

  Addie nodded, the sick feeling in her stomach starting to subside. A spark of anticipation lit inside her. After all, if Frida was here, might Reg be, too? And Emma Mae?

  “What else can I do?”

  “Help me get this food handed around to the cast. They’ll be raising holy heck if they don’t eat soon.”

  Addie followed Frida through the door and up a back staircase she hadn’t noticed before. They reached the top, and suddenly she was backstage in the midst of a chaos of noise and people. Shock slapped into her again. One person she could handle, but here was a whole world—men in flat caps and suspenders were painting backdrops. Stage carpenters were sawing boards and hammering scenery together. Two boys about Zack’s age were racing around, climbing over half-built sets. Addie’s head spun. She stuck close to Frida, who swerved expertly around chairs and mirrors and painted panels as she made her way to a gap in a floor-length velvet curtain of deep, deep crimson.

  Addie followed her out onto the stage and froze as she found herself gazing into the auditorium exactly as she had the day before. But this time her eyes traveled over a sea of green velvet seats rising in a gentle slope all the way to the exits. It was Becky Powell’s theater, not dead anymore, not a ghost of what it had once been, but living and breathing and making a racket.

  The stage swarmed with people, and Addie could see a long wooden table set up in the center. Six or seven chairs had been arranged around it, and two thrones were placed at one end. Actors perched on the arms of the chairs, laughing and chatting. The women were wearing dresses with fitted bodices and high-waisted skirts, hemmed just below midcalf, and the men wore white button-down shirts, pressed trousers, and suspenders. In the orchestra pit, a few musicians were putting away their instruments.

  She made her way forward to the edge of the stage, craning her neck to see the proscenium rising above her. It was painted in glowing emerald green highlighted with gold and crowned with brightly painted sculptures. At the top of the arch stood an Egyptian Pharaoh, a brilliant ruby glowing in the head of the snake that rose from his crown. Attendants on either side of him carried food and drink and platters heaped with jewels.

  Addie’s gaze traveled up to where box seats protruded from walls gorgeous with carvings. Ibises, ankhs, and eyes were everywhere. Horus and Osiris and Isis and all the other Egyptian gods floated in barges down the Nile. Up above, rafts of electric lights were affixed to grids. A chandelier sparkled with cut crystal, like a cascade of diamonds. And to her amazement, it hung not from the ornate ceiling but from the center of a gorgeous dome, which was split into sections like an orange and painted with greens and reds and golds. Her eyes were drawn down again by regal crimson draperies that hid the entrances and exits.

  “Wow,” she murmured.

  The rapid ragtime morphed into a waltz as she turned her attention back to the stage. Two couples who had been dancing frenetically drew closer and slowed their steps, and Addie was suddenly reminded of the dream she’d had the night she found that old photo. Down in the orchestra, she saw a man with his sleeves rolled up at the upright piano, fingers flying over the keys.

  The same piano she had seen yesterday.

  But the only thing on top of it now was a metronome.

  “Come on,” Frida beckoned her. “You can put the teapot on the table.”

  The waltz broke off, prompting a chorus of complaints, and the pianist called, “What have you brought for us, Frida, my love?” He twiddled the keys for punctuation and stood up, eyes sparkling. His mustache and pointy beard made him look like a merry devil.

  A young woman with short, wavy dark hair clapped her hands above her head for attention and bellowed, “Provisions! Provisions for King Macbeth’s court!”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “You’ll jinx us! We’ll never sell any tickets.”

  “Someone will get sick. We’ll have to cancel open
ing night.”

  But the woman just said, “Nonsense! Believe that and you’ll believe what you read in the Hearst papers.” Addie stared at the smoky gray scarf around the woman’s neck, so much like the one in the photo of Isadora Duncan that it made her skin crawl. She turned away without looking and tripped over someone’s foot.

  “Watch out!” A hand grabbed her elbow. She’d let the teapot tip to a dangerous angle, and the person who was holding her arm—a tall, ruddy guy with a shock of blond hair—righted it just before it spilled. “Whew!” he said. “Disaster averted.”

  Addie smiled uncertainly at him, and put the pot down on the table.

  “I’ll run and get the cups and saucers,” Frida told Addie. She set down the platter and announced to the others, “It’s catch as catch can. No plates.”

  Within seconds, the table was mobbed by hungry actors and stagehands. Addie at first thought that she should be handing out the food, but abandoned the idea as one greedy hand after another whisked the pastries off the tray. Instead, she snatched up a warm scone before they were all gone and wriggled her way out of the press of bodies. She found a chair by the curtain dividing the stage from the wing and sank down onto it. The flaky pastry and oozing jam were reassuring. Something normal, to offset her prickles of fear and excitement.

  But by now, excitement was starting to crowd out fear.

  Could this Jewel of the past be the place she’d dreamed about? It seemed crazy. But then again...

  “Which of you made these heavenly scones?” a voice thundered. It was the pianist, dragging a chair, which he positioned in the middle of the stage and sat down on backwards. Loud men always sat backwards on chairs, Addie thought, picturing her Algebra II teacher.

  “I did.” Frida had returned with a tray piled high with crockery. She put it down and began pouring tea into people’s cups. “And there goes the last one.”

  “Go forth and fetch us more, Frida!” the pianist cried. “Banging these damned keys gives me an appetite.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” Addie offered, feeling sorry for Frida being ordered around so much.

  “No. I’ll bring another batch.” Frida handed Addie the pot and rushed backstage again.

  “My wife could use a girl like that,” the pianist said to the blond guy who had caught Addie’s elbow. “But would the Powells part with her, d’you think, Andrew?”

  “Don’t be silly, Peter,” Andrew said mildly, holding out his cup to Addie. “Your wife wouldn’t want a Wobbly brat in her kitchen, would she?”

  Wobblies again? Addie’s ears pricked up.

  Peter fingered his mustache. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Addie saw Frida returning, a second plate of scones in her hand.

  “And trust me,” Peter added, “now that there’s a war on, they won’t even fight.”

  The war, Addie thought, and felt sick all over again. World War One.

  “That’s true,” Andrew agreed. “Did you see the piece in the Observer last week? They’re right, too. The Wobs are the best friends the Germans ever had.”

  Peter raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply, one of the actresses standing near the table spoke up. “What strong opinions you have, Mr. Lindstrom. When can we expect you to do your bit?” She batted her eyelashes and smiled coolly.

  Color swept from Andrew’s throat to his forehead, and Addie felt glad someone had embarrassed him. She didn’t like the way he talked about Frida. “As soon as this run is over.”

  The piano player threw back his head and guffawed. “Unless a really plum role comes up, you mean! You’re as ambitious as our beloved thane, Andrew. Don’t tell me you’d go jaunting off into all that muck and mud when you could see your name in lights.”

  Andrew flushed so deeply that Addie thought this must be true. She turned away for a moment and realized that a small line had formed, people waiting for tea.

  “Maybe after the next run,” she heard Andrew concede as she refocused her attention on filling teacups. “I can’t throw it all away now, can I? Now that I’ve got a good part. I have to establish my career. No one else is going to help me.” He turned to the lady who had teased him. “Some of us don’t have family connections to get us work. But that doesn’t mean I won’t volunteer!”

  “Of course you will,” Peter said mockingly. “Just in time to miss the heavy fighting.”

  Andrew leaned angrily toward the piano player. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he replied, unfazed. “The Hun will cave in once they’ve seen our boys on the battlefield! It’ll be over a week after our ships touch the docks. Good timing, friend.”

  “That’s not true,” Addie interjected. The war didn’t end until November of 1918. It was pretty much the only thing she remembered about this war from her American history class.

  They all turned to stare at her, and instantly, she knew she should have kept her mouth shut. “I mean,” she amended, “it looks like it might drag on longer.”

  Peter gave her a patronizing look. “A bit defeatist, don’t you think, Miss...”

  “Addie.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “McNeal,” she added, remembering that Reg and his mother had always used her last name.

  “That’s not the word on the street, at any rate, Miss McNeal,” Peter went on. “The enemy is demoralized. In retreat, in fact, on some parts of the line.”

  “True,” the actress said. “It’s go now or miss the chance of a lifetime, Mr. Lindstrom.”

  “Oh, I’ll fight,” Andrew retorted. “What about you, Peter? Can you miss the boat races this year?”

  “Me? I’ll get myself posted to Paris to play piano for the general staff. They say the girls are pretty, and the jazz clubs are open all hours for the boys on leave.”

  “Where’s the tea girl?” the woman with the long scarf shouted from stage left, where she’d been talking to some of the actors. “I’m dry as a desert!” She was advancing on Addie, her cup and saucer extended imperiously.

  But then a calm, lovely voice drifted across the stage. “That’s not the tea girl. That’s Miss Addie McNeal, and she’s supposed to be my guest, not serving tea to you ravening monsters.”

  12. The Usurper Himself

  Emma Mae Powell crossed the stage to Addie. “Welcome, Miss McNeal!” Her hair was pulled back into a businesslike bun, and she wore a short jacket and fitted skirt. “We wondered where you’d got to. Reg said you’d drop by on Tuesday.”

  “Oh—I—I’m sorry.” Of course. They thought she’d been the one who hadn’t kept her word.

  Mrs. Powell clasped Addie’s hands in her own, radiating warmth. “Don’t worry. Todays actually a better day, since we’ve finally moved everything over from the rehearsal space. Its always such an upheaval. But so much more fun rehearsing in the theater.”

  A shudder rode down Addie’s spine, and Becky Powell’s words rang in her ears: If we really wanted Emma Mae Powell to bring the Jewel back to life, I’m afraid we’d have to bring Emma Mae back to life as well. For a moment, she held tight against panic. This couldn’t be real. How could she get out of here? Was it even possible to get back to her own time?

  Of course it was. As long as she had the mirror. “I—”

  The woman with the scarf interrupted them. “Emma, did you see what Ben brought us for the cavern scene? Rhododendrons, for Gods sake. In a big pot. Did Paul know about that?”

  “Rhodis? Not tremendously Scottish. What was he thinking?”

  It helped, Addie thought. Their normal banter helped the fear recede.

  Besides, isn’t this where you wanted to be? she reminded herself with a flash of irony. At a real rehearsal?

  The scarf woman was rattling on. “Well, gorse wasn’t native to the Northwest last time I checked. Or heather. Ben and I thought maybe rosemary. Emma, have a sit-down. You look tired.”

  “It was just the board meeting. I proposed the benefit, and they were
fit to be tied.” Emma Mae glanced at Addie. “Sorry, dear. It’s a flying circus today.” She turned back to the scarf lady. “I’ve missed the tea. Ask Frida to brew another pot, would you?”

  “Sure.” The woman headed into the wing, shouting “Frida!” at the top of her lungs. Did she ever use a normal tone of voice? Addie wondered.

  “Sit down, Miss McNeal.” Mrs. Powell sank into a chair and motioned to the empty seat next to her. “You take your breaks when they’re offered here.”

  Addie pulled the chair out from the long table and settled into it.

  “Freeeeeeda!” she heard the woman roar again from the stairs.

  “Poor Frida,” Addie said. “I wouldn’t blame her if she’s hiding in the pantry!”

  “So you’ve seen our little invalid then? Up and fit as a corn-fedhen.”

  “Oh, fitter than that.” Someone was leaning on the back of Addie’s chair. She twisted her head and found herself looking up at Reg Powell. “Hello, Miss McNeal,” he said, and sat down on one of the thrones at the end of the table. A tiny thrill shot through her, and the last remnant of her fear dropped away.

  He’s an actor, she thought in surprise. A metal circlet pressed his hair sleek to his head. He wore a tartan plaid across his shoulder, held in place with a pin, and a black shirt underneath.

  “From what we’ve seen,” he continued, “it would take a mountain of bricks to knock Frida out.”

  “Oh, don’t tempt fate, Reg.” Emma Mae rapped on the table smartly. “We’re superstitious, we theater people.” She smiled at Addie. “It’s good to see you, Miss McNeal.”

  “Yes, welcome back.” Reg hung his head in mock repentance. “I’m sorry I didn’t come by your house. But it wasn’t for want of trying. I must have mixed up the address because I just ended up at Meg’s.” He slid down off his chair and knelt ridiculously on one knee. “Say you forgive me!”

  Addie tried and failed to stifle a smile. “So you’re rehearsing Macbeth?”