When Stars Are Bright

by Amber R. Duell

  “Augustine wouldn’t do that to you. Especially after that performance,” he reassures me. He tries to hide it, but I catch the glimmer of doubt on his face. It isn’t fair he can sound so sure at the same time he looks so suspicious. “You’ll be fine. Go on before she gets in a lather.”

  “Wait for me at the bottom of the stairs?” I plead. If I need to make a quick escape, I want him close by.

  “Of course.”

  I scurry across the stage and the group breaks apart to let me pass. Theresa moves just enough so her arm scrapes against mine. “Scag,” she hisses.

  I’m too nervous to care what that means. I have to concentrate on the mystery person Augustine is leading me to. She limps her way down the hall much quicker than I thought she could move and I skip to catch up.

  “Gus,” she yaps as he passes us. “Find us an additional two men to guard the stage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Two additional men? How much danger does she expect? None of the others here acted violently after listening to the song over and over…

  Glancing secretly at her, I see the true depth of the lines on her face. She must’ve been beautiful once but the years have taken their toll. Hardship can age a person faster than years. Even if Jackie hadn’t told me about Augustine’s husband, I can see she’s lived through something tragic. It’s the same look my mother has; only I have no idea what happened to my mother. I learned a long time ago to stop asking about her life before me.

  “After you,” Augustine says, ushering me up the steps. “First door on the right.”

  The wooden stairs ascend at a slant, groaning under my feet. Behind me, Augustine grunts with each step. My fingers skim the brocade wallpaper, helping me keep my balance, and I focus on the light filtering from the door at the top. A shadow passes across it and I hear feet shuffling against the floor.

  “Go on already,” Augustine says between gasps. “We’re not getting any younger out here.”

  I inhale and step over the threshold. A small desk, littered with paper, commands the middle of the room with a black safe nestled in the corner behind it. Four leather arm chairs with dark lacquered arms sit facing each other but the room is otherwise bare. There’s no sign of the person waiting for us but I know they were here a moment ago.

  Something hard knocks against my heels and I jump aside.

  “I’m not looking to wait in the hall,” Augustine says, tapping me with her cane a second time. She stumbles into the room and, when she shuts the door, unveils a man standing at a bookshelf.

  He’s obviously well-to-do in a maroon dinner jacket made of velvet. A gold band with a square ruby hugs his right ring finger as he lifts a crystal decanter of amber liquid. His thin salt-and-pepper hair is carefully combed and thick, round glasses rest on his nose. “John Chamberlain,” he says in greeting. “Sole patron of the Nova Troupe.”

  Pouring three drinks in crystal glasses, he slips the decanter to the back of the shelf and places thick books in front of it. He strides across the room with two steps.

  “Lina Holt.” Sole hostage of the Nova Troupe. I take the glass he offers gingerly, unwilling to give up an ounce of awareness around these people. Maybe when I get home, I’ll drink myself into oblivion, but not before.

  “Don’t worry,” he says with a wink. “We’re far from dry. The authorities will never know.”

  “Authorities?” He says it like it’s supposed to be a comforting. All it does is make me wonder why I should want them here. I mean, I do, but only to report my kidnapping. “Did something happen?”

  “The coffin varnish, dear.” Augustine sips her drink. “Prohibition’s been around for a decade now.”

  “Coffin varnish?” I glare down into the glass, confused. Nothing with a name like that can be good for me so I set the drink gently on the desk. It doesn’t matter if it’s illegal—I don’t want it.

  “Adorable.” Chamberlain snorts. “I watched you today. Your voice is splendid. Truly. People will come from all over to listen to you, and there’s no doubt they’ll be addicted in a single night. I fear I already am.”

  I press my arms tight to my sides as he chuckles. Someone had been watching from the dark after all.

  “Sit, please.” He flops down in one of the chairs, unbuttoning his jacket, and yawns. “Auggie told me about your situation. How are you enjoying New York? You probably haven’t seen much of it staying in Jersey.”

  Knowing what happened, his first question is how I’m enjoying my time? Something is seriously wrong with these people. Are girls kidnapped so often in these parts that it doesn’t upset them anymore? If that’s the case, I’m doomed.

  “I can’t say I’ve been having much fun,” I tell him coolly. “I was ill at first and now finding a way home is taking up most of my time.”

  “Quite right.” He leans forward and touches my knee. “How careless of me.”

  I scoot my feet to the side, crossing my ankles, and his hand falls away. There’s a moist spot on my skirt where his palm sat. I’m going to believe it’s condensation from his ice-less glass instead of sweat. “Madam Augustine, you said there was a phone here. Who should I speak with about making a call?”

  “The phone, yes.” She hobbles over to sit beside Chamberlain. “I asked after it earlier and it’s being repaired. It should be back in a week or so.”

  In another week, my letter might beat the call. I want to talk to Christian now. To tell him I’m safe, I love him, and to please get me home. I want to ask him to tell my mother I’m okay and make sure she’s taking care of herself. Grief tugs at my core and I swallow against my dry mouth. Mostly I want to know for sure help is on the way.

  “You should remedy that—the part about not having fun. I know nothing about fixing telephones.” Chamberlain laughs at his own words and leans forward. “I would be happy to show you the sites.”

  I’m sure he would, but nothing about him makes me feel comfortable enough to go. It takes all my will power not to jump out of my chair and run. “I’d prefer to focus on the show,” I say carefully. If I anger the troupe’s patron, I might find myself out on the street just as easily as angering the owner.

  He laughs. “All work and no play?”

  “Traumatic experiences have a way of knocking the enthusiasm out of a person.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m much too homesick for tourism.”

  Madam Augustine tsks. “John is offering you a privileged view of the greatest city on earth.”

  “It’s very generous,” I say, grinding out the words. I’m sure there’s nothing generous about it. “I just don’t think it’s the right time.”

  “Lina,” Madam Augustine starts.

  “No, no. It’s fine.” Chamberlain touches my elbow. “She’s been through a lot and I’m sure she feels pressured to get her song ready. Although, if I may, it’s already enough to impress the crowd in a place like this.”

  Madam Augustine stiffens in her chair. The slight to the theater is subtle but not lost on either of us. It certainly isn’t something I’d expect to hear from the patron of the troupe. He should have more faith in their talent and the audience they draw.

  “It has to be perfect,” Augustine says. “Not simply good enough. If we want the troupe to excel, we need to set our goals high.”

  “Quite right. That settles it then. We’ll leave the sightseeing for another time.” Chamberlain studies my face. “How are you getting on with the Romani? Auggie says he’s been looking after you.”

  “Nik?” I scowl at the sudden change of topic. “He’s been very kind to me.”

  He grunts. “I’m sure he has. He’s a dangerous friend to have, especially for someone like you.”

  “He doesn’t seem very dangerous.” I glance at the door, envisioning my escape. Nik’s waiting for me at the bottom of those stairs to save me, should I need it. He may be hiding something but it doesn’t mean it’s something bad. Everyone has secrets. He seems a safer choice than Chamberlain, in any
case.

  Chamberlain stands and offers me his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you tonight, Miss Holt. If you’ll excuse us, we need a moment alone, but I’m looking forward to your performance this weekend.”

  I skirt around him as fast as possible without touching him. “Goodnight.”

  He opens the door, his attention lingering below my face, and I force myself not to bolt from the room. My mother’s voice runs through my head: Hold your fear close, lest someone use it against you. It’s a little late to listen to her advice but it’s better than discounting it. Once I hit the staircase, I drop the restraint and thunder down the steps. I slam into Nik at the bottom and stumble back.

  “Whoa,” he says, steadying me. “Where’s the fire?”

  I squint up the steps to see Chamberlain looking down at us.

  “Oh. Him.”

  “He said you’re dangerous,” I whisper.

  Nik’s jaw tightens. “Did he?” It isn’t a question.

  “Besnik Sala, it’s been awhile,” Chamberlain calls. “Join us.”

  His hands tighten slightly around my upper arms. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “I wasn’t asking.” Chamberlain disappears from the top of the stairs.

  Nik takes a long shaky breath. “Go on,” he says. “They’re getting ready to load up the cars now. I won’t be long.”

  He trudges up the steps with a stiff back, his suspenders tight against his shoulder blades. With the clunk of the door shutting, I head back to the practice room. My elbow burns where Chamberlain touched me and the goose bumps refuse to shrink away. The last person that gave me a feeling like that was Walter. In the future, I’ll be avoiding John Chamberlain at all costs.

  “There she is.” Gus switches his saxophone case to his other hand and lightly punches my shoulder. “Aren’t you the cat’s meow?”

  It sounds like he’s giving me a compliment so I mumble a quick “thanks” and look over my shoulder at the empty hallway.

  “I mean, Madam Augustine said you could sing but murder! Symrics are the real deal. I understand what Walter was thinking now.”

  My gaze snaps to him. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers.

  Mitch nudges him. “I think he’s trying to say you may save us after all. We don’t have any shows booked in Chicago yet and we’re out of here in two months.”

  I blink quickly, trying to process the information. Two months is longer than I thought, but I told Christian I was at the Whitman Boarding House. If there’s any sort of delay, help might come too late. The money shouldn’t take more than a week to arrive once he gets my letter. It leaves plenty of wiggle room but my nerves still prickle.

  “Right, well…” I look over my shoulder for Nik again. “I hope I can help before I leave.”

  “Come on, Gus,” Mitch says. “Tommy’s holding the truck.”

  Gus winks, hefts his saxophone, and leaves me at the edge of the room alone. Someone else is watching me but I don’t have the courage to look up. I have no desire to repeat the disaster that was breakfast and I’m ninety-percent sure Theresa’s the one shooting daggers at my forehead.

  Something warm and wet touches my leg. I leap aside to find Chester staring up at me with a wagging tale. “Hi there.” I bend down to scratch his head.

  “Hi.”

  I flinch at the sound of Jackie’s voice and keep petting the dog. “Hello.”

  “I don’t have long before Theresa comes back.” Her red skirt skims the floor as she kneels down next to me. “But I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I don’t actually agree with her although it must seem like it. It’s... I have to be on her side, you know?”

  Not really, but I can’t cast any stones. I’m desperately doing things I never expected. “I understand. You have to work together.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “I get it.” Partially, anyway. I intruded here and got Irena fired. Theresa’s anger feels personal, and maybe it is, but it isn’t worth talking about.

  Jackie opens her mouth but shuts it before saying anything. She pats Chester’s head and stands. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  I turn to watch her leave and Nik is standing in the entrance with his arms crossed. Anger practically wafts from his skin. I give Chester a final scratch and stand. “So, your name is Besnik?” I ask, unsure what else to say.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “But just Nik.”

  I stare, trying to figure him out. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine.” But his cheeks are flushed and his jaw clenched. He doesn’t force me to tell him anything so I don’t want to push him, and besides, nothing here is any of my business. For one brief moment, he meets my gaze before stalking out of the room. I’m left feeling like I was punched in the stomach.

  If Chamberlain can do that to Nik in two minutes, I don’t want to know what he would do to me if I upset him. I grip my skirt in fists and back toward the crate of props, keeping an eye on the doorway. My heart pounds as I lean over the side. It doesn’t take much digging to find the string of brightly-colored scarves Eddie stuffed up his sleeve. I unknot the green one at the end with shaking fingers and tie it around my thigh.

  If I have to run, I’ll be ready. Food, clothes, something to cover my head in case I need a disguise. The broken phone is too convenient—I need a backup plan in case Christian’s help doesn’t come fast enough.

  Sweat trickles down the back of my slip, my mind still stuck in the nightmare. It’s the same one as the night before and the night before that. A solid five nights of wind, mud, and a black-eyed Walter. At least I haven’t screamed out loud again. I hope. No one has come running anyway. Part of me wishes I did cry out so Nik would’ve been there when I woke up. The darkness of the room is too much like the trunk to be alone in it. Not as confining, but walls don’t matter at night. They used to. My house was safe, but now even that doesn’t offer any comfort.

  I stand in the hallway, the blue quilt from the bed wrapped around my shoulders, and wish I thought better of it. It’s not too late to turn around, to go back and sleep with the light on, but I want to be near something alive. Tomorrow is the big day. With the first real performance looming and the realness of the dream hanging over me, I’m trying hard not to make a break for it. Every second I stand here, staring at the line of light under Nik’s door, the fact that I have nowhere to go seems less and less important. I need someone to ground me. Someone tangible instead of a memory.

  Raising my knuckles, I rap softly on the wood. Something scrapes against the floor, a chair maybe. I wait and wait, but nothing happens.

  “Nik?” I whisper hoarsely. “Are you awake?”

  Still nothing.

  He’s been a phantom since Chamberlain called him to the office at the start of the week, sleeping through breakfast, breezing into practice for a couple run-throughs, and then disappearing again. Every sentence he’s spoken consisted of one to three words and he hasn’t looked me in the eye in days. Jackie’s avoiding me too. The same with everyone else unless Theresa’s occupied on stage. I’ve been trying not to take any of it personally but it’s not easy.

  I’m lonely, I want to say to Nik’s door. And scared. Please let me in. But he doesn’t so I trudge back to my room, hugging my blanket tight. I flick on the lamp and jump back onto the bed with silent tears flowing down my face.

  The murmur of the crowd drifts into the dressing room, feeding my nerves. Six square mirrors are propped up on a built-in table that runs the length of the room. Silver makeup containers and hair brushes litter the surface. Light fixtures stick out of the wall with a bare light bulb hanging over each space. Behind us, feather boas and a variety of hats hang on hooks. I perch on a wooden stool at the end of the table and try to breathe through an assortment of perfumes.

  The other girls yell to each other: pass the rouge, what time is it, has anyone seen my other shoe—no, the blue one. No one pays me any mind while they focus on themselves. M
y gaze drifts between the mirror and each of their faces, comparing our appearances. I tried to copy their makeup, but I’m not sure how well I manage. Where their blue eye shadow is classy, mine looks more like a clown. My eyelashes clump and the berry-colored lipstick is too stark against my skin. Between the heavy layer of foundation coating my face and the lace dress, I look like a stranger. Maybe if I pretend I’m actually this other person, it’ll be easier to get up there and sing.

  “It’s show time,” Nik says in the open door.

  Pearl claps her hands twice and adjusts the collar of her heavy wool coat. “Hurry, Eleanor. Your father wants you to say your lines again before we go on.”

  “Again?” the little girl whines, following her mother out.

  The other girls file behind them, clinging to each other with giddy smiles, but I stay seated. Nik and I are scheduled last so there’s awhile to wait. Maybe I should pin my hair up while I sit here instead of leaving it loose. I turn back to my reflection and hold it off my neck but it makes the bad makeup more obvious.

  Jackie pops back in. Her red hair is slicked tight against her scalp and the feather skirt swishes around the beveled doorframe. “There’s a place we can watch without being seen, if you want.” A flicker of surprise flashes as she sees my face, and she rushes to my table. “Close your eyes.”

  I hesitate, then do as she asks. Her fingers skim lightly over my lids followed by quick, jerky movements over my lashes.

  “There,” she says, and steps back.

  I look in the mirror again. The shadow is lighter, blending into the crease of my eye, and the clumped lashes are fanned out. Not as well as hers, but it’s better. “Thank you.”

  “Jackie,” Theresa barks from the hallway.

  “I’ll show her where to watch,” Nik says, meeting my gaze. He’s dressed in a black jacket with tails. His hair is slicked back, enhancing the angles of his face. I can’t seem to look away, although I want to. He holds out a hand for me to take. “We’ll have to be quick so I can get behind the piano to open on time.”