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By Root 352 0

sense as well as good songs. Anyway, it would all be explained in the last act, which was the Masked Ball in the Duke’s Palace. It would almost certainly turn out that the woman one of the men had been rather daringly courting would be his own wife, but so cunningly disguised by a very small mask that her husband wouldn’t have spotted that she wore the same clothes and had the same hairstyle. Someone’s serving man would turn out to be someone else’s daughter in disguise; someone would die of something that didn’t prevent them from singing about it for several minutes; and the plot would be resolved by some coincidences which, in real life, would be as likely as a cardboard hammer.

He didn’t know any of this for a fact. He was making a calculated guess.

In the meantime Act Three opened with the traditional ballet, this time apparently a country dance by the Maidens of the Court.

Henry was aware of muffled laughter around him.

This was because, if you ran an eye at head-height along the row of ballerinas as they tripped, arm in arm, onto the stage, there was an apparent gap.

This was only filled if the gaze went downward a foot or two, to a small fat ballerina in a huge grin, an overstretched tutu, long white drawers and…boots.

Henry stared. They were big boots. They moved back and forth at an astonishing speed. The satin slippers of the other dancers twinkled as they drifted across the floor, but the boots flashed and clattered like a tap dancer afraid of falling into the sink.

The pirouettes were novel, too. While the other dancers whirled like snowflakes, the little fat one spun like a top and moved across the floor like one, too, bits of her anatomy trying to achieve local orbit.

Around Henry members of the audience were whispering to one another.

“Oh yes,” he heard someone declare, “they tried this in Pseudopolis…”

His mother nudged him. “This supposed to happen?”

“Er…I don’t think so…”

“’S bloody good, though! A good laugh!”

As the fat ballerina collided with a donkey in evening dress she staggered and grabbed at his mask, which came off…

Herr Trubelmacher, the conductor, froze in horror and astonishment. Around him the orchestra rattled to a standstill, except for the tuba player—

—oom-BAH-oom-BAH-oom-BAH—

—who had memorized his score years ago and never took much interest in current affairs.

Two figures rose up right in front of Trubelmacher. A hand grabbed his baton.

“Sorry, sir,” said André, “but the show must go on, yes?” He handed the stick to the other figure.

“There you are,” he said. “And don’t let them stop.”

“Ook!”

The Librarian carefully lifted Herr Trubelmacher aside with one hand, licked the baton thoughtfully, and then focused his gaze on the tuba player.

—oom-BAH-oom-BAHhhh…oom…om…

The tuba player tapped a trombonist on the shoulder.

“Hey, Frank, there’s a monkey where old troublemaker should be—”

“Shutupshutupshutup!”

Satisfied, the orangutan raised his arms.

The orchestra looked up. And then looked up a bit more. No conductor in musical history, not even the one who once fried and ate the piccolo player’s liver on a cymbal for one wrong note too many, not even the one who skewered three troublesome violinists on his baton, not even the one who made really hurtful sarcastic remarks in a loud voice, was ever the focus of such reverential attention.

Onstage, Nanny Ogg took advantage of the hush to pull the head off a frog.

“Madam!”

“Sorry, thought you might be someone else…”

The long arms dropped. The orchestra, in one huge muddled chord, slammed back into life.

The dancers, after a moment’s confusion during which Nanny Ogg took the opportunity to decapitate a clown and a phoenix, tried to continue.

The chorus watched in bemusement.

Christine felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Agnes. “Perdita! Where have you been!?” she hissed. “It’s nearly time for my duet with Enrico!”

“You’ve got to help!” hissed Agnes. But down in her soul Perdita said: Enrico, eh? It’s Señor Basilica to everyone else…

“Help you what!?” said Christine.

“Take everyone’s masks off!”

Christine