Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [57]
There was a sound from the stage as they stood up. Walter had returned, followed by a slightly fatter Greebo. Oblivious to the watchers, he continued to mop the stage.
“First thing tomorrow,” said Granny, “we’ll go and see Mr. Goatberger the Almanack man again. I’ve had time to think about what to do next. And then we’re going to sort this out.”
She glared at the innocent figure washing the stage and said, under her breath: “What is it you know, Walter Plinge? What is it you’ve seen?”
“Wasn’t it amazing?!” said Christine, sitting up in bed. Her nightdress, Agnes had noted, was white. And extremely lacy.
“Yes, indeed,” said Agnes.
“Five curtain calls!! Mr. Bucket says that’s more than anyone’s ever had since Dame Gigli!! I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep for the excitement!!”
“So you just drink up that lovely hot milk drink I’ve done for us,” said Agnes. “It took me ages to carry the saucepan up those stairs.”
“And the flowers!!” said Christine, ignoring the mug Agnes had placed beside her. “They started arriving right after the performance, Mr. Bucket said!! He said—”
There was a soft knock at the door.
Christine adjusted her dress.
“Come!!”
The door opened and Walter Plinge shuffled in, hidden under the bouquets of flowers.
After a few steps he stumbled on his own feet, plunged forward, and dropped them. Then he stared at the two girls in mute embarrassment, turned suddenly, and walked into the door.
Christine giggled.
“Sorry mu-miss,” said Walter.
“Thank you, Walter,” said Agnes.
The door closed.
“Isn’t he strange?! Have you seen the way he stares at me?! Do you think you could find some water for these, Perdita?!”
“Certainly, Christine. It’s only seven flights of stairs.”
“And as a reward I shall drink this lovely drink you have made for me!! Has it got spices in it?”
“Oh. yes. Spices,” said Agnes.
“It’s not like one of those potions your witches cook up, is it?!”
“Er, no,” said Agnes. After all, everyone in Lancre used fresh herbs. “Er…there’s not going to be anything like enough vases for them all, even if I use the guzunder…”
“The what?!”
“The…you know. It’s goes-under…the bed. Guzunder.”
“You’re so funny!!”
“There won’t be, anyway,” said Agnes, blushing hotly. Behind her eyes, Perdita committed murder.
“Then put in all the ones from the earls and knights and I shall see to the others tomorrow!” said Christine, picking up the drink.
Agnes picked up the kettle and started toward the door.
“Perdita, dear?” said Christine, the mug halfway to her lips.
Agnes turned.
“It did seem to me you were singing the teensiest bit loud, dear! I’m sure it must have been a little difficult for everyone to hear me.”
“Sorry, Christine,” said Agnes.
She walked down in darkness. Tonight there was a candle burning in a niche on every second landing. Without them the stairs would have been merely dark; with them, shadows crept and leapt at every corner.
She reached the pump in the little alcove by the stage manager’s office, and filled the kettle.
Out on the stage, someone began to sing.
It was Peccadillo’s part of a duet of three hours earlier, but sung without music and in a tenor voice of such tone and purity that the kettle dropped out of Agnes’s hand and spilled cold water over her feet.
She listened for a while, and then realized that she was singing the soprano part under her breath.
The song came to an end. She could hear, far off, the hollow sound of footsteps retreating in the distance.
She ran to the door to the stage, paused a moment, and then opened it and went forward and out onto the huge dim emptiness. The candles left burning were as much illumination as stars on a clear night. There was no one there.
She walked into the center of the stage, and stopped, and caught her breath at the shock.
She could feel the auditorium in front of her, the huge empty space making the sound that velvet would make if it could snore.
It wasn’t silence. A stage is never silent.