Free Night Storm by Tracey Devlyn Page A

Piper whispered. “You’re only ten stairs from the top. I can help you down or we can go back up and watch Felix’s audition. The stage is rather quiet right now. I think Mr. Riordan is exacting a bit of punishment for Felix’s tardiness.”
    Charlotte could not miss Felix’s special moment. Unfortunately, the small balcony above them was the only place where they could safely watch his audition. She drew in a deep inhalation and opened her eyes, though she did not look down. “Help me back up, please.”
    With soft coaxing words and gentle nudges, Piper managed to twist her around and encourage her upward, step by step. Her legs shook and sweat drenched her palms. To her great humiliation, the only way she managed the journey was to crawl on her hands and feet. A rather difficult achievement in a narrow skirt.
    She could imagine no greater relief than when her bottom finally plopped down on her chair’s seat. Pulling a handkerchief from her reticule, she blotted beads of perspiration from her face and neck, then using the flimsy linen to fan herself.
    Glancing at Piper sitting next to her, she said, “Thank you.”
    “You’re rather white, Mrs. Fielding. Shall I get you something to drink?”
    Charlotte produced a sheepish smile. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine in a moment. Perhaps we’ll find the other set of stairs Peter spoke of when we’re ready to head down.”
    “Of course.” Piper peered over the wooden railing. Her mouth gaped open. “Look at him.”
    Easing forward, Charlotte peered down at the stage. Rather than perform his monologue in his regular garments, Felix came resplendent in a stunning red and gold Roman costume. He wore a long flowing red cloak embellished with gold thread, sturdy arm guards, a worn leather apron sectioned into strips that hung to his knees, a short-sleeved red tunic beneath it all, and leather-strapped sandals.
    He looked fresh off a Roman conquest. All he needed was a sword, a helmet, and a few spatters of blood. The outlandish costume suited him, somehow. The masculine lines and bold colors of his outfit revealed a side of him that she would never have guessed existed.
    “Mr. Scott,” Mr. Riordan called. “What will you be sharing with us this afternoon?”
    “ J-Julius Caesar, sir.” Like many others, Felix cleared his throat. “Act three, scene two. A passage by Marc Antony.”
    “Proceed.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Felix’s chin rose and his chest expanded.
     
    If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
    You all do know this mantle: I remember
    The first time ever Caesar put it on;
    ’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,
    That day he overcame the Nervii:
    Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:
    See what a rent the envious Casca made:
    Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d’
    And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
    Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it,
    If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;
    For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel:
    Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
    This was the most unkindest cut of all;
    For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
    Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
    Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
    And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
    Even at the base of Pompey’s statua,
    Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
    O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
    Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
    Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
    O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
    The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
    Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
    Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,
    Here is himself, marr’d as you see, with traitors.
     
    Piper snapped up and started to applaud her brother’s performance. Charlotte laid a staying hand on her assistant’s arm. In the ensuing silence, Charlotte’s heart thundered in her ears. She could still feel the powerful emotion behind