Free The Cornerstone by Anne C. Petty

particular its ginger-bearded director, who was brilliant and overbearing in an old-world, European royalty sort of way. It was Kit Bayard who’d suggested he look for a paying job at The Rookery, a large used bookstore on the south side frequented by the city’s academics and literati and specializing in hard-to-find, even rare, books. A number of Bayard’s valuable first-edition playbooks had come from there.
    “Places!” Bayard’s baritone cut across the backstage chatter. Claire watched Tom get up with a flinch and take his mark. Silence descended, and Ruben adjusted the spots to focus on the figure of Faustus standing beside his desk. Lucifer, a portrait photographer in his forties who said he’d wanted the part because he got to wear red face paint and horns in costume, entered and commanded Faustus to have a seat and observe a little show cooked up by the underworld entertainment board.
    “Go, Mephistopheles, fetch them in.” He waved grandly.
    One by one, Pride, Covetousness, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, Sloth, and Lechery paraded across the stage as Faustus questioned each regarding his or her particular talents. When he inquired of “Mistress Minx” what manner of apparition she was, Addie oozed voluptuousness that ensured no one would miss the double entendre of her answer: “I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than a plate of fried stockfish”—a line guaranteed to draw laughter from the audience—“and the first letter of my name begins with Lechery.” Tom leered at her appropriately.
    The mage’s allegiance to Hell firmly reestablished, Lucifer turned and led the Sins offstage, calling back to Faustus, “I will come for thee at midnight.” The lights dimmed to a single murky pool encircling Faustus in his ornate chair with Mephistopheles hovering at his shoulder like a vulture.
    “Farewell, great Lucifer,” Tom said, signaling their retreat with an upraised hand. He then got up and turned to his companion. “We twain shall be off as well. Come, Mephistopheles!” Linking arms, Hell’s lieutenant and Faustus exited stage left, like mates off to a rugby match. The lights winked off, but for a second or two a murky red haze lingered around Faustus’ chair instead of plunging the stage into the intended blackout. Claire put the script down and rubbed her eyes. No, the effect was gone. The house lights came up. She cut a quick look at Bayard standing in the wings beside her. Although he chewed the end of an index finger as he stared at the chair in Faustus’ study, there was no other sign he might have seen anything amiss. But then he pulled out his cell phone and called someone. Claire listened intently as he talked to Ruben.
    “So what was that just now?” Bayard turned and faced the lighting control booth nestled in a small balcony above the back row of seats. “Is that so? No, everything’s fine.” Bayard walked out onstage and stood beside the chair, seeming lost in thought. He didn’t ponder long, though.
    “All right, everyone. Gather round, please.” He addressed this to the empty rows of seats in front of him, but his voice carried well enough that within a minute or two the entire cast and crew had gathered.
    “Very well done,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the assemblage. “The play is in brilliant shape, so we’ll call it a night. Go home, get a good night’s sleep. I needn’t remind you full dress rehearsal is in two weeks. This is the first time the Mummers Theatrical Company has mounted a production of The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus , so donors and patrons will be attending the opening night performance, and I feel safe in saying they are in for an amazing evening of theater.”
    The guy playing Lucifer—Dave? Drew? Claire couldn’t remember—initiated a brief round of applause, followed by laughter and heated chatter as the troupe dispersed. Bayard stayed onstage, conferring with Ruben. Claire would have paid good money to stay and eavesdrop,