One spirit flies with words, another flies with wings...

Their fledgling hearts learning to soar...

Lovebirds

by Meghan Elizabeth Brunner

                “Not that I have anythin’ ‘gainst this kinda thing, but why tonight?  We could both use some sleep; it’s been a rough few days, ya know, an’ we jus’ got back inta town.  I for one’d like ta get ta home base an’ bag some z’s.”  Monterey complained, plopping down hard on a cushioned seat.

                “For crying out loud, Monterey!  It’s a play, not an all-night party!  You don’t do anything. You just sit there,” Wilec cried, exasperated, as he took his seat with less force.  He reminded himself to be patient -- Monty’s arm was probably troubling him.  The huge mouse loved a punch-up, but was considerably less graceful about letting his body heal afterward.  This time it was a broken arm -- and quite a while before he would be fit for adventuring again.  The pilot was not looking forward to the coming weeks if his buddy had begun to get antsy already.

                “But why now?  Why not tomorrow night?”

                “Because tonight’s closing night!  Besides,” he added teasingly, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth, “you promised your mom you’d ‘get some culture while you’re out gallivanting around, getting into who knows what kind of trouble!’“

                “‘Ere now, mate!”  He sat up, insulted.  “I- “

                Wilec laughed, leaning back.  “Don’t get mad, Monterey.  I was just joking.”

                “Yeah, I’ll bet,” he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms.

                “Hey, would you rather have an art museum?  Sef said West Side Story is supposed to be good, a couple of punch-up scenes in here somewhere.  That oughta keep you awake.”

                “Still wish I’s at ‘ome,” he sulked.

                Wilec rolled his eyes.  He’d gotten balcony seats, what more did Monty want?  A sudden dimming of the house lights spared him having to answer.

                The curtain went up.  A bunch of guys dancing around.  Whoopie.  A fight scene.  .  . a little more interesting.  Then a bunch of guys talking.  Wilec began to wonder if perhaps Monterey had been right, but his musing was cut short by a woman on stage.  She wore pauper’s clothing, her wavy ebony-black hair bound in a mostly useless ponytail, yet remained beautiful.  She begged her friend to lower the neckline of her dress just a little more.  .  .  Wilec wasn’t sure if he hoped the friend would agree -- she was beautiful -- or not -- perhaps she was too beautiful to flaunt it so.  .  .

                “Only babies wear white!” the actress -- Maria -- protested.

                “Or angels.  Or doves.  .  .  Who is she, Monty?” he sighed.  Then, when he received no answer, “Monty?  Monterey Jack!”

                The Australian was sound asleep.

                I’ll have to get the program from him later, he decided, and went back to enjoying the story,

and even more, the leading actress.

                The dance.  .  .  oh, what did those other girls matter at all?  She was the most beautiful one there, and she loved.  .  .  Tony.  But Wilec watched them dance and saw himself in the hero, bit back a curse as Maria’s brother interrupted the pair before they could kiss.  And then brought Maria home.  How utterly unfair.

                Almost the entire Puerto Rican side of the cast gathered on a rooftop for a song-and-dance number, mildly entertaining.  .  .  but Wilec was impatient for the heroine to get back on-stage.

                At last, she did.  On the fire escape, hushing a love-struck Tony who gazed up at her from the street.  .  . began singing.  .  .  And Maria joined.  Wilec lunged to the front of his seat, leaning over the railing slightly.  Her voice.  .  .  fey, elfin, soaring.  .  .  could such a beautiful sound be real?  He gazed at the goddess on stage; his heart realized how possible it was.  And when curtain call came, no one applauded with a higher level of enthusiasm than a certain mouse wearing a bomber jacket in the balcony.

                “Earth to Wilec!  ‘Ello!  We’re losin’ contact!  Help me out, ‘ere!” Monterey teased once they left

the theatre for the empty alley; they were the last ones out.

                “Wha- ?  I’m sorry, Monty, did you say something?”

                “Whoa, mate!  Am I gonna hafta tie lead weights ta yer feet?”

                “What are you talking about?”

                “You!  Ya been walkin’ on air all the way outta the theatre, an’ I wanna know what the deal is!  A fella’d think yer in love!”

                “Me?” The pilot grinned guiltily.

                “Is it one of the actresses?  Wait, don’t tell me: the leading lady.”

                “Monterey -”

                “She was good, wasn’t she?”

                “How would you know?” he scoffed.  “You slept through the entire performance!”

                “I did not!” the snoozer countered indignantly.  “I -”

                “Shhhh!”

                A door a little distance from the one for public use opened, and two women stepped out, one distinctly taller than the other. The taller one called back inside, “Don’t start having too much fun without us, ‘kay?”

                A female voice within gasped melodramatically.  “Never!”

                The two figures laughed as they shut the door.  “I don’t know how I managed to forget something as important as the cake!” the shorter one marveled.

                “Well, ya know how ya get,” the first comforted, then joked, “Ready for Romeo and Juliet tryouts a week from today?”

                “Not on your life!”

                The sound of an engine whirred to life, then some sort of vehicle shot past the two men and into the night, leaving them to stare after the mystery object.

                “That was her, Monty!  I’d know her voice anywhere.”

                “Which one?”

                “The second.”

                “She sounds pretty, I guess,” the heavy-set mouse considered as they climbed the fire escape to the roof.

                “You guess?”

                He shrugged in the darkness.  “Couldn’t see her, an’ I’ve known plenty-a pretty voices what went

with real toads.  Why, I remember once back in New Guinea when I was.  .  .”

*                              *                              *

                “‘Ere now! What’s the big idea?” growled an extremely grumpy adventurer, defensively pulling his blanket over his head as sudden and intense light poured into the room.

                The pilot didn’t reply, only grinned as he threw open the window and leaned out, taking a deep breath of morning air.  Outside, a dove greeted the world in song.

                “Silly bird!  Thinks it’s the best singer in the world!  Little does it realize there’s another voice just as sweet, if not sweeter.”  The sound of his lady-love’s voice flitted through his mind, reluctant to be captured by something as imperfect as memory. Too beautiful to be mortal.  He shivered slightly at the thought.

                Monty threw a pillow at his “best mate” before retreating to the warmth of his makeshift cave.

“Ya must really be over the deep end, mate.  Usually it’s the other way around, me out there and you in ‘ere.”

                “Where’d you put it?”

                “It?  It what?  Sober up, pallie.  You’re way too high on life.  An’ talk straight, wouldja?  It’s too early to be playin’ guessin’ games.”

                “The program from West Side Story, Monty!  What else?”

                “In the right pocket o’ me jacket, I s’pose...” he mumbled.

                Wilec looked around the room.  It certainly spoke for its occupant: somewhat exotic, very adventurous, and definitely one of a kind.  A large skull of some sort of animal with sharp teeth lurked in one corner, souvenirs from past adventures protected within its jaws.  Not that all the “treasures” stayed there; a number of assorted odds and ends -- such as a rabbit’s foot, a gargoyle, and a wrapper from some long-ago eaten cheese -- cluttered the place.  No bed could be found.  .  . a hammock took care of that. Now, where would a simple trenchcoat hide?

                At last he located the garment and leisurely searched its pockets.  Some string, a paper clip, two buttons, a whole bunch of lint.  .  .  no program.  Frowning, he tried again, with slight panic this time.  Still nothing.  “It’s not there!”

                “So I must’ve dropped it.”

                “You dropped it?!”

                “Yes, I dropped it.  Switch to decaf, mate.  It’s jus’ a piece o’ paper.  It’s not like it’s important!”

                “Not important!  How am I supposed to find out her name now?” he wailed.

                “Whose name?”

                He almost ground his teeth in frustration.  He can be so thick at times!  “My dove’s! Who else?”

                “Why don’tcha jus’ lean out the window an’ ask it?”

                “Not -!  I didn’t mean -!”

                “I know whatcha meant, mate.  I was jus’ pullin’ yer tail.”  He grinned mischievously, emerging from his hideaway.

                “It’s not funny, Monterey.”  He seriously considered throwing the pillow back at Monterey.

                “Aw, lighten up, Wilec.”

                He frowned, then brightened a little.  “There’s still a chance.”

                “Whazzat?”

                “She said something about auditions, a week from yesterday.  .  .” he paced to the wall, then did a

crisp about-face, slightly disgusted.  “I wish you had a calendar in here.”

                “Romeo and Juliet?  Mate, yer no actor!”

                He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve never tried, but it’s worth a shot.”

                “Sure, but Shakespeare?  You won’t even know what you’re sayin’!  Thou dothtest seest mayst canst thyst theest...”

                “I’ll figure it out.  I know the plot.  Boy meets girl.  Boy falls in love with girl.  Girl falls in love with boy.  Boy confesses love to girl on a balcony. Their parents don’t like it.  Boy gets banished.  Girl drugs herself.  Boy comes home, thinks girl’s dead.  Boy poisons himself.  Girl wakes up, finds out boy’s dead, kills herself.  End of story, everybody’s dead, curtain down.”

                “I think it’s a little more complicated than that.”

                “I have to try.  If I don’t, I’ll never see her again!”

                Monterey Jack dragged himself out of bed and placed his enormous hands on his pal’s shoulders. or tried to -- his left one didn’t work since it was in a sling.  He frowned at it, then turned back to Wilec. “Mate, she ain’t gonna be nothin’ but trouble.  Ya know how women are.  An’ this one’s an actress!  All she’s gonna want’s fame an’ the spotlight.”

                “Some actresses, yes.  Not my dove.  She’s different.”

                “How d’ya know?  Ya haven’t met ‘er!”

                “Neither have you!”

                “Jus’ the same, mate, I hate ta see ya get hurt.  I deep-sixed that program sos you’d forget ‘bout her.”

                “WHAT?!”

                “She’s gonna turn out some high-an’-mighty prima donna what’ll only break yer ‘eart.  You’d never catch me runnin’ after an actress.  .  .  She might be pretty ta look at, maybe pretty ta hear, but they call ‘em stars for a reason, ya know.  They’re jus’ like the one’s in the sky -- unreachable.”

                “Thanks for the advice, Monty.  Maybe you’re right.”

                “See -”

                “But you could be wrong, too, and I don’t want to take the chance.  Either way, I have to figure out something to audition with.  So.  Are you with me or not?”

                The taller mouse sighed.  Well, if he’s gonna keep bashin’ his head against a brick wall like usual, I may as well be there to drag ‘im off when he finally collapses.  After all, that’s what bein’ best mates is, right?  “I’m with ya so long’s ya don’t try gettin’ me in a skirt an’ stickin’ me on the kitchen table ta rehearse.  But you can expect a big fat ‘I toldja so’ when this whole thing flops.”

*                              *                              *

                Wilec gazed around the auditorium from his vantage point in the back row, then turned back to the sheet of paper before him.  Prefered role? That’s easy. Romeo. Previous experience?  There were a whole bunch of lines after the question.  I bet almost everyone here could fill them all and need another sheet of paper, he thought grimly, and sighed.  Monty’s right. She’ll make Juliet for sure, but what chance do I have at getting Romeo against all these people with practice? No!  It’s not how often you’ve flown, it’s how well you can handle the plane.  Still, it was a bit dispiriting to write the word “None.”

                There.  He’d finished.  Trying to act self-confident, he strode up to the desk and handed the questionnaire to the freckled guinea pig seated there.  She was wheat-colored with a tousle of gray hair and a brisk-yet-motherly air about her.  Pulling her glasses off the top of her head so she could use them, the lady scanned the form and looked up, a spark of amusement in her brown eyes. He attempted an assured smile, but only half-succeeded.

                “Your first time?” she smiled.

                “Yeah,” he admitted.

                “Nervous?  Just remember: ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself.’  Break a leg out there.  You’re up seventh.”

                “Thanks.”  He quickly returned to his seat.

                Minutes dragged on endlessly until a voice rang out from the stage. “It looks like we’re all here.”  All eyes turned to the stage; the guinea pig from the forms desk stood front and center. She had on a forest green shirt, brown rolled-cuff pants, and a royal blue sweater tied around her waist.  A jade peach pendant peeked out from below her white collar.  “And I’m sure you want to get on with it.  ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’  But since not everyone will be here at the end of auditions, I’d like to announce that the cast list will be posted on Wednesday.  Remember: ‘There are no small parts, only small  performers.’ Anyone who doesn’t make it can join the crew if they want.  Those who do make it are welcome, too, of course; ‘A helping hand is a welcome hand.’  That’s about it.  Break a leg, guys. Alastair?  You want to start us off?”

                “Sure’s ya please!”

                A sturdily-built mouse moseyed onto the stage as the guinea pig took a seat in the first row.

                “Try Mercutio’s ‘Queen Mab’ speech.  The script should be open to the page.”

                He’s pretty good, Wilec assessed.  I don’t know much about the rules for casting, but he’s pretty good.  He watched the parade of talent before him, trying to hold off the jitters.  If all else fails, there’s always crew.  I’d at least get to see her once in a while, right?  But it won’t fail.  Seven’s lucky.

                And then, “Number seven?  Wilec?”

                He strode to the stage, all the while repeating his mantra: “Seven’s lucky.  Seven’s lucky.  Seven’s lucky.”  When he got to the stage, however, he couldn’t help but wonder how much luck could possibly do.

                “Hello, heartbreaker!” a squirrel in the eighth row whispered, sitting forward on her seat to get a better view.  Not that it did much.  “Check it out, girls!  He must be new.  I’d never forget someone who looks like that.  Wonder if he’ll be leading man?”

                “‘.  .  . Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,’ -- not now, I’m busy dying of fright -- ‘till the dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore, of -’”

                “‘Never- nevermore!’” another actress finished dramatically.  “What comfortable words speakest

thou!”

                “It’s the only thing keeping me from introducing last night’s dinner -- I was too nervous to eat anything today -- to the floor.  Oh!  Now I lost my place.  Keep calm, start over.  ‘Once upon a midnight dreary.  .  .  ’”

                “I still say he’s date-bait.”

                “And hast the true name of.  .  .  ?”

                “Wilec.”

                “Dashing.”

                “Not my type,” a fourth actress -- flame-haired -- frowned slightly, shaking her head.

                “Perchance for Nevermore?”

                The other two nodded, then lapsed into silence, with only the almost inaudible words of Poe’s Raven underscoring the performers on stage.

                The nervous one jumped at the sound of her name.  “Number thirteen?” she whispered.  “It would be.  I’m going to die.”

                “As if thou needst worry!”

                “Thanks,” she smiled weakly.

                “Break a leg,” the others chorused.

                She nodded and made her way down the isle and up the stairs leading to the stage, sure with every step  that her knees would give way.  She felt as if she’d eaten an entire bag of sugar in an hour, and her heart refused to remain in its rightful place, taking up residence in her throat.  She bent to pick up the script, hands shaking so she could hardly grasp it, fingers too numb to realize when she had.

                “Act four, scene three, line fourteen.”

                She fumbled through the pages, stiff with fright, yet the instant she began her fear evaporated like breath-frost on a chill winter morning.  Anxieties couldn’t touch her here; this was home, on stage with script in hand.

                Wilec watched as a blonde-haired young lady about his own age nervously climbed the stairs and crossed to center stage.  She shook as if caught in a blizzard wearing only a swimsuit despite the fact that she was clothed in a cream-colored sweater over a high-necked blue jumpsuit.  There was a pencil tucked behind her right ear and a crystal pendant glittered at her throat.  Funny, it’s like I’ve seen her somewhere before.  .  . but where?  It doesn’t matter.  Poor girl.  She looks like I felt.  Wonder if it’s her first time, too?

                But with the first word she spoke, he knew otherwise.  She became Juliet, doubtful of whether or not she should drink from a vial whose contents would make her appear dead.  If someone had addressed her by her offstage name, the pilot was almost positive she wouldn’t respond.

                That’s my dove!  And I didn’t hear her name, he cursed silently.  And she’s blonde!  Brilliant, Sure-Luck!  She probably wore a wig for West Side Story; whoever heard of a blonde Puerto Rican?

                “.  .  . Romeo, I come!  This I do drink to thee!”

                Everyone remained perfectly still, spellbound, for a good thirty seconds before they came to themselves with ardent applause and an occasional whistle for the actress.  The sudden clamor startled her into a blush; she ducked her head with a self-conscious smile, placed the script on the floor, and beat a hasty retreat.

                When the last person left the stage and the last round of applause subsided, all the actors and actresses gathered in the lobby, congratulating each other on jobs well done whether or not the person receiving congratulations deserved it.  The newcomer stood and took it all in.

                A familiar voice attracted his attention, that of the tall girl he had heard in the alley a week ago. “I tell ya, you’re gonna get Juliet!”

                “Me?” squeaked a startled reply.  Then, in the voice he recognized as dove’s, “Thanks, Cleo, but I don’t think so.  You -”

                Wilec located the two, standing with two others, just in time to see a male with sandy-blonde hair interrupt her.

                “Ya done real good.  Yes siree, mighty fine.  You’ll get ta be Juliet fer sure, yep, yep.”

                “Thank you, Alastair,” she acknowledged.

                “I jus’ hope I’s gets ta be Romeo,” he added, kissing her hand, then sauntered off.

                “I think he likes you,” a redhead observed objectively when he was out of earshot.

                The dove gave her a Look as she unconsciously scrubbed her hand against the leg of her pants.

                “He is not thy Prince Charming?” a mouse with raven-black hair done up in a bun replied with melodramatic pseudo-shock.

                “Not him.  I may be single, but I’m not desperate.”

                Wilec smiled slightly, and silently vowed that he would be the one. He scolded himself for eavesdropping and went over to introduce himself, but found the girls had been standing by a door; they were gone.  As he nonchalantly exited, a strange vehicle shot past him to the hum of motors, leaving a joyous whoop of “Four spoons, no bowls!” behind.

                “What did that mean?” he wondered aloud, then shrugged.  Whatever it was, it wouldn’t do any good to loose sleep over it.  Some things just weren’t meant to be understood.  Especially if they had anything to do with women.

*                              *                              *

                The pilot scanned the names written in block letters across the fronts of endless scripts, searching for his own.

                “You must be Wilec.”

                He turned to face a tall red squirrel in a casual button-down green shirt.  “I am.”

                “Thought so; I didn’t recognize you.  My name’s Temlyhin Wal’atsdani, but just call me Tem.” They shook hands.  He then offered a script.  “Congratulations.  Not many people can land a part on their first try.  It looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other; I’m Mercutio.”

                He looked down in disbelief.  A script.  With his name on it.  But no part!  He opened the front cover and scanned the list of names until he found the highlighted one.  “Romeo?” he read in wide-eyed disbelief.

                “That’s right,” he grinned as they began walking across the stage.

                Meanwhile, a blonde-haired mouse also apprehensively scanned the playbooks, not really expecting to find one for her but hoping anyhow.  Nothing.  She sighed, disappointed although not surprised.  Well, there’s always crew. I should find the others and see who got whom.

                Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to find the guinea pig grinning like a Cheshire cat.

                “I think you’re looking for this.” She held a script before her.

                Her eyes went wide.  “Mine?”  Gingerly she took it, biting her lower lip as she opened the cover

and skipped to the highlighted name.  “Juliet?!”  Her eyebrows nearly climbed into her hair.  “Juliet?!” She threw her arms around her friend.  “Oh, thank you!”

                “Thank me? ‘Honor must be earned.’”

                She just beamed, flipped open to a random page and began reciting, “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Rome-oh!” she exclaimed, startled, as she accidentally collided with a mouse dressed in a bomber jacket and a flight scarf.  “I’m sorry -!”  She suddenly realized she had no idea who this person was, and blushed hotly.

                “It’s all right -”

                “You got Juliet?” Temlyhin smiled.

                She grinned.  “How did you know?”

                He shrugged.  “Safe bet. I’m Mercutio.”

                “Terrific!” She turned to find the stranger looking at her, and blushed more intensely than before.

                “This is Wilec.  He’ll be your leading man this play.  Wilec, this is Sarah Haley.”

                “Hi,” she greeted with a bashful smile.

                “Hi,” he returned, suddenly at a loss for words, wondering if her eyes were the color of a spring sky or if the spring sky had taken its hue from her eyes.

                “Nice to meet you.  Well, I’ve got to-  The others-  Excuse me,” she hurried off, thankful to be away.

                “She’s a little shy,” he explained.

                “I noticed,” Wilec returned, although he didn’t find the word little appropriate. He paused a moment, then began, “Are the two of you.  .  .  together?”

                He looked startled at the thought.  “No; what would make you think that?”

                “Just wondering.”

                “Don’t,” he cautioned.  His words sounded like a warning, but his voice was one of friendly advice.  “No one ever ‘just wonders’ about Sarah, and for your own sake, don’t.”

                “Why not?” he frowned.

                “You see Alastair over there?  Dress shirt, vest, sandy-blonde hair?”

                “Yeah.”

                “He has his eye on her, and he doesn’t like competition, to put it mildly.  He can have quite a temper, and you don’t want to be the one he’s angry at.”

                “Voice of experience?”

                “I’ve seen it happen. Never been me and never will be -- thankfully -- but just the same, it’s not going to be pleasant for you if he finds out you might be a ‘threat.’”

                “Cast call!  Get in a semi-circle!  ‘He who hesitates is lost!’”

                “Time to find out who’s who,” Temlyhin explained as Wilec followed him to where the others were gathering.

                The guinea pig stood before them.  “Before we all introduce ourselves, yes, there is a new actor here.  I’m sure you’ve all figured out who it is, so be patient with him; it’s his first time through this. Remember how all of you felt your first time on stage?”  Various low murmurs and a few blushes followed. “Good.  Just keep it in mind and give him a hand when he needs it.  You all know the procedure: when it’s your turn, stand up and give your name, who you play, and the character description in the book.  My name is Tocwildi S’heranbonne, and I play the director.  I tell you where to stand and when, give you suggestions, tell you what you’re doing right, and generally make sure our play is ready on Opening Night.  Okay, we’ll start with -”

                The mouse Tem had warned his new friend of strode to stand before those gathered and stared at them challengingly.  “Alastair Reese.  I’s playin’ Paris, a young count, kinsman to the Prince.  Loves Juliet.”  He defensively took his seat on the floor once again, with murmurs and Looks under.  More than a couple people glared at him.

                “Juliet didn’t like Paris,” Tem whispered.  “Al’s gonna be in a bad mood for the whole play.”

                “Let the Sisters go first,” someone suggested chivalrously, glaring pointedly at Alastair.

                Wilec looked puzzledly at the girls; none of them looked even distantly related.  “Sisters?” he repeated in bewilderment.

                “Sisters of the Stage. The girls spend so much time together that they might as well be sisters.

Someone -- I don’t even remember who -- gave them the name, and it stuck.”

                “Sarah?” Tocwildi invited.

                Blushing slightly, she was careful not to let her gaze linger too long on her costar.  “My name is Sarah Haley Coleman, and I portray the daughter of Capulet, Juliet, who is in love with Romeo.” Everyone applauded as she took her place; she was the undisputed favorite of the troupe.

                “All hail her Highness!” a squirrel called to another of his species as she took Sarah’s place as the center of attention.

                She fluttered long, thick eyelashes and smiled suggestively to him, causing a few whistles from the other actors. As if she had not heard the others, she advanced on him in nothing short of a glide. Her tight-fitting shirt and pants (aqua and purple, respectively) and flared short skirt (brilliant red) called attention to her every movement.  “Just call me.  .  .  Cleopatra,” the gray squirrel invited in spellbinding voice as she fluidly sat opposite him.  Her thick, luxurious tail curled around to tickle him under his chin; his face came so close to hers they almost touched noses.

                “Queen of denial!” the actresses chorused jokingly.

                She brushed taffy-colored hair from her eyes, her quiet laughter a stream caressing stones, and rose to smile sheepishly at Tocwildi.  “My name’s Sandy Loen, and I play Lady Montegue, wife to Montegue, mother to Romeo.”

                “So, for the benefit of our new actor, what’s Sandy short for?” a chipmunk taunted.

                She glared at him, her eyes green ice.  “None of your concern,” she reprimanded sharply.

                The actresses exchanged secretly amused smiles.

                “So what does it stand for?” Wilec inquired in a low voice.

                His compatriot shrugged.  “She refuses to tell.  We’ve been after her about it a long time, but she never gives in.”

                The pilot hmmed.  The woman wore a silver oval-shaped pendant, Egyptian in origin.  .  .  he couldn’t recall the talisman’s name, but unless he missed his guess her real name was rendered in hieroglyphs within the oval frame.  “Get a good look at that pendant and you’ll have your answer.”

                Tem’s eyes widened speculatively, re-assessing his friend, but said nothing.

                Wilec wondered a little about the next one; her clothing made her look as if she’d just returned from a funeral, and the gaze she cast on her fellow performers was level, detached, but more blank than condescending.  “I’m Aletna Thal’a’bateu.  My character is Lady Capulet, wife to Lord Capulet, mother of Juliet, Tybalt’s aunt.”

                Her exact opposite went up next, in a wide-belted red dress with blue-and-purple embroidery around the hem, neck, and cuffs, her black hair caught up in a flawless bun.  She looked slightly frazzled for no particular reason.  “I am named Kaleerit Ta’maizalire, and I portray Juliet’s Nurse.”  Around her neck hung a loop of crocheted brown yarn with a triangular purple-and-white agate attached; Wilec began to wonder if the necklace each wore was a symbol among the women and asked as much.

                Tem shrugged.  “Who knows why women do what they do?”

                Wilec had to agree.

                Lord Capulet, Lord Montague, Romeo, Tybalt, Benvolio.  .  .  the entertainers one by one announced themselves in a procession that took quite a while to end.  When at last the final actor sat down, Tocwildi reassumed her position as mistress of ceremonies.

                “I’m sure it’s hard to make the connections of who is on who’s side, especially if you aren’t familiar with it, so we’ll start off with a quick little exercise before we get to blocking.”

                A communal groan went up, and most of the performers either rolled their eyes or cast them skyward.

                “Take all the time you want,” Sandy assured her.  “We’re not in any big hurry.”

                “What’s so bad about blocking?” the pilot questioned.

                “It’s boring as all get-out,” Temlyhin informed him.  “You do nothing but stand around in one place, take notes in your script, then move to the next place when she tells you to.  It’s long, it’s slow, and you don’t get to read any lines.”

                “It’s no fun for me, either,” the director reminded, “but ‘the sooner begun, the sooner finished.’

Capulets and their allies to stage right, Montagues and theirs to stage left, everyone else upstage.”

                “Stage what?”

                “Just follow me.”

                “Okay, Capulet and Montegue, face off down center.  Lady Capulet, Lady Montegue, next to them.  Okay, now Romeo and Juliet, next to your mothers.  .  .  ”

                The two stars stood opposite one another, Sarah a bit timidly.  She gave him a fleeting, bashful smile, then studiously kept her entire attention fixed on her director.  Wilec, however, often discreetly glanced at his leading lady, and could no more than half-succeed in keeping his mind trained on the oration Tocwildi presented for her performers’ benefit.

*                              *                              *

                “So, how’d it go, mate?” called Monterey from the kitchen when he heard the front door open.

                Wilec sauntered in with a lop-sided grin.  “You’ll never guess.”

                “Well, judgin’ from the looks of ya.  .  .  ”

                “Romeo, Monty!  I got Romeo!  And Sarah -- that’s her name -- is Juliet!”

                The large mouse’s face split in an answering smile. “Well, congratulations, me boy-o.  I take it you introduced yerself.”

                “Yeah.”

                “And?”

                “And what?”

                “Whaddya mean ‘and what’?  An’ what’d she think?”

                The pilot’s brow creased slightly.  “I don’t know.  She’s very.  .  .  ”

                “Stuck-up?”

                “No,” he scowled at his friend, “she is not stuck-up.  Just extremely shy.”  Briefly he related the day’s events.  .  .  including Tem’s warning.

                The Australian let out a low whistle.  “Looks like you’ve got yer work cut out for ya there, pally.  I’m sure she’ll warm up a little in time, once she gets ta know ya.  An’ if that bloke Al gives ya any trouble, ya know I’ll stand by ya in a fight.”

                “Thanks, Monty.  I just hope it never comes to that.”

*                              *                              *

                Singing happily to herself, Sarah hopped down from her “car” and started for the “cast and crew only” door.  Finally they had finished with blocking; today they would get up there and act. Uncertainly working it out for the first time, and with scripts to hamper their movements, true, but it was certainly better than blocking.  Anything was better than blocking.  And despite herself, she was a little curious to see how the newcomer to the troupe would hold out.  He must have been pretty impressive to merit the hero on his first appearance at this stage, but she didn’t recall his audition.  It must have been before mine.  Her musings were cut short when she caught sight of a young girl-mouse, about nine or ten years old, sitting on a box across the alley.

                “Hello,” the actress smiled.  “My name’s Sarah Haley.”  Somehow, children never made her as nervous as adults.

                “Hi,” the little one hesitantly returned, blushing slightly.  She tugged her chestnut-brown braid without seeming to notice.  “I’m Caprice.”

                “Can I help you?”

                The little girl cast large brown-green eyes downward.  “I don’t think so.”

                “What’s wrong?”

                “I want to act, but the sign says they’re already rehearsing for Romeo and Juliet.”

                The blonde smiled.  “Well, maybe you won’t be able to act, but I’m sure there’s something you can do to help behind the scenes.”

                “You mean it?” Caprice gasped, starry eyes bright with hope and admiration.

                “Sure.  Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”  She offered her hand, and the girl -- even more rosy-cheeked than before -- eagerly accepted, hopping down from her box.

                Sarah couldn’t help but grin slightly at Caprice’s open-mouthed awe when she got her first glimpse of the stage.  All the complicated lights hanging above, the pulleys for various curtains, the actors and actresses milling about.  .  .  it was pretty fantastic.

                “Who have we here?” Tocwildi asked, striding over to the duo.

                “Caprice, ma’am.”

                “She’d like to help out with the play, Tacy.  Caprice, this is our director Tocwildi S’harenbonne.”

                “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

                “Oh, just call me Tacy.  Everyone else does.  Now come along; I’m sure we can find something for you to do.  ‘A helping hand is a welcome hand.’”

                As she was hustled off, Caprice grinned back at Sarah, who smiled and waved before joining the other actresses.

                “Who’s the kid in blue?” Sandy asked.

                “Her name’s Caprice.  She’ll be helping out backstage.”

                “The Page of Cups,” Aletna spoke, abruptly looking up.

                The others only gave her blank stares.

                “The Page of Cups.  A child with brown hair, hazel eyes, and an exceptional imagination.  You

called her Caprice.”

                “Speakest thou from thy Cards?” Kaley asked, tapping the wooden box.

                The redhead glanced past her friend, murmured, “And here the Knight of Swords.”  Then, with

a light smile, “Date-bait, I believe you called him, Sandy.”

                “Which one?” Sarah Haley jested.

                Aletna raised her eyebrows slightly, inclined her head to where Wilec had just entered.  The others followed her gaze.

                The squirrel laughed, put on an expression of innocence.  “Who, me? Aletna, you’ve been reading Freud again.  I’m his mother!”

                Sarah, meanwhile, had quickly seated herself beside Aletna, desperately hoping the new actor wouldn’t notice her.

                “You’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later,” The psychic voiced lowly.  Her words were matter-of-fact, but her tone was kind.

                “I know,” the blonde said miserably, eyes downcast.  “I was just hoping that -”

                “Take up your scripts!”  Tocwildi called from center stage.  “‘A well-worn book is a well-known

book!’“

                “That.  .  .  something.  Oh, I don’t know.  And it doesn’t matter; real rehearsal is beginning!”

                Juliet watched the proceedings with interest, and smiled to herself.  Once again, Tacy had cast the parts to perfection.  Now all she had to concern her was whether she could fulfill her part.  .  . A worry soon forgotten as scene three rolled around and Kaleerit -- the Nurse -- called to her.  Sarah held her script tightly -- she had already memorized all of the first two acts and nearly all of the last three, but brought it so she wouldn’t look cocky -- and let everything that was Sarah fade away.  Escape from this world! By the curtain and the costume, it’s been so long!  For the instant of transition between the worlds she nearly cried out, nearly wept with the joy of leaving her frightened, unsure self for another personae.  .  .  and then it was over.  Veronian noble’s daughter stood where actress had been but a moment before.

                She did not break character when the scene ended, but stood, spaced, on the side, some small part of her consciousness alert to her cue while the rest of her remained happily oblivious to the goings-on, as if in a pleasant dream.  And at last, the word to release her to join the revelries of her father’s feast.  .  .  Short the time before a handsome man -- nameless -- approached her.  The world around her ceased as she met his eyes, tried to look away, but found herself floundering.  Such dark eyes, the blackest velvet, threatening to pull her in.  She did not know the others had hushed and stilled in truth, watching to see the first kiss ever between the two actors.

                “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this; my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a kiss.”  He raised her hand to brush it with the promised kiss, but she pulled away. 

                “Good pilgrim,” she began, breathless, “you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”  She demonstrated, placing his hands flat to her own.

                Wilec felt her hands tremble slightly and laced his fingers with hers, script forgotten on the floor.  “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

                “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”  Her heart raced as she fought to breathe.  Stars above, I’m suffocating!  Unbeknownst to Juliet, her actress struggled with half of her Being to banish the character, stalemated by the other half, which struggled equally to remain tucked away in a corner.

                “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!  They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” It was soft, near a whisper, yet carried like a clarion song.

                “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”  An I so wished, couldst I move? Faith, I think not!

                “Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.”  Gently, tentatively he pulled her close, afraid to hurt or frighten her, kissed her softly.  Wilec’s heart raced in time to hers as they parted, her eyes starry. Is it you, Sarah? Or Juliet?  “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

                “Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”

                “Sin from my lips?  O trespass sweetly urged!  Give me my sin again.”  This time with more assurance he held her, kissed her again.  .  .  and his heart nearly leapt up through the top of his head in shock and delight, the powerful current sweeping all thought and time away as she -- kissed -- him --  back!

                Only a moment had passed between his line and hers -- it had been a very chaste kiss -- but in that moment nearly all the blonde’s strength drained away.  “You kiss by th’ book,” she said shakily, hands resting on his chest.

                “Madam, your mother craves a word with you,” came the Nurse’s voice -- somewhat unsteady as well -- and the young woman, blushing, pulled away, hurried to answer the summons.

                An anticlimactic thirty-three lines later the scene ended and Tacy called a five-minute break before the next act.

                Sarah, shaking visibly, slid down the wall to sit near the other girls, thankful for its support. “‘You kiss by th’ book’?!” she murmured in horror.  “Script and Spotlight, I never knew how hard acting could be!”

                Caprice, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, opened her mouth to speak.  .  . but quickly halted as Wilec strode to kneel before Sarah.  One of his strong, gentle hands closed around hers, held it palm-up.

                “‘So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows as yonder lady over her fellows shows.  The measure done, I’ll watch her place to stand and, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand,’” he quoted, then placed something in her hand and folded her fingers over it so that he held her hand in his two. Their eyes met and held; the actrice blushed unaccountably -- A stage kiss means nothing, she reminded herself firmly, but the thought lost itself as he pressed her fingers to his lips and murmured, “A dove for a dove from a crow.” Then, softly, rose, backed away a few steps, saluted her covertly, turned and departed.

                Sarah sat, stunned, opened a hand that still remembered the feel of his warm, firm grasp.

                “Coleman means dove,” Aletna commented, “but Wilec is no crow.”

                “What hast thou?” Kaley asked in a hushed, awed voice.

                Wordlessly she grasped the necklace, held it to dangle before her.  .  .  on the silver thread hung

suspended a tiny, perfect, silver dove.

                Tacy smiled softly, spoke almost too quietly to be audible, “Ah, the soaring hearts of lovebirds.”

*              *              *

                Wilec wrinkled his nose in disgust as he pushed the food around his plate and wished he’d gotten home in time to make it himself.  He’d gotten so he could stomach most of Monty’s “culinary masterpieces,” but this concoction.  .  .  of what he wasn’t quite sure, but suspected it might be cheese and marshmallows.  .  .  well, there are limits.  Offhand the pilot wondered what foods Sarah liked, and whether she could cook at all.  .  .  which led him into a happy mind-wander with him and his lady-love making a feast for some holiday together.  .  .

                Monterey Jack, on the other hand, was wolfing it down with his usual zest.  That is, until he was

reaching for seconds and saw his friend’s expression.  Monty grinned mischievously.

                SPLURTCH!

                Wilec jumped, tensed for attack.  .  .  only to see his pal’s bemused smile across from him. Monty’s injury certainly hadn’t affected his aim.  Unfortunately.  “Limburgh this stuff smells vile!” he

cursed under his breath as he wiped the stuff off his nose.

                “Cheddar,” the chef corrected.

                The one use for the putrid concoction suddenly became clear to Wilec.  A puckish gleam crept

into his eyes.

                BLUT!

*                              *                              *

                Caprice closed the script and handed it back to its owner.  “Perfect as usual, Sarah.  How do you

memorize the stuff so fast?  It’d take me eons to get it down as well as you have it in a couple weeks.”

                 The actress smiled and shook her head.  “It’s no trick, Caprice.  All you need to do is stop thinking of it as lines and start thinking of it as someone’s life.  You figure out what your character is like, then listen to the people around you and think of how the response would go.  If you have an idea of what everyone else’s lines are, then you can at least get to it -- even if it’s not what’s in the script.  It’s called ad libbing -- the performer’s best friend.” 

                A chorus of agreement rose from the other actresses and Tocwildi, all of whom were sitting around as they waited for everyone to arrive.

                The youngster cocked her head, considering.  “You know, I’d never thought of it that way!”  She

sighed wistfully.  “I can’t wait until Opening Night.”

                “The rest of us sure can,” Sarah smiled, looking a bit jittery at the mere thought.  “Why are you so excited?”

                “Mom and Dad and my little brother are all coming to see the show.”  She paused a moment. “Do your families come to see you, too, or do they all live a long way away?”

                “Mine is in New York, probably working on their own show,” Sarah volunteered, glancing at

Letti.

                “My parents’ll prob’bly come,” Sandy added.  “An’ my older sister, too; she really likes Shakespeare.”

                “The clan Ta’maizalire ne’er took leave of yon city; many shall come hence.”

                “My husband’ll come, and my little girl -- but I suppose she’s not all that little anymore; she’s

taller than me and has a good five years on most of you.”  Tocwildi sighed a bit regretfully. “‘Time stands still when it is upon you; when it is gone, it has done too fast.’”

                “How about you, Aletna?” Caprice ventured.

                The others winced; they had hoped she would lose track of who had and had not answered.

                Aletna kept her customary stoicism about her visage, but eyes flashing like green ice and the

frigid undercurrent of her voice gave her away.

                “The only person left to me doesn’t care if I live or die.  Everyone else I love is gone -- forever.

Any questions?  No?  Good.”  She rose and strode off.

                “Aletna!” Kaley called after her.

                “The kid didn’t know any better, Letti!  It’s not her fault!” Sandy added, answered a second later

by the slamming of a door and faint strains of a heartbreaking melody from a recorder.

                “I- I didn’t know.  .  .  ” Caprice stammered, staring wide-eyed after the black-clad figure.  “I wouldn’t have asked, if I’d known -”

                “Of course not,” Sarah comforted, putting an arm around the little one’s shoulders.

                “Will- will she be all right?”

                Kaley nodded.  “Aletna needs must pass some time in solitude.  Talk will come to no avail.  Shalt

return shortly.”  She paused a moment, than said almost to herself, “Hers is a tragedy to rival that of which we unfold on stage, if only she wouldst tell it in entirety.”

                Sandy leaned over to whisper to the youngest, “Ya know how much Kaley loves melodrama.  She’s right, though; it’s a sad story almost as good as Romeo and Juliet.  We’ll fill ya in later.  For now, just pretend nothin’ happened when she comes back.  Apologies only make it worse.  Believe me, I know.”

                “If you say so,” the little girl assented uncertainly.

                The squirrel’s caretaker instinct kicked in; all Caprice needed was something to distract her.  .  . “How old are you, kid?”

                “Nine-going-on-ten,” she replied proudly.

                “Well, I guess that’s old enough for her to keep a secret, wouldn’t you say, girls?”

                Sarah, Kaley, and Tacy grinned.  Each added her vote of agreement.

                “If I tell you something no one except the Sisters know, will you promise it’ll stay that way?” Her green eyes sparkled.

                “Oh, I promise!  Cross my spleen!”

                Everyone giggled.

                “That’s ‘heart,’ dearest,” Tacy corrected kindly.

                Caprice shrugged.  “Anyone can do that.”

                “Well, I think it’s close enough,” Sarah put in, eyes dancing.  The child certainly deserved points for originality!

                “Do you want to know what my real name is?”

                The brunette’s starry eyes went wide as silver dollars.  “You’d really tell me that?”

                Sandy nodded, then leaned over to whisper in her ear.

                The young techie frowned.  “Salandira?  But that’s so pretty!  Why’s it a secret?”

                “‘Cause it’s too fancy,” the squirrel said in disgust, wrinkling her nose.  “Sandy or Cleo’s more

my style.”

                “Okay,” she nodded.  “Not everyone likes their name.  Your secret’s safe with me.”

                “Ah, here it comes!” grinned Tacy, sitting up straighter.  She nodded in the direction of a huge piece of setting designed to look like a turret.  “I know how tired you were getting of using a chair for the balcony, Sarah, so I had the set crew put a rush on it.”

                The blonde actress nearly fell over herself in delight as she launched a huge hug at her friend. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” she cried, running to the tower and -- on impulse -- throwing her arms as far as they would go around it.

                “Now all we’ve gotta do is wait for your Romeo to show up,” Sandy voiced as she sauntered over.

                “He’s not my -” she protested, hot-faced with.  .  .  what?  She wasn’t especially angry.  .  .

                The squirrel shrugged.  “Well, you’re Juliet, aren’t you?”  But the impish glint in her eyes betrayed her: she had meant nothing of the sort. “I just hope he gets here before Tacy decides to start practice without him; he’s awfully late.”

                Sarah’s eyes widened.  “She wouldn’t!  Would she?  I mean.  .  .  ”

                “Hast done so before, with others.  Doth object for a reason?” inquired Kaley, appearing from nowhere, eyebrows raised suggestively.

                “It’s just.  .  .  I mean, I.  .  . ” Get a hold of your tongue! she upbraided herself.  “I just have gotten used to working opposite him is all.  It startled me. That’s all.  Really.”  Why must they look at

me so?!

                “Well sure ‘nuff that’s good ‘cuz I’s gonna be yer Romeo since that other’s gone,” Alastair piped up happily as he approached.

                The slight mouse felt her stomach drop.  She wouldn’t.  Oh, she did!  Tacy, why did you have to

pick him?

                “Sure ‘nuff let’s get goin’ then, my Juliet!”

                She cast wildly about for the director, but she was backstage somewhere, and inaccessible.  With a barely checked sigh she nodded and turned to ascend her tower.

*                              *                              *

                “We’re almost there, Wilec!” Sef called, paying no heed to the people who scattered from his path as the golden retriever sped past.

                “I’m sorry, Sef; I promise I won’t do it again.  We’re doing the balcony scene today, and from what I’ve heard we’re getting a real balcony.  I thought it would be a nice touch to get this for her; I hadn’t realized stopping would make us late!”

                “Not a problem,” his friend replied with a doggie grin.  “Anything to make her eyes light.  .  . especially if it concerns you!  I’ll come get you when rehearsal’s over.  Break a leg, buddy!”  With that he skidded to a halt right outside the actors’ entrance.

                “Thanks, Sef!” the pilot called as he vaulted from the massive back and hurried inside.

                To his horror, there stood Alastair, romancing his lady-love in the most famous scene of all.

                “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

                “Herefore I art!” shouted Wilec triumphantly, dashing on-stage, Alastair’s glare of hatred lost to him as Sarah’s eyes lit and a sudden smile cracked her pensive expression.  Quickly, though, she schooled it back to its former state as everyone else present chuckled quietly at his jest.

                “Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

                “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” Romeo murmured.

                “‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy.  Thou art thyself, though, not a Montague.  What’s Montegue?  It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man.  O, be some other name!  What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; and for thy name, which is no part of thee, take all myself!”

                His mind, seeing her there, raced backwards to lines he had not gotten to speak: It is my lady;

O, it is my love!  O that she knew she were!  Shaking himself, Wilec spoke the correct line in a disarmed voice.  “I take thee at thy word.  Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; henceforth I never will be Romeo.”

                With a gasp Wilec could have thought was real fright -- indeed, shock and surprise flashed in

her eyes!  -- she stepped back, calling more loudly.  “What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my council?”

                “By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am.  My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee.  Had I it written, I would tear the word!”

                “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montegue?”

                “Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.”

                “How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?  The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.”

                With a flourish he produced the flower he had tucked into his leather jacket to protect it from the wild ride he had been sure Sef would give him.  Sadly, its protection had been its doom; the bedraggled blossom hung from a forlornly wilted stem.  When he turned his eyes to his love, a soft smile sat upon her visage -- yet somehow he knew she was not laughing at him.  “With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that love dares attempt.  Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”  Almost he suited his words with action and leapt to join her on the balcony, but he had no idea how sturdy the construction was.  Tacy would not thank him for destroying the set on its trial run.  He could just see it toppling over on the both of them.  .  .  he wouldn’t risk injuring his dove.  As a compromise he reached his tallest to hand it to her, while she leaned way over.  .  .

                And with a startled yelp from the actress, the balcony rail gave way and sent her tumbling to land in her costar’s arms.  Her pencil fell from its customary place behind one ear to clatter noisily on the stage, unnoticed.  The entire cast stood paralyzed, but none more than the two center stage, blinking wide-eyed at each other.  After a startled moment that lasted two lifetimes, Sarah looked away, the crests of her high cheekbones painted a delicate pink, as if by an artist’s brush.  Part of Wilec’s mind registered that it made her look even more beautiful.  The rest yelled desperately at him to kiss her, what was he waiting for?!  Perhaps luckily, his body was still too stunned to obey.

                “Ah.  .  .  thank you,” she said awkwardly.

                “Are.  .  .  are you all right?” he tried; it seemed the right thing to say. You moron! his brain

screamed.

                “Um, yes, fine.  Thank you.”  *Already said that, Sarah.  Come up with something original, her

head demanded.  “Are you all right?”

                More than all right with you in my arms.  Not trusting words, he nodded.

                “Ah.  Well.”  She bit her bottom lip uncomfortably, not sure quite what to do about the whole situation.

                “Yes.  Well.  Oh!”  Something dawned on him, and he hurriedly put her down.  “I’m sorry!”

                “No!  That’s okay!”  She felt a strange sort of regret as he released her.  Regret?  Why?  I’m certainly glad he caught me before I landed rather painfully on the stage, but regret?  We’re just friends.  He held out the flower, which she took.  “I mean, thank you.  For the flower.  And for catching me.”

                “Yes.  Well.  I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

                “Me too.”

                There was an awkward pause, but they were saved by a horde of actors and actresses swarming up to ascertain that they were both fine and haul away the wounded turret and get things organized for another try at it.  Yet through the shuffle Sarah found her gaze oddly drawn again to her savior.

                Tacy bustled up looking a cross between grouchy and apologetic.  “Sarah, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t

pick Alastair for your Romeo, or even give the go-ahead for rehearsal to start.  He chose himself for the part, and I gave him a good scolding for it.”

                “Thank you, Tacy.  I’m glad to know that.”

                “Just thought I should tell you; I’ve got to hurry off.”  And suited her words.

                Abruptly a huge bouquet of flowers was shoved in Sarah’s face.  “Here.”

                Backing up a step, she focused on her potential suitor.  Of course.  Who could it be but- “Alastair.”

                “They’s much nicer than that beat-up ol’ thing Wilec gived ya.”

                “Ah, yeah.  Thank you, Alastair.  I’ll just.  .  .  put them in back.”

                He beamed as she retreated through the girls’ greenroom door, did not see her open the door leading from the greenroom to the alley and pitch them out; they smelled more like Al’s cheap cologne than flowers.  “Whew!” she muttered when the door had swung shut.  “An identity crisis is the least a rose in Al’s presence has to worry about; it’ll be lucky if it can still smell sweet with its old name!”

                She realized then that she still held the flower Wilec had given her, and carefully placed it in a jar filled with water.

*                              *                              *

                “Resplendent.”

                “Hmm?  Wha?  Who?”  The pilot was jarred from his mind-travel and abruptly realized he’d been staring at the door through which his dove had departed for home.  It had been a week since the tower incident, and Sarah had warmed considerably -- well, would carry on a conversation without blushing the entire time, anyway, but it was progress.  He looked around to see Caprice standing beside him.

                “Sarah.  Resplendent.”

                He nodded vaguely.  “Yes... yes, she is at that.”  Where did such a little kid learn such big words?

                “You love her, don’t you?”  She turned a serious mien to him.  “And she loves you?”

                “With all my heart,” he murmured softly.  “And I hope she-  How do you know so much?” he broke off.

                The young techie gave him a wry grin.  “I’m nine-going-on-ten.  That doesn’t make me blind or stupid.”

                “No.  Of course it doesn’t!”

                “So come on!  Sarah’s giving me a ride home; the least you can do is say a decent good-bye to her instead of just staring like a lovestruck baffoon!”  Grabbing his hand, she tugged him out the door.

                There stood Sarah, grumbling to herself as she tinkered with a huge vehicle of some sort, the golden retriever standing over her.  “It’s no good, Sef.  It needs tools I don’t have with me.”

                “I could give you a ride home to get them, if Wilec doesn’t mind.”

                “Wilec certainly doesn’t,” grinned the mouse.

                “You two know each other?” the blonde’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

                “Sure!  We go way back, don’t we, Wilec.”

                “Yep.”

                “Huh.”  Abruptly she shook herself.  “Well, if it’s no trouble...”

                “Certainly not!  I could even fly you back here if you wanted.”

                “You’re a pilot?” Caprice’s eyes widened.

                He nodded, grinning.

                Sarah smiled slightly.  “All right, then.”

                “Wonderful!” he cried, leaping to his friend’s back and reaching a hand to help her up.

                The actress quirked an eyebrow at him before vaulting up herself, unassisted.  “I can make it, thanks.”

                Wilec was sure he heard Sef chuckle under his breath.

                “How ‘bout you, little lady?” the dog offered the youngest.  “Doesn’t Sarah usually take you home?”

                “Yeah, but I think I’ll walk this time.”

                “You sure?” Wilec asked.  “Sef’s not dangerous.”

                “Of course he’s not dangerous!  I’ve ridden before.  I just feel like getting some exercise is all.”

                “You’ll make it home okay?” Sarah fretted.

                “It’s not as if I haven’t done it before.  Really.  I’ll be fine.  You two go ahead.”

                “If you’re sure.  .  .  ” she trailed off.

                “Positive.  Have fun.”

                With an uncertain nod, the trio started away, the brunette waving them off. Only when they were well away did she creep through the performers’ door, around the corner, and into the greenroom.  She hid herself behind some costumes and silently wept until no more tears came, though for the life of her she could not figure why.

*                              *                              *

                Aletna sat cross-legged in a half-shadowed corner of the stage, shuffling her deck of Tarot cards. She placed the Queen of Wands on the floorboards in preparation for a Celtic Cross spread.  She began placing the cards in the arrangement, automatically interpreting as she went.  This covers her.  .  .  Ten of wands.  This crosses her.  .  .  Eight of Swords, reversed.  This is beneath her.  .  .  Three of Pentacles.  This is behind her.  .  .   King of Cups, reversed.  This crowns her.  .  .  Empress.  This is before her.  .  .  Four of Wands.  Her fears.  .  .  Five of Cups.  Her family opinion.  .  .  Two of Cups, reversed.  Her hopes.  .  .   The Sun.  Final outcome.  .  .  she paused half a second, shook herself, and resumed.  Final outcome.  .  .   The Tower. 

                The mystic stared long and hard at the spread before her.  The briefest flicker of pain crossed her stony visage, but she did not try again.  She was never wrong.  Lord and Lady, for me to be wrong, just once, or for someone to heed my warning.  .  .  but, no.  It is not for me to interfere with the Fates.  You have proven that much to me often enough.  She gazed at the door the lovebirds had departed through, the one through which Caprice had returned, an aura of despair and loss clinging to her like a malignant fungus. She knows.  I shall have to offer her training.  The flame-haired mouse bowed her head briefly, gazing at the cards. The Tower.  So be it.

                 Then, silently, wrapped her cards in silk, reverently placed them in their wooden box, and rose to go home.

*                              *                              *

                “Well, this is it: home sweet home,” Wilec declared as Sef came to a halt.  “At least,” he amended, “while Monterey and I are in town.”

                “You want me to wait for you two?” queried Sef.

                “I can give Sarah a ride back to the stage if she wants,” the pilot offered, trying to sound nonchalant.

                She nodded, a bit of adventurous spirit emerging.  “I’d like that; I’ve never flown before.”

                “All rightie, then!” the dog smiled, giving a couple thumps of his great tail.  “See you tomorrow, Wilec?”

                “You bet!” he returned as the two mice dismounted.  They waved until their friend was off, then

deftly scaled the tree.

                “Say, you want to come in for a while?” offered the host.

                “Um, sure,” she agreed -- though mostly because she felt it would be impolite to refuse; the thought set off uncomfortable tingles in her stomach.

                Wilec held the door for his guest, shut it behind himself.

                “That you, mate?” called an Australian voice.

                “Nope!  Just a leprechaun come to claim some gold!”

                “Well, ye’d better be a hungry leprechaun, ‘cuz I’ve fixed up somethin’ extra special tonight!”

                The actor’s eyes went wide with dread.  “Um, maybe I should take you straight to the theatre,” he spoke softly to his costar.

                “Bet yer wonderin’ what it is!”

                “Do I really want to know?” Then to Sarah, “Monty’s cooking is.  .  .  questionable.  .  .  ”

                “Very funny, boy-o!  I’m not sure what I’m calling it, but it’s got-” he cut himself off when he came around the corner.

                The blonde, wide-eyed, would have retreated a step or two had the wall not been directly behind her.  She had never imagined Monterey Jack would be so big.

   Wilec could almost feel her draw into herself.  Oh, no you don’t!  Greatly daring, he took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and tried to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.  “Sarah, this is my adventuring partner, Monterey Jack.  Monty, my costar, Sarah Haley.”

                “Good’ay, miss,” he greeted her smoothly, gallantly kissing her hand.

                “Nice to meet you,” she returned, blushing.

                “You didn’t tell me you was bringin’ a lady ta dinner, mate.  I’da made me special marshmallow

cheese surprise.”

                Marshmallows and cheese?  Sarah pondered, mentally raising her eyebrows and scrunching her nose.  Wilec wasn’t kidding when he said questionable!

                “Ah.  .  .  That’s okay, Monty.  Really.  We -”

                “Good thing I made plenty o’ food, though.  It’s all ready ta go; I’ll just set another place.”  With that, he was gone.

                Sarah could only stare, wondering what had hit her.

                “Uh.  .  .  you don’t have to stay. I’ll tell him you have somewhere to be, that I was just giving you a ride.  .  .  ”

                “That’s okay,” she soothed, though feeling anything but.  “Don’t trouble.  I can stay -- that is, if you want me to.”

                “No!  Of course I want you to stay!  I just.  .  .  well, Monty’s been in a creative mood lately, and that never bodes well for his cooking.  .  .  I didn’t want you to feel obligated.  You still sure you want to stay?”

                “Positive,” she replied in what she tried to make come out as a steady voice.

                “Come in, then,” he invited, leading her into the main room.  “Sorry about the mess.”

                Sarah looked around; the room was a little rumpled, but far from a mess.  “What mess? It’s just a little lived-in,” she returned diplomatically.  She trembled as she sat in the chair her host offered, and inwardly scolded herself for it.  You’ve eaten dinner with the girls enough times; this is no different.  Or at least, pretend it’s not.

                The pilot took it for a shiver.  “You’re cold,” he noted in concern, casting about in his mind for something to offer her.  In desperation, he unwrapped his flight scarf and held it out, and immediately felt ridiculous.  A scarf?!  Sure, give her something.  .  .  a coat, a sweater.  .  .  but a scarf?!  Hand her a pair of mittens and a stocking cap while you’re at it!  But once offered, he could not reclaim his action.

                She smiled warmly at his attempt, relaxing slightly, and accepted. “I’ll need something to look the part when we go flying,” she blushed sheepishly as she adjusted it on her shoulders, avoiding his gaze.

                Amazing.  I make an idiot of myself and she can still be gracious about it, he marveled, but was prevented from further musings by a hollered invitation of “Come ‘n get it!”

                “That would be our cue,” he noted with wry humor, rising even as she did.  A bit self-consciously, he held out his hand.

                She accepted.

*                              *                              *

                Wilec propped his chin on one hand, his elbow on the table as he watched his dove making tea. He could hardly believe he was awake.  Not two weeks gone he would have given anything for her to simply look at him, and now here he was in her kitchen, watching her make tea.

                He still marveled at how well she had held up over dinner.  Not only had she actually eaten some of Monty’s concoction without so much as blinking (a feat that convinced him even more firmly of her acting abilities), but he hadn’t felt her pull into herself during the entire meal.  True, she hadn’t talked much; but then, Monterey had taken up most of the time telling tales that -- amazingly enough -- did not feature the robust Australian as the hero.  She had listened attentively, though he hadn’t been able to tell her thoughts from her expression.

                “Do you want honey in yours?”

                “Me?  Honey?  No thanks.”

                “All right, then, here you go.  Let’s take them in the living room; the kitchen’s too formal.  It’s what I’d use if my parents ever left New York to visit me.”

                He followed her into the main room, took a seat on the sofa as she positioned herself on a chair and tucked her feet under her.  She warmed her hands on her tea mug a moment before sipping it.

                “You grew up in New York?”  Funny, she doesn’t have the accent.  .  .   “That’s a pretty good place for an actress to be.  Why did you leave?”

                “That’s precisely the reason I did.  My parents acted too, and for me Broadway was a nightmare. I couldn’t breathe without being compared to them.  I didn’t have an identity beyond their daughter.  So I left.”

                “Don’t they come visit sometimes?”

                “No, and I’m the happier for it.  They were rather.  .  .  smothering.  What about you?  What’s your story?”

                “Nothing fantastic, really.  Came from a small town, dreamed of adventure.  .  .  ” he shrugged. “My parents were pilots, too, so I guess it runs in the family.  The minute they thought I was old enough, I got a plane and they started teaching me.  We were quite a team before they went out for a vacation together.  Part of a humans’ burning plane hit them and ruptured the fuel tank.”

                Sympathetic pain flashed across Sarah’s face.  “Oh, Wilec, I’m so sorry.  .  .  ”

                He shrugged, trying not to think about it.  “It’s okay.  They never knew what hit them, or maybe that anything had.  They died doing what they loved.”

                There was an uncomfortable pause for a moment before the actress broke it with, “How did your plane come by that name?  Screaming Eagle.  Very dramatic.”

                Wilec chuckled a bit, blushing slightly.  “Well, my first time out with it there was this huge bird

after me, and to save myself from being the main course I clipped a couple of its tailfeathers.  It was not amused.  After that Dad started laughing about how I’d made that eagle scream.  .   .  and it stuck.”

                Sarah laughed softly into her tea.

                Wilec took a drink of his, too.  It had a sweet, herbal taste to it, and he wondered offhand how she would react to Monterey’s tea.  .  .  which was about as far from this as battery acid is from apple cider. Not that it was caustic; just that Monty called it “kangaroo tea” for a reason.  It packed quite a punch.

                “Wilec,” she said a bit playfully, “I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to all those remarkable piloting stunts Monty claims you can do.  I didn’t get to see any of them.”

                This took him a bit aback; the pilot had been careful to make the journey as smooth as possible for fear of either scaring her or making her air-sick.  “You want me to?”

                “Another time, perhaps; it’s too dark now to fix my invention, so I can’t imagine it’s much better for stunt flying.”  She shook her head in wonder.  “I hadn’t known you were mechanically inclined, though once I found out you were a pilot perhaps I should have guessed.”

                “Well, I have to know how to make some repairs to keep her functioning, but I’m not sure I’m mechanically inclined.  Sarah, you didn’t believe Monty’s stories, did you?”

                “Should I?”  After a pause, she continued.  “It is my experience that every tale, no matter how bizarre, has some grain of truth to it. I’m not so certain you performed all the incredible (and likely near impossible) deeds he claimed, but you have had remarkable adventures nonetheless.  And survived, unless I am mistaken and have been rehearsing opposite a shade.”

                She said it so dead-pan that Wilec couldn’t help but smile.  “Sometime I should tell you the dull version.”

                “Why not now?” she offered.  “Unless you have to get back.”

                “I could, if you want me to.”

                “Sure.”

                “Okay.  Let’s see if you can tell which of Monty’s legends the real thing goes with.  There was this one time in Ireland...”

*                              *                              *

                “Stop trying to hide in the greenroom, Wilec,” Tem scolded his friend, laughter in his eyes.  

                “I’ve been a lot of strange places and done a lot of weird things.  .  .  and seen Monty do the rest.  .  .  and joked about it all afterwards, but this is too much even for a bizarre campfire story.  I even wore a kilt once in Scotland.  But no self-respecting adventurer ever wore tights.”

                “Robin Hood did.”

                “Some comfort,” grumbled the pilot.  “He’s as dead as these fashions, and for about as long, too. And with reason!  Who thought these styles up anyway?  I’m usually not real concerned with clothes, but these are just silly!  I’m willing to bet there’s almost enough material for another costume in the sleeves!  I look ridiculous!”

                “No, you look Shakespearean,” the squirrel corrected.

                “Just another word for ridiculous.  And this make-up?  Ugh!  How do women put up with this stuff?  More importantly, why do women put up with this stuff?”

                He shrugged.  “Beats me.  To impress us, I suppose.”

                “I’d credited them with more sense.  Me, too.  I’m not coming out.”

                “Ah, quit grousing.  You look no worse than the rest of us.  And Sarah’s already seen you, so it won’t do you any good to hide in here anymore.  Besides, I think it’s about time for break to be up.”

                Shaking his head and trying not to think of how hard Monty was going to laugh when he came to Opening Night, Wilec headed for the stage oncemore.  At least Sarah hadn’t so much as batted an eye to see him decked out in the absurd stuff, though he had almost fallen flat the first time he’d seen some of the actresses in their make-up.  .  .  and had been a little amused until he saw all the men wearing it too and realized he was next.  .  . 

                This wasn’t in the job description.  Trying to hold his head high, he courageously took his place in the wings.  If doing all this would win his dove’s affection, he was more than willing to bear it.

                As if summoned by his thoughts, Sarah appeared at his side.  “Doing great,” she murmured.             “Thanks,” he returned just as softly.

                “Act IV, scene one!” Tocwildi called.  “Begin!”

                Sarah grinned.  Scene three wasn’t far off -- the one where Juliet’s mind was troubled about Friar Lawrence’s “solution” to being parted from Romeo.  It was one of her favorite monologues; the challenge to change between emotions always excited her.

                “Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.”

                The actress started on-stage looking troubled, then shocked at Paris’s presence, then with an obvious effort to appear happy to see him.

                “Happily met, my lady and my wife!”

                “That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.”

                “That ‘may be’ must be,” Paris returned, producing a black velvet box and snapping it open to proudly display the most gaudy diamond ring ever created.

                Juliet at once dissolved, leaving Sarah on stage, shocked and speechless.  They had never used a ring before, and Tocwildi would have informed her had there been a change.  Also, the line was incomplete as he waited confidently.  She could only stare at the hideous thing, and at him, and back, in disbelief.  Keep going!  Say your line!  Ad-lib!  Anything!   “Paris -” she began, trying to regain character.

                “No,” he corrected.

                No!  Say it isn’t so!  Please!  She felt her face redden.  “Line!”

                “I accept,” Al prompted, his accent almost unnoticeable for the first time offstage.

                She could feel the eyes of the entire cast trained on them.  “Paris -”

                “It ain’t Paris talkin’ ta ya, Sarah.  It’s me.”

                Tension increased palpably, every face either astonished or angry, and often a cross of both. Wilec’s bore the biggest combination of emotions: fear, disbelief, outrage, dismay, and a thousand others never expressed in words.  He could only stare intently, waiting.

                “It’s Alastair tellin’ the whole cast yer gonna be my wife, ain’tcha?” It was more of a re-affirmation than a question.

                An emotion the blonde had experienced in her life only a few times bubbled to the surface, yet she carefully kept her voice as kind as possible.  “I’m sorry, Alastair, but I can’t.”

                “Yer good ‘nough fer me, if yer worried ya ain’t.”

                She shook her head.  “It isn’t that.”

                He frowned, perplexed.  “What else’s there?”

                “I don’t love you.”

                “Wha?”

                “I can’t marry someone I don’t love, Alastair.”

                A violent bolt of lightning flashed in his eyes as he seized her wrist.  “How dare ya say it, Sarah?!  It ain’t true!  How couldja not love me?  Yer embarrassin’ me in front-a everybody!”

                The second the vengeful actor grabbed hold of the slight actress, the entire cast almost rushed to her aid, but she freed herself easily enough despite his bone-crushing grip.  Indignation and outrage burned in her eyes as she made his teeth rattle with her hardest full-armed slap, hardly noticing how her hand stung afterward.  “How dare you!” Those simple three words uttered, she turned on her heel and sprinted for the ladies’ greenroom.

                The rest of the cast could only stare in shock; this, from Sarah who never raised her voice?

                Alastair, however, had no such qualms as he snapped the case shut, dashed it to the ground, and

launched into a tirade of vexation about girls who insisted on playing hard-to-get, much of which contained words to make even a hardened soldier blush.  He appeared not to notice as the five remaining women on stage glared at him and stalked into the dressing room.

                Caprice knelt on the floor beside Sarah and put a comforting -- and slightly protective -- arm

around her friend.  “Are you all right, Sarah?”

                The blonde turned her tear-streaked face to the others, eyes bright from crying. “I’m sorry I ruined dress rehearsal, Tacy.  I- I just couldn’t stay out there any more.  I had to get away.  I -”

                “I know,” the director soothed, taking the actress’s hands in hers.  “It’s not your fault; it’s Alastair’s.”

                “Wool-brained egomaniacal peacock,” the youngest growled, eyes flashing dangerously.  “He didn’t even ask!  He just announced it in front of everybody!  He had no right!  He should be -”

                “Peace, child,” Aletna calmed her.  “He will get his.”

                “Dry thine eyes, Sarah,” Kaley said gently, offering a bit of tissue, “else thou shalt look even more the raccoon.”

                A soft knock sounded on the door, and the girls looked questioningly to Sarah, who was trying valiantly to keep her mascara from causing further damage.

                “It’s okay; let him in.  It can’t be Alastair; the knock isn’t right.”

                Sandy glided to the door and opened it a crack, then the rest of the way.  Wilec stepped in.  Sarah hastily scrubbed the rest of her tears away as the other girls moved aside.  The pilot knelt before her.

                “Tem and a few of the other guys are giving Al a good.  .  .  talking to in the guys’ greenroom.  You want me to fly you home?”

                Juliet smiled slightly.  “Thanks, Wilec, but we need to get on with dress rehearsal.  I can handle it.”

                “You’re sure.  .  .  ?”

                “Positive.”

                “Okay,” he assented with a nod, and escorted her on-stage.

                Everyone fell uncomfortably silent when Wilec and the girls appeared and moved to a relatively quiet place to talk, but some nervous small talk ensued to fill the gap.  It was cut off moments later, however, by the appearance of a sulky Alastair with Tem and the others close behind.  Paris glared at his rival.

                “Let me know if he gives you any more trouble, okay?” Romeo murmured softly, and his leading lady nodded before turning to the general milling of performers.

                “Let’s try again, shall we?” she suggested, and everybody gratefully assumed their places, trying to pretend nothing had happened.

*                              *                              *

                “Sarah Haley, will you marry me?”

                Wilec transferred the box with the ring in it to his other hand.

                “Sarah Haley Coleman, will you please marry me?”

                He sighed and transferred it back.

                “Marry me and be my wife?  No, that’s redundant.  Be my wife.  No, that’s how Al did it, and it’s not asking; it’s commanding. ‘Exchange thy love’s faithful vow for mine, and all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay and follow thee my lady throughout the world.’  No, already been done.  Hey, what’s this in my jacket pocket?  Oh, look!  A black velvet box with a diamond ring in it!  Must be fate.  No, no, no!  Oh, none of this is right!” he groaned.

                “‘Course not.  Ya gotta get down on one knee, mate.”

                The pilot turned to find his friend casually leaning on the doorframe.  “How long have you been there?”

                “Long enough,” he shrugged.  “Look, mate, ya know what yer problem is?”

                “No idea.”

                “Yer tryin’ too hard, boy-o.  The ladies don’t like stuff what sounds rehearsed.  Trust me.  Jus’ out with it, an’ she’ll like it a whole lot better.”

                “But how can I get it right if I don’t practice?”

                “This ain’t a blumin’ play, Wilec!  Fer cryin’ out loud!  Yer jus’ askin’ her ta marry ya!”

                “Just.”

                “Mate, it don’t matter how ya say it.  If she loves ya, she’ll say yes, an’ if she don’t, she’ll say no. Ye can quote Shakespeare till yer blue, but it ain’t gonna matter if her mind’s not set ta say yes.”

                “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed.

                “‘Course I am.”

                “Still, I want it to be perfect for her.  Sarah deserves something romantic to remember, no matter what she says.”

                “How long ya got to plan it?”

                “It’s already planned.  I’m asking her after the performance tonight.”

                “Whaddya think she’ll say?”

                “Optimistically?  Yes.  Realistically?  I haven’t the faintest.  I mean, sometimes I think there’s something there on her end, but other times.  .  .  ”

                “Other times.  .  .  ?”

                “Maybe we’re just friends.”

                “Well, ya gotta know, mate.  ‘No guts, no glory.’”

                “‘No guts, no glory,’” he repeated, and looked offhandedly at the clock.  “Orville and Wilber! I’ve gotta run.  I’m not in costume, and I have to make sure the girls have everything set on their end, and I have to deal with stage makeup -”

                Monterey snickered.

                “Not one word, Monterey!  Not a single word!” he called from his room as he grabbed a few things.

                “I didn’t say anythin’!”

                “You were thinking it!”

                “Well, good luck, mate!”

                Wilec peeked around the doorframe.  “Monty, don’t ever wish an actor luck.”

                “Well, fall off the stage, then, or whatever they say.”

                “Break a leg.”

                “Right.  Break a leg.”

                “Thanks, Monty.  I’ll let you know how it goes.”  With that, he sprinted off.  Moments later, the

Screaming Eagle soared overhead.

 *                             *                              *

                “Oh, Sarah! You’ll never guess what I found!” Caprice cried, rushing full-tilt into the ladies’ greenroom after curtain call, her eyes sparkling.

                “Hello to you, too,” Sandy greeted.

                “Oh, hi, guys,” she added distractedly, then turned her attentions back to the blonde.  “You have

to come see this, Sarah.  Please?”

                “All right,” she agreed, allowing her young friend to lead her out the door and down the hall to wardrobe.

                Eagerly the chestnut-haired mouse pulled her companion to a forgotten corner of the room and pushed back a few dresses on a bar.  “Sarah, look!”

                She gasped, her eyes lighting up.  Gently she removed the gown and held it before her.  “I wonder where it came from?”

                “I don’t know either.  Try it on!  Please?”

                “Well.  .  .  okay,” she agreed.  “But not here.  You never know when one of the boys might come return their costumes.”

                As quietly as possible so no one would hear them, the duo sped back to their dressing room.

                “What’ve you got?” asked Tocwildi with curiosity.

                “Caprice found it,” she informed them, holding it out for inspection.

                “You have to try it on,” the littlest insisted.

                Without a word the actress shed Juliet’s garb and crawled into the gown. Kaleerit zipped the back for her, handed her the matching satin gloves, then turned her to face the others.

                “What say you?”

                “Wow,” Sandy managed, the only one able to utter an opinion.

                “What?  What?  Let me see!” Sarah Haley cried, hiking up her skirts and rushing to the nearest floor-length mirror.  “Oh, it’s so pretty!” she gasped.

                “You look like a princess!” Caprice breathed, awed, her eyes momentarily bright with tears that she scrubbed away when she thought no one was looking.  Why? she asked herself mentally.  I have no right to cry; Sarah will be so happy.  .  .

                Such an elegant gown accentuated Sarah’s natural beauty.  Its creator had not wasted the gorgeous pale blue fabric on the bodice; it was tight, off-the shoulder with puffed sleeves and silver fancywork around the neckline and down the center.  Instead, every spare inch was incorporated into its skirts, floor-length with petticoats sewn underneath. 

                “I don’t care what you say; we’re showing Wilec,” Sandy decided, ushering her out the door before she could protest.

                The door had scarcely closed behind the procession when Wilec walked by in a black tux and royal blue cummerbund.  Despite his formal clothes, the pilot still wore his flight cap.  He carried his bomber jacket and scarf and looked annoyed.

                Sarah glanced at the others, her expression reading, Maybe now’s not such a good time. Aletna firmly shook her head as Kaley called out.

                “Whither goest thou?”

                “To wash this.  Al and his Coo-Coo cola!  He accidentally -” he cut himself off when he caught sight of his dove.  “Sarah!  You look...”  What? Not beautiful; so much more than that.  .  .

                “Ridiculous, I know,” she sighed, turning.  “I don’t know what makes me think I can wear dresses!  They’re pretty and all, but they just don’t work with -”

                “No, Sarah!  That’s not it at all!”  Wilec caught her by the arm, and she turned to face him.  “You look resplendent!” he told her quietly, then took his Juliet by the hands.  “Let’s celebrate!”

                “Celebrate?”

                “Dove, this is destiny!  Al just happens to spill that Coo-Coo cola on me, and the only thing around to wear besides my costume is this; meanwhile, you put on such a beautiful dress.  .  .  ”

                Sarah was willing to bet destiny had nothing to do with it, but refused to voice her suspicions. “All right.”

                “I’ll get that cleaned for you,” the director offered, relieving the only male of his burden.  “Don’t argue; it’s no trouble.  Besides, you two can’t have much fun celebrating if you’ve got to haul this all over the place.”

                “Thanks, Tocwildi.  Come, let’s away,” the actor quoted with merry sparks in his eyes as he escorted her into the starry night, leaving the others to exchange gleeful high-fives that their plan had worked.

                Back outside, a large, dark form moved into the light of a streetlamp.

                “Sef!  Hi!” Sarah Haley called.

                “Sarah!  Wilec!  Just thought I’d drop by see how the play went.  Hey-wow!  Aren’t you two decked out for a night on the town!  Need a lift?”

                “If you don’t mind,” Wilec smiled, and the golden retriever crouched on the pavement.  The adventurer easily vaulted up, expecting his love to follow.  “Sarah?”

                “Wilec, I can’t.  Not in this dress!”

                “Ride side-saddle.  I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”  He reached down.

                Hesitantly the actress accepted his hand, and he pulled her up to sit before him.

                “All set?” he questioned, holding her close to keep her astride.

                “All set,” she answered quietly, innocent blue eyes meeting soft charcoal black.

                Without needing to be told the destination their mount fluidly rose and started off at a smooth pace, affirming the blonde’s suspicions that it had been planned.  The fact far from upset her, though, as she contentedly gazed at the majestic sky, the day’s blue cover peeled back to reveal infinity.  Unsettling feelings began to stir inside her as she felt Wilec’s strong arms around her, but she repressed them with all her willpower, wanting desperately to just be happy for the moment, enjoying the company of a friend.

                When all too soon the ride ended, the gentlemouse dismounted, then helped his lady down.  They both thanked their friend for the transportation, only to receive a modest, “Any time.”  Together they made their way up a wooden plank some child had supposedly left propped against the marble basin of the fountain.

                Moonlight cast everything into a clear, pure light, revealing a world hidden when the sun shines. The pilot gazed into the shimmering water, hardly daring to believe the woman beside him was mortal and not a goddess borne to earth on the wings of doves, doves so very much like the one flying on the moonbeam of silver mortals call a chain.  He knew he had to ask now, now or not at all, but the sudden realization that the moment was perfect banished all the eloquent speeches he had constructed on the journey there with his love in his arms.  He rose, assisted her to her feet, then swept her up to sit on a stone about half his height.

                As their gazes locked, Wilec’s mind briefly traveled to Opening Night.  .  .  it was a patchwork of frantic performers and hustling techies and bright lights and incredible heat and colorful costumes.  It was applause and euphoria and terror and well-oiled pulleys creaking softly as the curtain rose.  It was pacing, last-minute rehearsing, flowers, and lines spilling out of him without thought.  It was camaraderie and triumph and confusion.  All these things wove themselves haphazardly into his first real time on stage, yet one thing stood out clearly: Sarah Haley Coleman.  Before the curtain rose, Tocwildi had paired off the performers according to who they needed to interact closest with for a warm-up exercise.  Everyone knew how except him; she had been his mentor.  He was her mirror; every move she made, he had to reflect. Perfectly.  It had taken a bit, self-consciously at first, but then with increasing skill.  By the end of the exercise they had been trading leadership back and forth seamlessly; jittery Nevermore’s eyes had become

tranquil, pulling him into their peace.  For a momentary eternity as their eyes held one another, their souls touched and they were one person, neither leading, neither following.  When they had shakily parted to Tocwildi’s insistent calling and he had recovered himself enough to think straight, he had known he had to ask.  And here he was. No guts, no glory!

                “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back from her face.

                She blushed, bowing her head, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak before he continued.

                “Sarah, you are, but not just on the outside; on the inside too.  I’ve never met anyone like you before, and I know I never will.  I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, and I know it sounds really cliche, but what I’m trying to say is,” he took a deep breath and got down on one knee, pulling a black velvet box from his pocket and opening it with the creak of jewelry box hinges, “I would be honored if you’d share your life with me.”

                Sarah held her breath to steady herself as she slipped down from the rock and took the pilot’s hands, pulling him to his feet.  “Wilec, I can’t,” she replied in a whisper.  “I- I just can’t.” The dove took flight, running across the fountain’s glossy surface, down the rough plank, and into the night.

                Wilec could only stand and stare after her, stunned.  Woodenly he crossed to look into the water, rippling as if something had dropped through its glassy surface.  When the reflections oncemore shone true, he  peered down.

                There, at the bottom, a little silver dove glittered, an unobtainable star.

*                              *                              *

                Sarah dashed into her home and bolted the door to block out her misery.  Locks cannot dissuade emotion, though, and her anguish relentlessly pursued her through the foyer and into the living room where, exhaustion and wretchedness overwhelming her, she flung herself onto the sofa and wept with every ounce of passion she possessed.

                At length there came a time when her supply of tears spent itself and she lethargically pulled herself up.  Her eyes fell on a pencil sketch of Wilec and herself propped against a vase of flowers on an endtable.  It was the only picture she had of him.  Her fingers instinctively went to caress her little charm at her throat, only to find it absent.  The dove is gone, she thought heavily.  The dove flies free, but I’m left behind with is the chain. How appropriate.

                Numbly she went to the window and pushed the panes of glass wide, letting the sharp night air in.  Its harshness insisted she come back to reality, which she did, acceptingly, the will to fight it or anything else gone.  She spoke to the stars above, mocking and cruelly white.  Her voice, like everything else about her, held only resignation to whatever would follow.  She didn’t care anymore.

                “It was bound to happen.  I knew he would ask, and I knew I couldn’t accept, so why was I so surprised?  When I loved before, I was so sure we would be happy together forever.  My heart told me, and I followed it.  Then it turned out he only wanted to marry me to help him get into the acting business, and my heart shattered.  I couldn’t stay in New York.  I wanted to get away from Mom and Dad, too, but I wanted to get away from him more.  I swore I would never love again.

                “I started a new life here, with new friends, and no one else’s reputation to live up to.  It was sheer paradise, but I should have known it was too good to last.  Happiness always is.  Wilec came.  He was one of the best friends I ever had; why did it have to turn out like this?  It was wonderful being friends, but he made me love him somehow, and everything I believed in fell apart.  I loved him, and I hated myself for it, because love only ever leads to heartbreak.  Now the play has come and gone, and I’ll never seen him again.”  A tear slipped down her cheek as she continued on, emotion entering her voice for the first time.  “I should have known better.  .  .  I should have stopped myself.  .  .  I should have- O, Romeo, wherefore art thou?” she cried miserably as the cold wind lashed about her.

                Then, softly, came the reply.  .  .  “Herefore I art!”

                Sarah snapped to attention, searching the darkness. Into the oasis of light spilling from her window stepped a form: Romeo.

                “You dropped this,” he called, flinging a small object up to her.  She caught it: the little silver dove.  “Cinderella lost her shoe, but then, you always had your own way of doing things.”

                “Thank you,” she said softly. There was an uncomfortable pause.

                “Sarah, I’m not like him.  Heck, I’m not even an actor.  You’ve seen me.”

                “You were fantastic.”

                “Thanks; so were you.  But no matter how good you say I am, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s not me.  It’s not who I am.  I’m an adventurer, a pilot, and I never claimed to be anything more.”

                “Then why act?”

                “For you.”

                “Me?”  She couldn’t keep a hint of astonishment from her voice; no one had ever done anything just for her before.

                “I saw you in West Side Story and fell in love the moment you stepped onto the stage.  After the show I accidentally overheard you and Sandy talking about the auditions for Romeo and Juliet.  I had to try out; I couldn’t risk never seeing you again.  I love you, Sarah Haley, my dove.  I always have, I always will, and nothing could ever change that.  You hear that world?” he turned and yelled.  “My name is Wilec Hackwrench, and there is an incredible lady in that second-story window named Sarah Haley Coleman!  I love her more than life itself because she’s herself, not because she’s the best actress to ever set foot on stage!  No one could ever hold my heart the way she does, and she always will, and I don’t care who knows it!”

                “I want so much to believe.  .  .  ” she whispered shakily.

                “Then do it. Believe in me.  .  .  believe in yourself. I have no reason to love you except for you.”

                “I do,” she smiled, laughing as tears streamed down her face.  At that moment, as the burden of

distrust and watchfulness disappeared, she was more radiant than anything Wilec had ever laid eyes on.  “I do!  World, I have an announcement, too!  My name is Sarah Haley Coleman, I’m in the second-story window, I love Wilec Hackwrench, and I want everyone on the planet to hear it!”  She reached down to him.   Romeo climbed the tree and found a foothold right below the sill of her window so they were at eye-level with each other.  Oncemore he pulled the box from his pocket, snapped it open, and held it before her.    

                “Sarah Haley Coleman, will you marry me?”

                “Yes!” she beamed.  “Oh, Wilec!  Yes!”  She threw her arms around him, but pulled away. “You’re soaking!”

                He shrugged.  “You dropped your necklace in the fountain, so dove in to get it.”

                “Come inside before you catch cold.”

                 Easily he vaulted through the window, landing on his feet.  Without a word the pilot retrieved the ring, slipped it on her finger, then pulled a blossom from the nearby vase.  “For you, dove.”

                “For both of us,” she corrected.

                As he pulled her into a loving kiss and they held tightly to one another, the perfect flower slipped from the actress’s fingers.  The pink bloom fell to rest on a pencil sketch of the sweethearts.

                Ah, the soaring hearts of lovebirds!