riled.”
And, indeed, someone from the front row yelled, “Ge’ him off the stage.” One of the fat candles that lined the stage fell when a rotted orange hit it, extinguishing the wick on impact.
Still, Rein wasn’t worried.
“Someone shut ’im up,” another man yelled just as the poor gent belted a high note—one that was cut off abruptly as a very well-aimed something hit him in the gut.
“Done for,” the stage manager said, his fleshy hands clasping the front of his belly as something that sounded like a belch erupted from his throat. Laughter, Rein realized as he watched the man’s corpulent little body shake like the whipped cream atop a shaken pie.
Sure as certain, the singer said, “Please. No more. I’m leavin’, I am.”
To which someone yelled, “’Bout time,” before letting another fruit fly.
“They don’t like singers,” the stage manager said without moving his gaze away. “Hope for your sake you ain’t singing.”
Rein shook his head, utterly confident he had nothing to fear. Indeed, he had faced and endured far worse than an unruly audience.
“He’s not singing,” Anna said. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get the same treatment. Or worse.”
“They tried to kill me,” the singer said as he came off stage.
“Mr. Hemplewilt,” Anna pleaded again.
Rein looked down at her, reassuring her with a confident smile. “Have no fear, Anna. I shall emerge the victor. Watch.”
She seemed reluctant to let him go as he boldly stepped onto the raised wooden platform that served as a stage, one covered with enough tomatoes and onions to fill Anna’s barrow.
Hundreds of faces stared back at him—some from the theater’s pit and others from the second floor, their bodies packed together like fish in a barrow.
And it was then, and only then, that Rein began to feel something he hadn’t felt since a lad. Fear.
Get him, Marcus.
The words were from his childhood, yet he could still hear them as if they’d been spoken yesterday.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, a room full of people stared back at him.
“Well?” someone cried, a man with rather a lot of gum and no teeth, but who made up for his lack of ivories in size. Rein should know, for he had a perfect glimpse of his muscular forearms as he hurled a potato at his head. Fortunately, he missed.
Rein opened his mouth, his lips suddenly so numb, it felt like he himself had no teeth.
Hold his hands behind his back.
“Ach, ’e’s got the fright of the stage, he has,” someone else yelled. “Get ’im outta here.”
He glanced over at Anna, who waited in the side wings.
Throw him to the ground.
He faced forward again, summoning the calm that he’d learned to pull around him in such situations. He opened his mouth. “Friends, Romans, countrymen,” he bellowed, “lend me your arse.”
“What?” someone cried.
“’E’s doing Shakespeare?”
“
Shakespeare?
Don’t want no bloody Shakespeare.”
“This ain’t the Drury,” someone else cried.
“Arse,”
Rein said to that person. “I said
arse,
not
ears
.”
“Get ’im off the stage,” another person yelled.
They didn’t find that amusing? A second missile whizzed by his ear. Apparently not.
“How about a ditty?”
But the man in the front, the one who’d thrown the potato, let another one fly, only this time it didn’t miss. No. It smacked into Rein’s thigh with enough sting to make him cry out, “Bloody hell,” and clutch his limb.
An onion came at him then. Rein reacted with an instinct he had thought long forgotten. He ducked to the left and out of harm’s way.
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that at that moment more than one person decided to take aim. Indeed, the barrage of vegetables aimed at his head no doubt resembled the cannon at Trafalgar.
“Bloody hell,” he cried again, arms raised, which left his midsection vulnerable, something he admitted as a mistake the moment the first onion smacked into him. “Bloody
And, indeed, someone from the front row yelled, “Ge’ him off the stage.” One of the fat candles that lined the stage fell when a rotted orange hit it, extinguishing the wick on impact.
Still, Rein wasn’t worried.
“Someone shut ’im up,” another man yelled just as the poor gent belted a high note—one that was cut off abruptly as a very well-aimed something hit him in the gut.
“Done for,” the stage manager said, his fleshy hands clasping the front of his belly as something that sounded like a belch erupted from his throat. Laughter, Rein realized as he watched the man’s corpulent little body shake like the whipped cream atop a shaken pie.
Sure as certain, the singer said, “Please. No more. I’m leavin’, I am.”
To which someone yelled, “’Bout time,” before letting another fruit fly.
“They don’t like singers,” the stage manager said without moving his gaze away. “Hope for your sake you ain’t singing.”
Rein shook his head, utterly confident he had nothing to fear. Indeed, he had faced and endured far worse than an unruly audience.
“He’s not singing,” Anna said. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get the same treatment. Or worse.”
“They tried to kill me,” the singer said as he came off stage.
“Mr. Hemplewilt,” Anna pleaded again.
Rein looked down at her, reassuring her with a confident smile. “Have no fear, Anna. I shall emerge the victor. Watch.”
She seemed reluctant to let him go as he boldly stepped onto the raised wooden platform that served as a stage, one covered with enough tomatoes and onions to fill Anna’s barrow.
Hundreds of faces stared back at him—some from the theater’s pit and others from the second floor, their bodies packed together like fish in a barrow.
And it was then, and only then, that Rein began to feel something he hadn’t felt since a lad. Fear.
Get him, Marcus.
The words were from his childhood, yet he could still hear them as if they’d been spoken yesterday.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, a room full of people stared back at him.
“Well?” someone cried, a man with rather a lot of gum and no teeth, but who made up for his lack of ivories in size. Rein should know, for he had a perfect glimpse of his muscular forearms as he hurled a potato at his head. Fortunately, he missed.
Rein opened his mouth, his lips suddenly so numb, it felt like he himself had no teeth.
Hold his hands behind his back.
“Ach, ’e’s got the fright of the stage, he has,” someone else yelled. “Get ’im outta here.”
He glanced over at Anna, who waited in the side wings.
Throw him to the ground.
He faced forward again, summoning the calm that he’d learned to pull around him in such situations. He opened his mouth. “Friends, Romans, countrymen,” he bellowed, “lend me your arse.”
“What?” someone cried.
“’E’s doing Shakespeare?”
“
Shakespeare?
Don’t want no bloody Shakespeare.”
“This ain’t the Drury,” someone else cried.
“Arse,”
Rein said to that person. “I said
arse,
not
ears
.”
“Get ’im off the stage,” another person yelled.
They didn’t find that amusing? A second missile whizzed by his ear. Apparently not.
“How about a ditty?”
But the man in the front, the one who’d thrown the potato, let another one fly, only this time it didn’t miss. No. It smacked into Rein’s thigh with enough sting to make him cry out, “Bloody hell,” and clutch his limb.
An onion came at him then. Rein reacted with an instinct he had thought long forgotten. He ducked to the left and out of harm’s way.
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that at that moment more than one person decided to take aim. Indeed, the barrage of vegetables aimed at his head no doubt resembled the cannon at Trafalgar.
“Bloody hell,” he cried again, arms raised, which left his midsection vulnerable, something he admitted as a mistake the moment the first onion smacked into him. “Bloody
Similar Books
