Episode 1: William

London, 1999

The laces stand out among the packets of black and brown: rainbow, threaded with gold. They are cheerful, vibrant, and nothing my parents would let me wear.

I feel the woven fabric between my fingers as I figure out if I can pay for them. I rarely have cash of my own, but what little I have hides in my cello case, courtesy of my mentor, Cynthia Beecham.

I didn't change any money at the Channel station after we arrived in Dover this morning; even if I could get the cash out of my cello case without Lorraine or Philip seeing (and then demanding I give them the money) I won't have the right currency until my sister Isabel and I can go out on our own. That probably won't be until tomorrow, when we get to Dublin.

I sigh as I realize I'll have to ask Lorraine to buy the laces for me, and she'll say no because she forbids me to wear anything that isn't approved by our stylist — herself — or utterly basic. She only consented to buy me new clothes and boots today because I've outgrown the wardrobe I brought on this tour. My trouser hems stop above my ankles, my shirt cuffs expose my wrists, and my shoes cramp my toes so much it’s hard to walk. The boots are a compromise — Harrods carries Doc Martens, which we both like, me for their style and Lorraine for their sturdiness.

She's paying for my new brown boots (for every day) and black Oxfords (for performances) at the cash register, while Philip looks at suits, to find one for me to wear to our performance tonight. I'd prefer to wear slim-fitting jeans and one of the creamy cable-knit sweaters folded on a nearby display table, but it isn't up to me.

Isabel has curled herself into one of the shoe department chairs and is reading a book she picked up at the airport in San Diego. She's having the most fun out of the four of us if her smile is anything to go by.

I'm not enthused about shopping for clothes at all. They'll be as dull and ugly as the ones they'll replace — I'll have a black suit for performances, and offstage I'll have to wear brown or black trousers, white shirts, and gray or black sweaters. If I'm lucky and Philip is in a good mood, he might let me get something in a color that looks good on me, like emerald green or midnight blue or mustard yellow, but I'm rarely that lucky.

I need these laces. I deserve these laces. I—

I can't buy these laces. A check of my wallet reveals I have German marks, French francs, Italian lira, and even zloty from Poland, but no British pounds. I know Europe plans to switch to a unified currency, but the magazine articles I've read on various trains across the continent say that won't happen for a few more years. Not soon enough to help me.

My cello case rests against Isabel's chair, in full view of the men's department. If I get my cash from its hiding place, it'll give me away.

Lorraine is chatting with the sales clerk. I swallow hard, grab the packet of laces, and take them to her. Isabel inherited her sharp blue eyes and dark chestnut hair, fair freckled skin, and statuesque height. I have her hands.

As usual with anyone who'll listen, she's talking about me. "We're on tour with my youngest. He's a cello prodigy, you see, and has been playing music festivals on the continent since April. He's a growing boy! We had to find new things for him so he won't look like an urchin on stage. We're playing at the Southbank Centre tonight. It's sold out, according to my husband."

She beams with pride at the politely bored clerk. I wince — I'm fifteen, I'm not a child prodigy anymore — and tug on her coat sleeve. "Mom—"

"Here he is!" Lorraine puts an arm around my shoulders. I'm as tall as she is in my sock feet. "This is my youngest."

"Hi," I say to the clerk. "I'm William."

"Hello," he says in a soft voice. "I'm Andrew. Welcome to London." He smiles at me.

I don't know accents enough to guess where he's from — and English accents sound roughly the same to American ears — but it doesn't matter, I like it. I like his welcoming smile, pleasantly handsome face, and dark gentle eyes. If all the English boys I meet look like this one, I'll—

I'll have to look and not touch.

To business. I say to Lorraine, "Mom, could I get these?" as I hold out the rainbow laces.

The smile disappears from Lorraine's face. "William," she begins and removes her arm from my shoulders.

"I like them," I say. "They're cheerful."

"They're two pound," puts in Andrew. I smile at him gratefully.

"Two pounds, Mom. I'd get them myself, but I don't have any English money."

"Put them back, William," Lorraine says. "You know how your father feels about — that."

Yeah, I know. Philip has made his feelings on that clear.

I try one more time. "They're just bootlaces, Mom."

"Put them back," she repeats. "End of discussion."

Andrew looks from Lorraine to me. I can see the questions forming, and I sigh. 

"Yes, ma'am," I mutter and trudge back to the display, where I hang the packet with its siblings. The gold threads glint in the mellow lighting as if to wave goodbye.

I flop in the chair next to Isabel and eye our instrument cases. I’d pick up my ukulele to pass the time, but there are a lot of people shopping this afternoon and I don’t want to draw attention. People recognize me sometimes and that tends to get awkward.

Isabel shifts in her chair to offer me a shoulder, where I lay my head. "Is your book good?"

"It's trashy," Isabel says. "Mom hates it. That's enough for me."

I huff. Lorraine and Philip have the opposite problem with Isabel: in her freshman year of high school, Isabel renounced color and took to wearing all black, all the time. "But you're such a pretty girl!" Lorraine made the mistake of saying once, and Isabel responded by cutting her glorious, waist-length hair short, covering her face in deathly pale makeup, and wearing the darkest, blackest lipstick she could find.

Even her swimsuits are black, and she never goes to the beach without a coverup, a wide-brimmed hat, and gallons of sunscreen. When we were kids, we would run all day on the sand without a thought, and then take baths at home with baking soda in the water to soothe our sunburns.

With her study black knee-high boots, black jersey travel dress, and black coat, Isabel looks like she should be in an industrial music club, dancing on a plinth, rather than bored in Harrods. On the Continent, no matter what country or city we were in, stylish kids stopped us on the street to invite her to parties or ask where she got her shoes.

"What's up with Lorraine?" she says, looking over my head. Our mother is now looking at suits with Philip, each more boring and gloomy than the last. "The color thing again?"

"The color thing."

Philip calls the sales clerk over with a brusque, "You!" and a snap of his fingers. Isabel and I both cringe and sink lower into our chairs.

"I'm sorry, Will. I don't get what their hang-up is about it."

Homophobia, I want to tell her, but that would require a conversation I'm not prepared to have. I say, "Thanks, Iz," and close my eyes as she pats my cheek. Thank God for Izzy. I don't know how I'd stay sane without her.

"You know," she says slowly as she tangles her fingers in the curls that Lorraine takes great pride in maintaining, "you could always do something they can't make you change. But even I think it would be a pity to dye or shave this."

I shake my head. "I already look ridiculous. It'd be even worse if I shaved my hair off."

"You don't look ridiculous. Well," she amends, "you're all elbows and knees right now, but that won't last forever."

"Thanks," I say pointedly, and she tousles my hair.

"You'll grow into your ears someday, I promise."

I snort and curl into the chair. I agree with Isabel, but that's not how I want to go about expressing myself. My hair is the single physical feature I like. Isabel and Lorraine have chestnut hair, and Philip's hair is strawberry-blond, while mine is coppery and glints gold when the light hits it right.

But I'm not handsome, or even cute. I'm as pale as Isabel is with her makeup, and my eyes are different colors, which people find off-putting. And now I'm gangly and boney. Lorraine constantly reminds me to stand up straight so I don't have a slouch when I reach my full height, which will probably be over six feet like Philip.

"We should have done this in Paris," I tell Isabel. "Then I might have gotten something fashionable."

"You know the parents won't let you wear anything but a dinner jacket, no matter where they bought it." She turns a page.

I sigh. I know. Isabel will wear a black velvet dress, and I will wear a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, and neither of us can say anything about it. Never mind that Isabel would choose to be like Tori Amos over Annie Fischer any day.

I would love to dress like the boys in France. I want to wear brightly patterned sweaters with matching socks, or neutral shirts and trousers with bright scarves, or a black mock turtleneck paired with a perfect denim jacket.

What I don't want is to continue dressing like a little boy — a somber little boy who lives in the public eye and is constantly on his best behavior. I'm not that little boy anymore, not only because I've shot up four inches since we left San Diego in the spring.

A four-year-old cellist is a prodigy. A fifteen-year-old cellist is nothing more than a fifteen-year-old cellist.

Lorraine finally comes to us, and Isabel and I untangle ourselves. Lorraine sits beside me and gives me the shoe boxes. "We'll have to find a charity drop-off for all these things you've outgrown. Of all the times for you to have a growth spurt."

"I'm sure my hormones did it on purpose," I mutter. "Just to inconvenience you."

"Don't be snide, William."

I have much to say about my supposed snideness, but I say, "Yes, ma'am," and pull on my new boots. They're great boots: ankle-high, soft brown leather, standard black laces, and sturdy lug soles. They fit perfectly even with the typical Doc Martens tightness across the arch. It'll stretch.

They look good. They would look better if they had rainbow laces. 

Before I can contemplate this, Philip says, "William," in the same brusque tone he used to call over the sales clerk. Isabel pats my back, and I get up to see the suit he's decided I’ll wear tonight.

Philip stands beside Andrew; six-foot-four of him, with a forty-inch chest and strawberry-blond hair he wears swept back from his forehead. His eyes regard me without warmth as I walk to them, making me pull my cuffs over my wrists and wish my trouser hems weren't halfway up my ankles.

The suit is nothing special. Black trousers and single-breasted jacket, plain white shirt, plain black tie. There are a few other, more interesting, white shirts and colorful ties nearby, which I suspect Philip was yelling about earlier.

"There you are," Philip says, his tone severe, as if I hadn’t been with either Lorraine or Isabel for the last hour. "The boy will help you get the suit fitted."

"We could skip all this if you’d let me wear jeans," I say, though I know from experience that he'd sooner let me dye my hair green and pierce my ears with safety pins than he would let me wear jeans on stage.

Philip snorts. "Don’t be absurd, William. You’re a classical musician, not a punk." He hands the suit to Andrew. "We've got a performance in a few hours! Chop chop!"

I wince at Andrew in apology and follow him through the men’s department to the tailoring rooms. At least tonight is my last performance of this leg of the tour, and I won't have to wear this dull, ordinary suit again for at least a month. There are many great suits in this department, like the evergreen shot with black, or the slate blue with white detailing, or, hell, even a gray suit can be interesting with the right shirt, tie, and shoes. Pale pink shirt, I think idly, with a magenta tie and red-tone shoes...

There is no point in daydreaming about it. They're never going to let me wear red, let alone pink. 

Alone in the tailoring room, Andrew shuts the door and I sit on a chair to take off my shoes. I change clothes in front of other people all the time; despite that, I'm awkward as I take off my outgrown jeans and sweater as he waits for me to put on the pants and shirt. I get up onto the stool for him to measure me, and look away when I notice his face is flushed as he holds the measuring tape to my chest.

He says, "Your mum said you play the cello."

"Yeah. I'm playing tonight at the Southbank Centre with my sister on piano."

"She mentioned."

"Hm." That's kind, saying she "mentioned" it. 

His thick dark hair shines in the mellow shop lights. I bet it’s soft. I bet it would feel amazing to run my hands through it first thing in the morning or last thing at night, or to feel it brush against my cheek before we kiss.

Andrew would notice if I snapped the rubber band around my wrist; I imagine the cello part of Pachelbel's Canon in D, the same eight notes over and over. It gives me something else to think about than the handsome boy moving around me as he takes my measurements.

Andrew holds out my arms and asks, "Is this your first time in London?"

"I've been here a few times before," I tell him. "I've done little tours, four or five cities around the U.K."

"Sounds nice. Getting to travel."

"Not really," I say. "We see hotel rooms and train stations between performance venues, instead of seeing the sights."

"That's a pity. There's so much beauty here."

"I may get to see it this time." I look into the mirror when Andrew puts the measuring tape around my neck. "Tomorrow we're heading to Dublin for a break from the tour. I'm recording an album with the Coronado Quartet."

"Who're they?"

He's not a classical fan. Kids my age rarely are. "They're a classical quartet out of San Diego, where I live. A classical string quartet is two violins, a viola, and a cello. The cellist is an old friend of the family and has been my teacher since I was tiny. This album was her idea. Since their favorite producer lives in Dublin, that's where we're going."

Andrew stops pinning my cuff to look at me. "That wouldn't be Thomas Costigan, would it?"

"That's him. You've heard of him?"

"He used to be in the Liberties. I love that band! What's a punk musician doing, producing classical music?"

I shrug. That's something I want to ask Thomas Costigan when we meet. "Music's music."

He wraps the measuring tape around my waist. I can see the glints of amber in his brown eyes before they dart away. "You’re so slim," he murmurs.

I blurt out, "Would you like to come to the concert tonight? It'll be classical, but, you know, good classical." 

Andrew glances at me with a startled chuckle. "I thought your mum said the concert was sold out."

"They always set a few tickets aside for guests and VIPs." Despite the Pachelbel, I can feel myself blushing. "You could come. As my guest."

He hesitates, then gently smiles and nods. "I’d love to be your guest. I get off in an hour so there’s plenty of time for me to get ready and get myself there. It's at the Southbank Centre?"

He’s not laughing at me or acting grossed out. Relief makes me sag. "Right, in the Purcell Room at eight. What's your last name?"

"Shoemaker," Andrew says. "I'll be there. And maybe after we can do something, you and me, if your parents don’t mind."

They’ll mind, but I’ll deal with that later. "I'd love it."

We both stand there, smiling at each other, and I can't help myself — I start to lean forward, to taste that soft, friendly mouth. His eyelids flutter and he leans up to meet me.

Before our lips can touch, the slatted door is yanked open, startling us apart. Philip stands in the doorway, his face white with anger.

"William," he grits out.

"Sorry, sir," Andrew says. "We're almost finished here."

"You're finished now." Philip stalks at me and I stumble off the stool. He backs me up against the tri-fold mirror. "And you, you ugly faggot—"

"Dad, I can explain—"

He grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me against the mirror. I cry out, unable to hold it back, as he twists my arm behind my back and pushes my head against the glass like he wants to shatter either the mirror or my bones.

"Sir!" Andrew protests.

"You stay out of this!" Philip says harshly into my ear as he grinds my face against the glass, "How fucking dare you, cruising ten feet away from your mother. You will not use the tour that I paid for to get your dick sucked. You're lucky I don't tell your mother what a pervert you are. Get out of that suit." He gives me one more hard shove before he lets me go, and drags Andrew out of the dressing room by the arm. 

I close my eyes, shaking, and sink onto the stool. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the sounds of Friday afternoon shoppers. My eyes burn. My throat feels tight. My lungs won’t expand. The pattern of the carpet swirls like a whirlpool.

In the mirror, my face is red and splotchy, and tears leak from my eyes. I do look ugly. I feel ugly. My nose is too long and my chin is too weak and Philip was right, the night I came out to them, when he said no one would ever love a disgusting gargoyle like me. 

This is more than the Canon in D can help with. I wind my finger in the rubber band, twist it tight, and then let it snap against my wrist. It’s hard enough to leave a welt, but it lets me breathe again. My hands are steady as I carefully remove the shirt and trousers. I put on my clothes and new boots, and open the door to find Andrew waiting outside.

"Are you all right?" he says softly as he takes the suit.

"I'm fine," I lie, my voice calm. "Thank you for your concern. I'm afraid I'll have to take back my invitation."

"Of course," Andrew says, his gaze on my face, and I look away. "I'm sorry. I was looking forward to getting to know you better."

So was I, but I keep that to myself. "Well, here." I give him the shirt and look around for Lorraine and Isabel. When I spot them, Philip is beside them, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression like stone. I’m in for it once we’re in private. I take a breath and start towards them.

"William," Andrew says, "wait."

I pause but don't face him again. 

"You — you have pretty eyes."

My throat closes. I glance at him over my shoulder and then go back to my family. 

I keep my eyes downcast as Philip says, "Your mother will take you to the theater. You need to rehearse in the space. They'll have dinner in the green room for us. I'll deal with you later."

"What will you be doing, Daddy?" Isabel asks him in a small voice. She must be really upset if she's calling him that. 

"I'll bring William's suit when the tailoring is done."

Lorraine gives him a quick kiss, then briskly says, "Come along, children," like she did when I was in short pants and Isabel wore her hair in ringlets, as she gathers her coat, purse, and shopping bags. 

I sigh as I gather my luggage and lift my cello case onto my back. You'd think my parents would treat me like an adult by now since I'm the primary wage earner in this family. But no. I'm either a pervert or a child to my parents, and I never know which one it's going to be.

Isabel whispers to me as we follow Lorraine, "What happened? Philip looked like he wanted to erupt."

"He caught me about to kiss the sales clerk."

"Oh, William," Isabel says and hugs my arm. She keeps hold of it as we leave Harrods and go back out to the grey, wet streets of London, where Lorraine hails a cab with a practiced hand.

On the way to the concert venue, Lorraine sits in icy silence in the back seat with Isabel, and I'm relegated to the front seat with the cab driver. He starts to speak a few times but then closes his mouth. He looks relieved when he drops us off at the performers’ entrance of the Southbank Centre.

There, we're met by the venue manager, the concert promoter, and — much to my delight — Cynthia Beecham. She and Lorraine kiss the air by each other's cheeks, then she wraps Isabel and me in her arms and kisses our heads. "My darlings," she says as we cling to her. "I'm so happy to see you. William! You’ve grown a yard since April."

"Puberty," I tell her, and she tousles my hair.

"At this rate, the next time I blink you’ll be a man."

Isabel whispers to her, "Don't leave Will alone with Philip," and says in her natural voice, as we walk into the venue with our arms around her waist, "How was your journey to London?"

Cynthia gives me a concerned look. I hug her to me in response. She says, "Relaxing, though it's strange to travel alone. I can't remember the last time I didn't have Henry or at least one child with me."

"How is Jonas doing?" I say on Isabel's behalf.

Isabel bites her lip, her eyes hopeful. 

"He's doing fine," Cynthia says, more to Isabel than to me. "He got a job in a bakery for the summer. He misses you both."

"We miss him too," I say, which makes Lorraine meaningfully clear her throat. No more talk of Jonas in front of her, then.

"Where is Philip?" Cynthia asks once we've stowed our luggage and my cello in the artists' dressing rooms.

"He's at Harrods, waiting for William's suit to be tailored," Lorraine says. "The salesclerk was unprofessional towards William, and Philip thought he ought to oversee things. He'll be along."

"That's surprising for Harrods," Cynthia says, running her hand over my hair. "Are you all right, Will, dear?"

"I'm fine. It wasn't what Dad thinks."

"What was--" Cynthia begins but switches gears when I shake my head, my eyes wide. "We've got the house for rehearsal for the next two hours. Ready?"

"I'm ready." My cello once more on my back, we make for the stage.

I've played all kinds of venues this spring. I played at a private party at movie star’s house on Lake Geneva. I played at a music festival at the Odeon of Herodes Atticus in Athens, one of the oldest amphitheaters in the world. I've played open-air concerts, I've played cathedrals, I've played opera houses and churches and museums.

The Purcell Room is on the small side, with about three hundred seats in a stadium layout with the stage at the bottom. The theater has set up a gleaming black grand piano for Isabel, and a chair and microphone for me. There's a brightly patterned rug under the chair to keep the pin of my cello from damaging the stage floor.

"Small," Isabel says, voicing my thoughts. We give each other rueful smiles. Small means intimate, and intimate is great for a duo like us. My favorite stages are theater-in-the-round, when the audience is close enough that I can see the recognition on their faces when we play a favorite piece.

"I like it."

Her lips compressed, Lorraine climbs the stairs to the door leading to the main hall and goes out to the lobby. Cynthia sits in the front row to coach us as we rehearse, something Philip has tried to imitate during this tour.

Isabel sits on the piano bench, and I sit in the chair and adjust the microphone. As she plays her warm-up with scales and arpeggios, I screw the pin into my cello and rosin the bow.

The moment I draw the bow across the strings, the world falls away. In its place are me and my music, my true love and best friend. I know both things should be people, but I've begun to believe I'll never fall in love, and aside from the Beechams I've rarely had the chance to make friends.

Music is always there for me. Music is my company when I'm lonely, my comfort when I'm sad, and my lullaby when the night grows long.

After I warm up myself with scales and arpeggios, I ease into my favorite Bach prelude. It covers the range of the cello's tones and helps me see how limber my fingers are today. My hands are in good shape, which means I'm ready for a proper rehearsal when Isabel is done warming up. 

We start with the first piece on our set list, Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise for Violin and Piano — my cello taking the place of the violin — and a few of the venue employees stop bustling around to listen. 

Philip doesn't allow us to stray far from the classical canon in our performances. Debussy or Ravel is about as adventurous as we can get. I've begged Philip to let Isabel do an interlude where she can sing a Lied, but Philip always vetoes it. Isabel and I have talked about doing something we like as an encore, but we haven’t had the courage to do it yet.

The rehearsal goes smoothly until I hear one of the upper-most doors open and in comes Philip, Lorraine trailing behind. 

My fingers slip. Isabel stops at the discordant sound and looks at me, and Philip starts down the stairs. 

"It’s all right, William," Cynthia says, and that makes Philip pause. "Start over from the previous measure."

"Yes, ma’am," I say. Isabel turns back to the keyboard and counts us in, and we pick up where we left off. Philip sits beside Cynthia in the front row, glowering but silent. Cynthia was his mentor when they both were in the San Diego Symphony, and he would never dare to contradict her, at least not to her face.

As soon as we're finished the set list, Cynthia hugs us again and says, "You sounded amazing, as always. I’ll be back before the curtain call." We say goodbye, and Lorraine hustles us into the green room for supper, which has been laid out for us buffet-style with two chefs to serve the hot food. The spread includes fruit salad served on greens, beef Stroganoff with piles of meatballs and mushrooms, bottles of Coke and sparkling water, and raspberry cheesecake for dessert. 

Isabel and I load up our plates. Behind us, Philip complains, "I thought we were playing the Southbank Centre, not a rinky-dink back room."

The chefs glance at each other. I want to tell them, Yeah, he’s always like this, but I retreat to the dining table and sit at the far end. Isabel sits opposite me, but her face is so stressed I’m not surprised when her food goes ignored and she toys with her Coke.

Lorraine says, "It’ll be all right. The show is sold out, isn’t it?"

"With that small room, we’ll barely break even." 

"You approved it, Dad," I say before I can stop myself. Isabel looks at me with wide eyes, and I take a deep breath.

Philip doesn’t speak for a moment, his face flushing beet-red. He comes to me in two strides and punches my face. There’s a crack, my head jerks, and warm liquid gushes down my face. My hands fly to my nose. The room spins, and the light narrows to a pinpoint. I slide off the chair and onto the floor. 

"Philip, not the face!" Lorraine cries. "He’s got a performance tonight!"

"What the fuck, Dad!" Isabel shouts, and I feel her hands on my shoulders. "Will, are you all right?"

Philip growls, "I work my ass off to get you these venues! I’ve sacrificed my life for you! I do everything for you and this is the thanks I get!"

"I’m getting the manager," one of the chefs says softly, and she rushes out of the green room.

Isabel kneels beside me, holding me around my back and a napkin pressed to my nose to staunch the bleeding. I lay my head on her shoulder to steady myself. "We should cancel."

"The show will go on," Philip replies stiffly. "William is a professional."

"You can’t force him to play with a broken nose!" Isabel snaps back.

Philip’s hand starts to rise and Isabel drapes herself over me. Thankfully, the chef returns with the theater manager before Philip can do anything more. The manager takes one look at us and says, "Let's get ice on your nose," as he helps me to my feet. 

I hold onto his elbow as he leads Isabel and me to the kitchen attached to the theater's cafe. He doesn't say much aside from, "Watch your step here," when we climb down a narrow staircase, but I can feel him looking at me as we go.

In the kitchen, the staff have me sit on a stack of trays filled with clean glasses, and wrap ice in a towel for me to hold to my face. We're joined by the backstage manager and house manager, and they whisper to each other as I slump on the trays and Isabel strokes my hair. 

"I hate this," I say.

Her voice shakes. "I know."

"I hate Philip for being how he is, I hate Lorraine for letting him be that way, I hate that he threatened you, and I hate that everyone in the theater knows how things are with us."

"I know, Will. I hate it, too."

I want to go — not home, San Diego is no better than London when it comes to being safe from Philip — but somewhere I won't jerk awake from nightmares and won't be made to practice until my fingers bleed. Somewhere full of color, somewhere Isabel and I can make the music we love, somewhere violence never crosses the front door.

"We'll cancel the performance," I hear one of the managers say, and I take the ice away from my nose.

"No," I tell them. "We won't cancel. The show must go on."

"William," one of the other managers says, "you've got to be in terrible pain."

"If someone will find me aspirin, I'll be fine."

"I've got an aspirin," an assistant says and pours out two pills into my hand. 

"More," I say, so she pours out two more. I swallow them dry, which causes the little group to give each other concerned looks and the assistant to hastily pour me a glass of water. The pain doesn't retreat, but it's enough that I can push myself to my feet anyway. "Thank you all for your kind concern."

Isabel holds onto my arm. "Will, are you sure? You don’t have to perform. We’ll have to eat the cost of the theater."

"That won’t make anything better."

She slumps, eyes downcast. "I know."

"That’s brave of you," the theater manager says kindly, his hand on my shoulder. "Your nose has stopped bleeding, so that’s a good sign. May I?" He holds his hands to either side of my face. I nod and brace myself as he gingerly tests the area around my nose. “Take a deep breath,” he warns me, and then pushes my nose back into its correct place. I yelp. 

“You’ve done that before,” I gasp out.

“I used to manage a boxing gym.” He pats my shoulder. "How about you lie down, and if you decide you can’t go on tonight, let me know and I’ll manage the arrangements."

Lying down sounds like the best idea right now. "Thank you."

"You know," he adds, "from the rider we expected you to be a nightmare."

"Yeah," I say, "we get that a lot."

He pats my back, and between him and Isabel I get safely to my dressing room.

Alone, I take off my bloody clothes, toss them into a corner, and curl up on the sofa wedged against the wall, under my coat for a blanket. My newly-tailored suit hangs from the back of the door in a plastic bag. 

I stare at the suit, and then turn over and close my eyes. I finger the rubber band around my wrist, then slide my finger under it and twist. I pull it back, and then let it snap against my skin. 

It hurts enough to make me hiss between my teeth, but it’s better than thinking.

A Prima Vista home | Episode 2

Continuo: a prima vista © 2025 by Gaenor Gray is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0