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  Curtain.

  Applause.

  * * * *

  "Assignations, players," said Davis, holding high a thick bundle of cards. Everyone backstage crowded around as the manager handed them out. Ricar hung back, letting the new talent have their moments of glory.

  Miss Dyr, freshly back from the dead, flipped through the dozen or so cards with her name, then frowned. "Where's the one from the senator? I saw him in the private boxes. He's always here."

  Davis checked the last of the cards. "It appears there wasn't one."

  Something came over Miss Dyr then, Ricar noticed. Not the hurt of a jilted lover, nor the tantrum of a child denied a promised sweet. This was something different. Those big brown eyes closed to slits. Miss Dyr threw the remaining cards of lesser admirers at Davis and stalked away. By chance, Miss Alwyx stood at the door leading to the dressing rooms, blocking Miss Dyr's way: a sheepdog confronted by a hissing cat. Even as Miss Alwyx began to move out of the way, the tiny woman spat, "Well?" Miss Alwyx, who was a head taller and half again as heavy, shrank back as Miss Dyr exited.

  This was a problem, Ricar knew. Players had the right to refuse any assignation, but that meant the House received no assignation fee. Too many refusals hurt the company, and Miss Dyr's senator was a significant source of revenue.

  As he helped Davis pick up the scattered cards, Ricar said,

  "I'll handle this."

  "You'd better," said Davis, accepting the cards. "We don't need an arrogant Innocent. Neither does the senator, it seems."

  "It's probably nothing, some business that pulled the senator away. He'll be back later."

  "Regardless, start thinking about a replacement. In the meantime..." Davis handed him a card. "You're wanted in room eight." He turned away and left the room.

  A replacement? There hadn't been anybody half as good as Miss Dyr in the last round of auditions. Ricar had trained an understudy, but he hadn't used her and hoped he'd never have to. Like it or not, Miss Dyr brought people in every night.

  Backstage was nearly empty now, everyone off to assignations or to get undressed. There he found Miss Alwyx, sitting in front of the mirrors next to the abandoned piles of floral bouquets.

  "Don't take Miss Dyr personally," Ricar said.

  "I think I was off, Mister Donal. I didn't make her look good." Miss Alwyx picked up one of the jars of cold cream and a rag and started removing her makeup. "Maybe I'd make a better Servant."

  Ricar thought she'd just look silly in a Servant's costume.

  "Your performance was fine. Don't worry about other players.

  That's my job."

  She smiled briefly, then said, "I didn't get any assignations."

  He waved the air dismissively. "The punters need time to warm up to new players."

  "I see," she said quietly.

  "I have an assignation now, but remember, there's always tomorrow night."

  She forced a smile he found endearing—almost the Innocent's smile.

  As he walked up the stairs to the assignation rooms, he wondered what to do about Miss Dyr. Once, he could have used reason and a touch of flattery, but now she wouldn't listen.

  The moment Ricar entered room eight, his client, a plump young woman waiting next to the bed, blurted out, "You're going to rape me!"

  So much for nuance, Ricar thought. "Calm yourself, my child," he said, slipping back into the Patron role as he caressed her cheek. She was positively quivering; he could tell she had been anticipating this for a long time, rehearsing it in her mind, perhaps even sending letters about it to the domestic magazines. Was this a gift for her coming out party?

  A fling before her wedding?

  "Stop fidgeting, girl," he said, putting a little more steel in his tone.

  She did her best, her hands fairly still, but her feet kept shuffling.

  Settling on the room's single chair with a proprietary manner, he asked, "Why is it necessary for you to report to me?"

  She launched into a rambling speech appropriate to the scenario, the kind he had heard many times before, about how the other (imaginary) members of the household tormented her and blamed her for breaking the good dishes.

  He felt the temptation to just go through the motions, learned through hundreds if not thousands of other assignations—say the words, make the moves. The client would probably not even notice if his performance was mechanical. No matter. For this moment, in this room, he was the Patron, and she was the Innocent, and he would do his best to live up to her expectations, and his.

  Ricar held up one hand. "Enough." She stopped. "It is clear you think your position entitles you to special treatment. It does not, and it is my duty to impress this upon you."

  Her eyes grew wide as he stood and moved the chair before her. He put the cushion over the back and reached out for her, but she eagerly threw herself into position.

  There were several points on the specially modified chair where clients' hands could be tied, regardless of their height or arm length. He put four full loops of thick, soft rope around each of her wrists, then walked around behind her and raised the skirt of the Innocent's dress, exposing her white bloomers. The Rake or Brute would be quick and rough, but the Patron took his time as he tugged her underthings down, revealing a pale, white, rounded backside. Professionally, he noted a mole on her right thigh, something to be avoided later.

  The rod and the cane were exactly as they should be, hanging on nails by the door. The assignation card said that this woman had little experience, so he chose the rod, which could be used lightly. It was an excellent instrument, cut from fresh birch twigs and handcrafted by the prop department that morning. He swung it a few times in full view of the client, building tension as it whooshed through the air.

  "I do this for your own good, child," he said, walking around to stand to the left of her raised buttocks.

  "P-please, my lord, have mercy on me," she whispered, her toes stamping nervously.

  "I give you such mercy as you deserve." He began, keeping an even tempo and building the intensity slowly. She watched him, her breath coming fast and shallow, so he made a show of using his entire arm in the blows, though with only a small fraction of his full strength.

  Some clients suffered in silence, but this one made considerable noise, begging and pleading and apologizing. In the absence of her warning phrase, he took it as encouragement to increase the intensity, to the point when the birch began bruising her. Her feet danced, threatening to make her knock over the chair, but he pressed his free hand into the small of her back.

  After several minutes of birching, he decided that, judging by the tone of her gasps and the flush on both sets of cheeks, she had reached a point of saturation, and returned the birch to its hook.

  He lowered her skirt, eliciting another gasp as the fabric just touched her sensitive skin, then untied her wrists and helped her up to stand again. She clutched her hands to her bosom. There was a different tension in her now, and her eyes showed a new awareness. Her fantasy no longer obscured her perception of the moment.

  This was the most delicate juncture, and one wrong step could spoil the entire scene. Would he be the harsh Patron, the one who throws the suffering Innocent out into the wilderness, or the forgiving Patron, the one whose heart is softened by the Innocent's tears and soothes her hurts? He looked in his client's eyes, saw her yearning and chose.

  "Come here, little one," he said, pulling her over to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap. He was too small and she was too heavy to give the full experience of sitting in the Patron's lap, but he knew how to carry her weight on both of his legs so that her feet were off the ground, sustaining the illusion.

  His experienced hand found its way under her skirt, through her bloomers and up her soft thighs to her sex, quite wet. She gave a little eager sound and spread her legs wider.

  Remembering the notes on the assignation card, he did not press his fingers deeply into her, but instea
d stroked her lips and button, searching for the right rhythm.

  Her face pressed into his shoulder and her fists pressed against his chest as she murmured, "Sir, please, oh, sir—"

  "Good girl," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. She made an odd little sound, part gasp, part sob, and her thighs closed, mashing his hand against her. Her eyes closed with pleasure newly discovered, even if she had dreamed this moment a thousand times before, stroking herself in her own bed. This was the sacred moment that was somehow born from the hackneyed words and actions and costumes, straw spun into gold.

  When her breathing slowed a bit, she looked at him, face to face. "Please sir, let me show my gratitude for taking me in." She slid between his legs, ending up on her knees before him.

  He hadn't expected this at all, and it took him a moment to go with it and help her undo his trousers. She was surprisingly eager in this regard, taking his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

  Each male player had his own trick for rising to the occasion, but he didn't focus on the sensations as he usually did. Instead, he thought of Miss Alwyx, looking resplendent and invulnerable in the Virago's dress, her massive bare arms wrapping around him, lifting him, crushing him against her bosom. She smiled playfully at his attempts to escape her grasp. I won't let you go, little Ricar....

  He spent into his client's mouth. She coughed a bit, and he discreetly passed her his handkerchief so she could spit out his seed.

  Buttoned up again, he guided her to her feet and stood up, back in the Patron's authoritative manner. "Do not think this has won you any special consideration, girl."

  "Oh no, sir, of course not," she said, swinging her torso back and forth, pleased with herself.

  "Dinner will be at eight, sharp," he said and turned his back on her, the session over. Shame weighed on him as he left through the player's entrance. He had betrayed his client by not being in the moment. Even if she hadn't noticed anything, he had betrayed his own standards.

  * * * *

  Ricar and Chel sat on a narrow catwalk among the lights and rigging. They dangled their feet far above the stage and watched the show, as they had done decades ago when they were both apprentices, awestruck to have even bit parts in the Commedia.

  They had the best seats in the house as the performance started beneath them. Again, Miss Dyr played the Innocent, fresh from the wedding to her Servant groom and about to settle into their marriage bed, when the Prince entered and demanded his right as their lord. The Innocent huddled on the bed, quivering hands barely covering her bosom, while the Servant feebly begged for his bride to be spared.

  "Something's off with her," Chel commented.

  Ricar was forced to agree. No one in the audience noticed, he was sure, but the Innocent had caught on to manipulating the Prince by his desires too quickly. There was calculation where there had once been spontaneity. And little by little, it was growing. Someday, even the most unsophisticated observer in the audience would pick up on it, and then the illusion would be broken.

  "We'll need to train her in some new roles," he said, half to himself.

  "She's a terrible Fatale, not much better as a Pedant. And she'll quit before playing a Pet or Harlot again."

  "Or we find a new Innocent."

  Chel shrugged. "We always do, sooner or later. Funny, we keep getting older, but the Innocents stay the same age."

  "It'd be a little easier if we could look at more people. Not just fresh-faced tiny girls."

  "You mean like your Miss Alwyx?" Chel chuckled. "If somebody tried to ravish her, she'd just roll over and crush him to death. Better find another pretty face and tiny waist."

  "She's a member of my company, nothing more." He changed the subject. "If we can't find a new part for Miss Dyr, what shall she do?"

  Below them, Miss Dyr turned away from her groom and presented herself with lowered eyes to the Prince.

  "Oh, she'll land on her feet, be some rich man's wife or mistress."

  "And if she can't squeeze an annuity out of him?"

  "She can work in a dress shop or something. Either way, the little harpy won't be our problem anymore."

  The moment the Prince laid a hand on her, Miss Dyr broke down sobbing.

  "They come in, and a few years later they go out again, and what do they have to show for it?"

  Chel smirked. "Ricar, it is rather late to bite the hand that has fed us, and quite well, all these years."

  "What about you, then?" He couldn't help noticing the lines around her eyes, how thin her neck had become. On stage, with the right makeup and costume, no one would notice, but in the assignation rooms.... Then again, he hadn't been called to play the Rake or Prince in a few years either.

  "Even a magnificent bitch like me can't play the Fatale forever," Chel said. "Then it's the Pedant and the Matron, and then ... well, I can still direct, design, choreograph. I shall manage."

  Suddenly tired, Ricar started to stand up.

  "Where are you going? It's not finished." Chel pointed down to where the Innocent had paralyzed the Prince with conflicting emotions.

  "We did the exact same scenario twenty years ago, remember?" He sat down again.

  "Oh, right. My very brief stint as the Innocent. Somebody threw eggs at me."

  He finally said something that had been running through his mind for some time, even before he met Miss Alwyx.

  "Maybe if we tried some new scenarios, new roles, instead of our same old things?"

  After a moment, Chel said, "The punters won't go for it."

  "You mean they don't want to see anything new, or you don't want to try anything new?"

  Chel dodged the question. "Do you want to risk our ticket sales and our assignation fees? I don't. And I know Davis won't. You don't know what it took to get him to let me produce some afternoon shows."

  "I admire what you've done with those. That bit with the gauze cocoon, very innovative...."

  "Well, tell the punters that. They seem to be in agreement with Davis. Classics, classics, classics."

  "You mean, clichés, clichés, clichés."

  * * * *

  The emergency bell still jangled as Ricar hurried into assignation room twelve. His eyes immediately went to Miss Alwyx, instead of the client. Apparently unharmed, she sat on the animal-print bed in a Beast costume, dejectedly holding the headdress in her lap. The client, dressed in his own Hunter costume, paced angrily back and forth on the grass-patterned carpet. A tangled clump of ropes and straps lay on the floor between them. "Is there a problem, sir?" Ricar asked.

  "That," the client said, jabbing a finger at Miss Alwyx, "is the problem. The most pathetic excuse for a Beast I have ever seen."

  "Sir, I—"

  "I expect a proper Beast from your establishment, with some serious fight in her. If I wanted a simpering little Innocent under me, I'd have ordered one."

  "I was trying to—" she began.

  "Miss Alwyx, please wait for me outside," Ricar said. She got up, apparently struggling not to cry, and left the room through the player's entrance.

  "Sir," Ricar lied, "we've had many problems with that player. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. She will be sacked immediately."

  That mollified the man somewhat.

  "If you'll go and see our house manager, sir, he'll discuss the matter with you." He'll also discuss your sizable unpaid bill, Ricar did not say.

  Ricar escorted the man, still grumbling, out of the room to the hall and pointed him at Davis' office, then went back through the assignation room to the player's corridor where Miss Alwyx waited.

  "Are you quite all right?" He almost put a hand on her upper arm, but thought better of it.

  "I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, just yelled at me until I pulled the bell cord."

  "What happened?"

  "I saw this circus show once, where the lioness would sit in the tamer's lap and purr. I thought he'd like that in my Beast."

  "There's always a degree of menace in the Beast,"
he told her. "The taming can never be complete."

  "Please forgive me, sir. I still have a lot to learn here and I want to do my best," she said.

  He turned to her sharply, thinking she had said that in mockery of the Innocent, but she looked back at him without guile or even irony.

  They stepped aside to allow a trio of Pets to scamper by on their way to an assignation room. Ricar pondered what to do.

  He had seen Davis's meticulous records of each player's performance. There was no denying that Miss Alwyx ranked near the bottom of the company in both total assignations and gross assignation fees. Many customers found her size appealing and requested her as a Fatale or Beast or Harlot, but she didn't develop the essential repeat business. And money had to be tight for her without supplementing her salary with assignation fees.

  Yet ... she never missed rehearsals or curtain calls, gamely took any role assigned to her, and performed exceptionally in Chel's training sessions. There were far more troublesome and less talented players in the company.

  "I wouldn't worry about it too much," Ricar said. "Certain people enjoy complaining for their own sake."

  "Maybe we should do a special three-hand act," she said.

  "Customer, Player, and Manager." They both laughed a little at the thought.

  "We just need to find the right role for you," he told her.

  * * * *

  The train pulled into the platform with a hiss of steam, and the doors cranked open, letting the travelers on the platform stream in. Miss Alwyx started to join them, but Ricar gestured to her. "No, down there."

  He led her to the first class car at the end, showed his rail pass to the porter and said, "And one guest." The porter tipped his cap as he ushered them inside. They settled into the plush bench seats, facing each other. He smiled at Miss Alwyx's delight in the polished brass and mahogany fittings and the bag of hot nuts from the vendor's cart.