There is a sudden rush of music, and the latecomers seek their seats. You look around the theater. There are always a few minutes of music first, a last chance for people to settle into their seats.
"Excuse me. Excuse me." Someone is climbing over people in the row behind you. You twist around. It's your best friend, Diar. "I need to talk to you for a minute," she says.
"Sure." You excuse your way back to the aisle and follow her up to the colonnade. "What's going on?"
"You said you wanted to meet Nichol, the director of the Odeon. Let's go backstage and see if we can catch him before the performance."
Diar is wearing a butter-yellow gown that sets off her dark coloring and has tumbling brown curls that are currently escaping from their silken ribbons. She's a few years older than you, a character actor who brings warmth and wit to character parts, but yearns to step into the lead.
"Is this a good time?" you ask.
"Probably. He'll be backstage and hopefully not terribly busy. This is the third night, so everybody knows what they're doing." She crosses her wrists quickly, a city superstition. "Come on."
You follow Diar around the colonnade to the far right end, where it abuts the stage building. There's a door, and Diar knocks. It opens, and a stagehand looks out. "This is private…oh, Diar. Come on in. You know we're not supposed to use this door when there are people in the house."
"I know." Diar ducks in, and you follow quickly. "This is my friend, Osberht. Where's Nichol?"
"Down behind the stage," the stagehand says.
"Come on."
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