Nichol's other eyebrow rises to join the first one. "Really?"
Your reply dies on your lips as a harried-looking stagehand hurries up. "Master Nichol? We can't find Cinnamon."
"What?"
"We've looked everywhere. We need Cinnamon to get ready to go on."
A spice? Or an actor named after a spice? "Who's Cinnamon?" you whisper to Diar.
"Cinnamon's the dog," Diar says. "A little dog who does tricks. She's in the first scene. She's the comic relief after the dread prophecies. That scene won't work without the dog."
"And the play has to start."
Nichol looks concerned. He's demanding of the waiting actors if anyone's seen Cinnamon.
"It's the curse!" someone exclaims.
It's become a common exclamation of late. You're not sure where the rumor started that there was a malign influence on the city, only that people are quick to blame it for any run of bad luck. The rumors might be true. You've heard of magical misfortunes that have doomed rulers and brought towering walls tumbling down. But you've also heard curses used as an easy excuse for everything from dropped lines to burned toast.
"It is not the curse," Nichol says firmly. "Surely someone must have seen the dog?"
If you could find Cinnamon, you'd save the day. Then Nichol would have to read your play. Your thoughts are racing. A little dog is likely to stick her nose into some hole somewhere. There must be a way to get under the stage. Around the back?
You hurry behind the building that serves as the back of the stage. Down on the far end there's a set of steps that lead to the ground behind from the building, just wooden boards with gaps between them. You get on your knees. Perfect. There's a crawl space under the building about three feet high, blocked off by stone foundations from the entrance to the pit in the house and the area where the trap door is worked.
It's the ideal hiding place for a little dog. Unfortunately, it's not a great place for a person to crawl into, especially one who's well-dressed.