"And this is the new trapdoor?" Cutsnail gestured to the complex mechanism of timber, iron and wood in the centre of the under-stage.
"Yes, sir," Coby said, biting her lip and watching his reaction.
Cutsnail inspected the pulleys and gears, rubbing the engine grease between two fingers and sniffing it with professional interest. Coby unlatched the trap, then released the counterweight so that the bottom section rose smoothly upwards to become flush with the stage.
"There is another in the stage canopy," she added, "to lower gods and the like from the heavens. I can take you up to see it if you wish."
"Gods? I thought you Christians had only one god."
"Yes, but some of our plays are about ancient times, before Christ came to save us. In those days people believed in many different gods."
"Ah, I think I understand. But thank you, I have seen enough."
She showed Cutsnail back up to the tiring room and thence upstairs to the office. To her annoyance Dunfell had turned up, and was fussing over some paperwork with Master Naismith. The duke's secretary fell silent when he saw Master Cutsnail, however, his expression turning to one of guarded politeness. It was a strange reaction from a man in the duke's service, who must see more than his fair share of skraylings.
Cutsnail appeared not to notice anything amiss, but it was impossible to know if that was through genuine ignorance of humans or simply lack of visible reaction. The foreigners' faces were hard to read at the best of times, their expressions concealed or distorted as they were by the tattooed lines.
"Thank your master for showing me the new theatre," he told Coby. "Now I must be about my other business."
"Certainly, sir."
She showed him out of the back door, lingering a while to enjoy the sunshine. It was oddly quiet without the constant hammering and cursing of the workmen. For a moment she was taken back to Sunday afternoons with Master Catlyn, sneaking into the empty building to spar and talk. She closed her eyes, lost in blissful memory.
"Naismith! Is Naismith there?"
She blinked against the light as Master Eaton came running round the curve of the theatre wall.
"In the office," she said as he pushed past her. "Why, what is it?"
She ran after him, heart in her mouth. Judging by the look on the actor's face, something was very wrong.
"Rafe?" Naismith put down his ledger.
"It's – Hugh Catchpenny," Eaton panted. "He's dead."
Coby stared at Master Eaton, aghast.
"What?" Naismith looked almost as shocked as she felt.
"Killed in a brawl last night. Skull smashed in, so they're saying."
"Dear God in Heaven."
Dunfell stepped forward. "Who is this Catchpenny?"
Coby bit back a snide remark. Six weeks with the company, and he still could not remember the names of the men on stage.
"A hireling, a player of small parts only," Naismith replied distractedly. "Still, he must be replaced."
"Certainly he must," said Dunfell, "and with someone less quarrelsome, by Heaven. My lord Suffolk–"
"With all due respect, sir," Master Eaton said, advancing on him slowly, "this is too little a matter for the notice of a great man like Suffolk. Is it not?"
Dunfell retreated, his round visage as pale as the moon.
"Ah, um, yes. Yes, I suppose so."
"Well, there's nothing for it," Master Naismith said. "We shall have to hire a replacement."