Alexander: “O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you!”
I retreated two steps to watch the peculiar monologue unfold. Alexander’s Mercutio was razor-edged, unbalanced, barely sane. His sharp incisors flashed in the light when he smiled, his mask glittering mischievously as he danced around, first toying with one spectator, then another. His voice and movement both grew more sensual and more savage, until he completely lost control and lunged at me. I staggered backward but not fast enough—he grabbed me by the hair, bent my head back against his shoulder, snarling in my ear.
Alexander: “This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she—!”
I strained against his hold but his strength was iron, overwrought, at odds with the delicacy of one fingertip tracing the embroidery on my chest. James, who had been watching, frozen stiff, fought off his paralysis and pulled Alexander off me. “Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!” He took Alexander’s face in his hands. “Thou talk’st of nothing.”
Alexander’s distracted eyes latched onto James’s, and he spoke more slowly.
Alexander: “True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind.”
When it was my turn to speak again I spoke carefully, wondering if Alexander was truly, now, safe. Our conversation from earlier in the evening was too close, too recent to ignore, like a fresh smarting scratch on my skin.
Me: “This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.”
James turned his face skyward, squinting up at the pyramid of glass that seemed so distant, searching in the wash of light from the chandeliers for the secret, far-off glimmer of a star. I thought of the night of the party, when he and I had stood together in the garden, peering up at the heavens through a jagged hole in the treetops. Our last isolated, innocent moment; the stillness that precedes the blows and billows of a storm.
James: “I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels and expire the term
Of a despisèd life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.”
He paused, gazing upward in soft surprise, sadness like drops of blue in both his eyes. Then he sighed and, smiling, shook his head.
James: “But He that hath the steerage of my course
Direct my sails! On, lusty gentlemen.”
I had almost forgotten where we were—who we were, even—but then the orchestra struck up again and reality came rushing back. Another soaring waltz filled the atrium and breathed life into the audience that had gone silent during the previous scene. The Capulets’ ball was suddenly in full swing.
Alexander grabbed the nearest girl and dragged her forcefully into a dance. The other players appeared from the makeshift wings and did the same, choosing partners at random, pushing other partygoers together. Soon the room was a whirl of movement, surprisingly graceful considering the number of couples. I found a partner at my elbow—indistinguishable from all the other girls except for a black ribbon tied around her throat—and bowed to her before we began to dance. As we turned and revolved and changed places, my attention was constantly elsewhere. Filippa appeared in the corner of my eye, her mask black, silver, purple—she, too, was dressed as male, dancing with another girl, and I wondered if she might be Paris. I turned and lost sight of her again. I looked for James, looked for Meredith, but could not find them, either one.
The song persisted (in my opinion) overlong. When it ended, I bowed again, hastily, and ducked out of the room, making a beeline for the back stairs to the balcony. It was quiet there, and deeply dark. A few couples had sought that secrecy and were maskless now, joined at the lips, pressed close against the walls. The music had begun again but slower. The lights dimmed, burned blue, except for one bright white circle where James stood alone. When the light struck him the surrounding dancers drew back, fell silent.
James: “What lady’s is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?”
The audience turned to see what he was staring at. And there, faint and ephemeral as a ghost, was Wren. A blue and white mask framed her eyes, but she was unmistakably herself. My fingers curled around the edge of the balustrade; I leaned as far forward as I could without falling.
James: “Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”
The music rose again. Wren and her borrowed partner turned slowly on the spot, and in pantomime bade farewell. James’s feet carried him closer, his eyes fixed on her as if he were afraid that she would simply disappear if he lost sight of her. When he was close enough, he caught her hand, and she turned to see who had touched her.
James: “If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
He lowered his head and kissed her palm. Her breath ruffled his hair when she spoke.
Wren: “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”
Partway through her speech, they eased into motion together, palm to palm, revolving slowly. They paused, changed hands, and stepped together in the opposite direction.
James: “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
Wren: “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”
James: “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”