“First Esoteric,” Mr. Quinn replied. His eyes shone oddly in the electric lights of the chandelier. “The priest here was fool enough to speak out against our city’s finest sect. It could not be tolerated, of course.” Mr. Quinn swallowed the last of his drink. “It’s said no one ever found the priest’s body. Well, not all of it.”
I cast a sideways glance at Oliver, who looked rather shocked. “How fascinating,” I said hastily. “I didn’t realize you know so much about Widdershins’s history, Mr. Quinn.”
Oliver frowned in disapproval. “I’d say morbid, and not the sort of story one should relate in front of a lady.”
I suppressed a sigh. Oliver meant well, of course. “It’s quite all right.”
“The incident was over a century ago,” Mr. Quinn said, apparently under the impression that Oliver would find old horrors somehow more suitable for my delicate ears. “The other sects learned their lesson.”
Thankfully, the lights dimmed at that moment. “The play is starting,” I said, gripping Oliver’s arm. “We should find Irene.”
Mr. Quinn gave Oliver a chilly little smile. “Enjoy the show,” he said. A last drop of red lingered on his lip; his tongue darted out to catch it, before he turned away.
Oliver’s gaze followed him. “There’s something off about that fellow. You don’t work closely with him, do you?”
“No, not at all.” Dr. Whyborne usually went to the library himself rather than sending me to fetch books.
“Good,” Oliver said shortly.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Quinn is a bit eccentric, but he means well.” He and the other librarians had risked their lives during the battle last July. But I couldn’t say that to Oliver. Even the denizens of Widdershins only spoke of such things in whispers and innuendo. If I tried to explain it to an outsider, he’d never understand.
Odd, how I’d come to think of Widdershins as home, rather than New Bedford. I’d been subjected to strange and frightening incidents since coming here, things I could never have dreamed of before. By all rights I should have taken my leave of the city and retreated somewhere safer. Yet Mother’s letters, pleading with me to return and get married, left me cold. I somehow felt as though I belonged here, in a way I never had anywhere else.
Irene returned, and we went into the auditorium to find our seats. Tumblers performed on the stage while the audience settled, and Oliver seemed to forget his concern over Mr. Quinn, laughing along with Irene and myself at their antics.
When at last the audience was seated, the tumblers withdrew, and a man stepped onto the stage. He wore a slightly old-fashioned coat, and his hair and beard were iron gray. Still, he seemed hale, his movements easy as he bowed to us all with a flourish.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice rang through the theater, his tone oddly authoritative. “Welcome to the grand opening of the Undertow. I am your humble host, Gregory Ayers.” He bowed again, and was rewarded by a smattering of applause. “We have chosen to christen our new home with a play of our own devising. A tale of intrigue in distant courts, of strange visitors welcome and not, of masks and the secrets dwelling in the hearts of men. Tonight, you will see things never before viewed by an audience!”
Irene leaned over me, pointing at the program. “Look—the character of the siren is played by Miss Joanna Ayers. His daughter, do you think?”
“Or grand-daughter, given his age,” I replied. Then the orchestra struck up the first chords, and the curtain rose upon the scene of a throne room.
At first, I was quite swept up in the play. It concerned the struggle for the throne between siblings—two sisters and their brother, the latter having recently returned from a long sea voyage. But after the first act, it began to grow strange. The prince was haunted by visions of a woman, who seemed to have followed him from the sea. She begged him to love her, but he spurned her advances and fled. None of the other characters could see her, and I was uncertain whether she was meant to be a supernatural curse upon the prince, or merely a hallucination.
“I’m not quite sure I understand this modern theater,” Irene whispered to me.
“Agreed,” I whispered back.
The play culminated in a masquerade ball. I’d long since lost the thread of the plot, but the costumes were beautiful, paste jewels glittering in the stage lights. The masks were elaborate fantasies: wolves, doves, deer, and dragons.
So it was even more of a shock when the siren appeared in the midst of the revelers, wearing a featureless mask that looked to have been carved from bone. The only decoration on her mask consisted of a small cabochon of colored glass set into the forehead, surrounded by a single engraved sigil or rune.
The other characters fell away before her, save for the prince. Siren and prince faced each other down the length of the stage. The orchestra stilled, and for a long moment, there was only silence.
Then the siren began to sing.
I didn’t recognize the language—perhaps it was even nonsense, invented for the play. Her voice seemed to fill the very air with a tangible presence.
The prince collapsed to the stage and began to dramatically crawl toward her. His doom come upon him.