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“About us?” They matched Elf’s whisper, even though nobody was listening. They liked whispering in her ear. They especially liked whispering us. “Some things are glaringly obvious once you know how to look.”

They raised their eyes, and over there, the two men in the corner. Case in point.

“Charles Peach,” they whispered, pointing with their chin. “Should I go thank his dimples for last night?”

Elf’s elbow connected with their ribs, and they laughed and tucked her arm under theirs. With their other hand, they waved at Phipps, close by his lover, lounging with his shoulder on the wall. Phipps lifted a brow in answer, his smile pleased as punch.

All at once, Mrs. Alderwalsey’s authoritative voice rang out. The low rumble of conversation ceased. Every head turned. She had risen from her chair, the trimmings on her hat flirting worrisomely with the candle flames above.

“Mr. Arbuthnot,” she said, and gestured to the manager, still at his table. He laid down his cutlery and somehow, without moving another muscle, increased his dignity of bearing. “In days of yore,” continued Mrs. Alderwalsey, “back when even I was but a child, strolling companies strolled right by our hamlet, bound for more populous towns. When rarely companies did beg leave to play for us, the magistrates rightly denied them licenses. Too often country actors are nothing but unscrupulous mountebanks. You will not disagree.”

Mr. Arbuthnot’s tufted eyebrows commiserated with her assertion.

“This has been our first ever theatrical evening here in Twynham,” she went on. “I am gratified that your players are so well-conducted. And I trust that you have felt well-received. I bespoke your performance thinking it a charity, and I now retire feeling I am in your debt. Thank you, and adieu.”

“Thank you, good lady,” cried Mr. Arbuthnot, standing and raising his glass. Every glass in the room rose with it. Mr. Arbuthnot hefted his higher. “He that dies pays all debts. And mine to thee expires only then.”

He drank, for rather longer than a toast required.

Mrs. Roberts’s face had turned such a ghastly shade that Georgie angled away from her.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Alderwalsey had addressed herself to Agnes and Elf.

“I will drive you home,” she announced. “It is late.”

It was ten o’clock. Georgie was wide awake. They were ready to climb mountains, to skip from star to star.

“I will drive Miss Marsden myself,” they said. “In my gig.”

“To bed,” moaned Agnes, rubbing her hands. “To bed.” She’d been unusually quiet since the performance ended, and she hadn’t once stopped worrying her fingers. Georgie understood why with a sudden jolt, and wished again that Mrs. Alderwalsey had picked a comedy.

“Out, damned spot!” moaned Agnes.

“Language!” barked Mrs. Alderwalsey.

“Out, dratted spot,” moaned Agnes.

“That reminds me.” Mrs. Alderwalsey swung around to smile victoriously at Mrs. Roberts. “The dratted spotted muslin. You may bring it to my house tomorrow morning.”

So that was the price of admission.

Georgie bowed their head in deference.

“Come along.” Mrs. Alderwalsey beckoned to Agnes then sailed for the door.

Elf watched her sister go with an expression of mild concern. “She won’t imagine herself as Lady Macbeth forever,” she said, as though hoping to be convinced.

“Fair is foul,” sang Charlotte, materializing at Georgie’s elbow.

“And foul is fair,” sang Louisa, right beside her.

“You were bewitching witches,” Georgie told them.

“I feel like a fillet of a fenny snake,” complained Sally, the third witch, face shining with sweat and speckled with soot from the candles. “It’s hot as a cauldron in here.”

“There’s a fishing pond near my house.” Georgie looked around the little circle, inspired. “We could bathe under the moon. I wouldn’t be able to fit you all in the gig, but it’s only a mile, and…”

“Stop right there!” cried Sally. “I’ll ask Mr. Arbuthnot. He never says no to a lark.”