The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(10)

Mal sat with him until the bell of nearby St Botolph's tolled the hour. Sandy seemed to take comfort from his presence, and Mal could think of nothing to say that would not spoil that. If only… He cursed his stupidity. Now he had money again, he could redeem his lute. Sandy always found his playing soothing. Well, there was always next time.

A key grated in the lock, and the cell door opened. Mal got to his feet.

"Goodness me," said Mistress Cooke, "I can scarce tell the two of you gentlemen apart now. I hope I lets the right one out!" She laughed at her own joke, chins quivering.

Mal was not amused. He counted out the fifty-two shillings under her avaricious gaze.

"That is for this quarter. I will be back every week, to ensure you are keeping my brother in the comfort I am paying for."

"Of course, sir. Everything will be done as you wish, sir."

CHAPTER III

Coby brushed the dust from her hands and wiped her brow with the back of her cuff. There, that was the last of the chests from the wagon. Most people assumed a life in the theatre was a life of idleness; indeed she had thought the same, once upon a time. Now she had arm muscles like a washerwoman and more blisters on her feet than a Bedlam beggar.

Realising she was alone for the first time in a month, she bolted the door to guarantee herself a few moments' privacy. She stripped off her doublet, lifted up her shirt, and loosened the upper lacing of her corset, wrinkling her nose at the ripe smell of unwashed flesh. She had managed to keep a couple of spares hidden in the costume trunks, but changing into them – and washing the used ones and herself – was not so easy. Fortunately all the company smelt at least as bad after a warm spring on the road, so no one had noticed. Yet.

She exchanged the foetid garment for a clean one she had left amongst her tailoring supplies, pressing her breasts downwards as she laced it so they were flattened to boyish proportions rather than plumped up like a whore's. No time for a wash, but most of the stink was in the corset anyway. She put on a clean shirt for good measure, then donned her doublet once more and unbolted the door.

At least she had not started her monthly flows yet. She knew from eavesdropping on the maids' gossip that she ought to expect it very soon, indeed it ought to have happened by now. She was relieved, of course, since keeping her sex a secret was hard enough already, but the waiting was an agony. Without a mother or sister to advise her, she had no idea how women dealt with the business.

No time for gloomy thoughts – there was still work to be done. She unlocked the nearest chest and lifted out the gown that lay inside. She had meant to check all the costumes back in Sheffield before they were packed, but everything had been a great rush as usual. There, the lace around one cuff was loose. She held the gown up to the light, scanning the ornate fabric for other damage.

She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to wear skirts again. It had been – what? – five years now. Would she feel awkward and foolish, like the apprentice actors when they first put on a woman's costume? Or would it be like going home?

An appreciative noise from the doorway made her turn. Gabriel Parrish was leaning on the door post, toying with the fashionable blond love-lock that hung over his left shoulder. At barely twenty he was the youngest adult actor in the company, a former boy player who – unlike most of his kind – had successfully made the transition to male roles.

"Aren't you a bit old for such ambitions, Jacob?"

"Sir?"

"An apprenticeship. A little late to make a lady of you, I fear."

"Y-you mistake me, sir. I have no desire to be a player, nor ever did."

"Really? Why not?"

"I have not the art for it, sir. Pretending to be someone else… I cannot imagine how it is done."

She looked away, afraid he would see the lie in her eyes, but she could not tell him the real reason: that if once she put on women's clothes, walked and talked in her true nature, everyone would see she was Jacomina Hendricksdochter, not Jacob Hendricks as she had long pretended.

"A pity," he said. "You have the fairness of complexion for women's roles, even at your age."

That was true enough. Though not as fair as Parrish, she had long been able to rely on her pale colouring to explain her lack of a beard. All the disguising in the world could not put hair on her cheeks, at least none that would bear close examination. Actors, of all people, knew what false whiskers looked like.

He stepped closer and put a hand under her chin, lifting it until her eyes met his own. His breath smelt of violet comfits.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"S-s-seventeen, sir."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you sure? Perhaps your mother miscounted."

"I d-don't know, sir." She blinked back tears. "I have not seen her this past five years. Nor my father neither."

"I'm sorry." He released her. "Think yourself lucky. I never knew my parents."

Coby didn't know what to say. Was he flirting with her, trying to use this similarity between them to forge some connection? Before Parrish joined the company a few months ago, his name had been a byword for the beautiful boy player adored by men and women alike, indulged and showered with gifts and flattery. He also had a well-deserved reputation for preferring the attentions of his male admirers. For both reasons she had avoided his company as much as possible.