Heart of Gold

'So you're both heroes?' Caroline said when George finished. 'Tackling a lion with bare hands?'

Aubrey winced. 'Well, I wouldn't say "tackling". Running away in terror would be more accurate.'

'While planning a way to trap the beast in a pit, inventing a new spell for animal charming and coming up with a novel way to use ancient Sanskrit in magic casting, I'm sure.'

'Is that a compliment?' Aubrey asked.

'Take it how you will.' Caroline smiled and held Aubrey's gaze for a moment. 'I think I've learned enough about you to call that a reasonable description of your usual method of operating.'

'She's spot-on there, old man,' George added. 'Summed you up perfectly.'

Caroline covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes were merry. She coughed, delicately, then inclined her head toward the hall. 'Claude is waiting for us.'

THE ALBION FRIENDSHIP SOCIETY'S RANKS HAD GROWN since Aubrey had last joined them. He wondered if the unrest was sparking interest in supporting Gallia's ally of the moment. He supposed, if one couldn't fight, then singing jolly songs of Albion was a reasonable alternative.

The hall was lit by gaslights. The temporary seating was stacked against walls that were covered with posters, several layers deep in some places. The cast was assembled on the stage with the piano front and centre. While a new pianist flailed away, Claude Duval stood, arms crossed and frowning. With Gallian enthusiasm, the chorus members clutched song sheets and tackled 'The Shanty of a Salty Sailor'.

The song ended with reasonable proficiency. Duval clapped his hands and congratulated his team. Then he saw the newcomers.

'Caroline!' he cried. He leapt off the stage and ran to them, eventually realising he should acknowledge the others. 'Fitzwilliam. Doyle. Good to see you.'

He clasped Caroline's shoulders. 'Where have you been? Your presence has been much missed.'

'Short on backstage crew, are you?' Aubrey asked.

Duval frowned, puzzled. 'What do you mean?'

'Never mind. It'd just explain why you're so pleased to see Caroline.'

'Ah. Of course. Your Albionish sense of humour is perplexing, sometimes.'

Caroline glanced at Aubrey, then shifted her attention to Duval. 'I'm sorry, Claude. I've been busy.'

'Despite your not being able to pursue your beloved taxonomy? What is filling your days?'

'Oh, this and that. Some modelling for Mother. Other tasks.'

Claude took Caroline's hand. 'Have you heard about the social occasion of the year? A great ball is to be held to celebrate the great Albion–Gallia alliance!'

'I wasn't aware of a ball,' Caroline said, glancing at Aubrey.

'As the president of the Albion Friendship Society, I am sure to be invited. Would you like to accompany me?'

Caroline withdrew her hand. 'Ask me again when the invitation arrives,' she said evenly.

Duval struck his forehead with an open palm. 'Of course! How gauche of me! I should not be so forward as to ask such a thing in anticipation. Please forgive me.'

'Of course.'

'But you will do me the honour of considering it, when the invitation arrives?'

Aubrey cut in. 'Claude, old chap, the chorus is looking lonely up there. They're missing your decisive direction.'

Startled, Duval turned to the stage. The players were lounging, sitting on the floor, chatting. Several had taken the chance to light up pungent Gallian cigarettes, and four of them were playing cards. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam.' He made to bound toward the stage, but he paused. 'Your role. Have you learned your lines? Your songs? The show is depending on you as the Buccaneer King.'

'Er, not entirely, no.'

'Not to worry, Duval,' George said brightly. 'We put on The Buccaneers at school last year. Aubrey got good reviews. He'll be splendid.'

It was the last thing Aubrey needed, taking on something like this, but a commitment was a commitment. He frowned. 'When is the show, exactly?'

'Next Sunday,' Duval said. 'The day after the embassy ball. I thought we could invite some of the dignitaries who attend the occasion. Your father, for instance.'

'Here?'

'It's all we have, but it will look good on the night, I assure you.'

Aubrey stripped off his jacket. 'Well, let's run through a few scenes, shall we?'

Two hours later and Aubrey was consumed by the familiar exhilaration, terror and frustration that was rehearsals. Most of the cast were competent. The chorus wasn't a total shambles. The sets had nearly been started. The new pianist was clever, and tireless. If Aubrey could hold up his end, it would be a show of some sorts.

Duval called for a break. 'Coffee, I think.' His suggestion was greeted with tired cheers.

Aubrey stretched and wandered across the stage to where a youth and a young lady were arguing at the side of the stage. The youth was at the top of the ladder, swearing and fiddling with an arc lamp. The young lady looked up angrily at him, hands on her hips.

Aubrey drifted closer. 'What's wrong?' he asked in Gallian.

The young lady had long black hair, held back with a jade comb. She wore an embroidered blouse with a black artist's bow. 'Robert is pig-headed,' she said in good Albionish. She glared up at him. 'You men simply do not accept that a woman can do something you cannot.'

Caroline joined them. 'This is a problem for you as well?' she asked.

'Yes. It's a constant battle. I fear that change will not happen without a political struggle.'

Aubrey felt Caroline's gaze. He stared at the wall and pretended he was interested in the cast of a long ago performance of Christian II.

'I agree, wholeheartedly,' Caroline said. 'We need more women in politics and fewer men.'

At that moment, Robert swore at the top of the ladder and Aubrey could have kissed him. The young lady stamped her foot. 'It is the screw. Robert always has trouble with adjusting the rods on the flame arcs.'

'Flame arc lamps?' Aubrey asked. 'You use them for coloured light?'

'It creates a pretty effect. Most spectacular.'

'So you don't use ordinary carbon rods?'

'No, of course not. Flame arc lamps are special. The carbon is mixed with . . .' She flapped a hand. 'Other things.'

'Metal salts,' Aubrey said. 'Magnesium fluoride. Barium fluoride.'

'Yes, yes. Those and others.'

'It's old technology,' Aubrey explained to a puzzled Caroline and George, who'd come over, brushing sawdust from his trousers. 'Filament lamps are more reliable, especially when magically stabilised.'

'But more expensive,' Robert said from above. He swore again. 'If we had the money, we would replace this cursed thing tomorrow, wouldn't we, Simone?'

'Where do you get the special rods?' Aubrey asked Simone.

'The same company that provides chemicals to photographers. It's the only supplier of such things in this part of the country.'