“Sorry,” one of them said. “We were just getting up our nerve to invite Ms. Wynncliffe-Jones down for the VIP reception.”
“It’s your turn,” another one said. They all looked at a tall, middle-aged woman sensibly dressed, I noted with approval, in the robes of an Amblyopian high priestess. Then I momentarily wondered what had happened to my frame of reference when I considered a lavender velvet robe trimmed with pink fur sensible, merely because it didn’t expose several acres of flesh.
At any rate, the faux priestess planted herself in front of the QB’s room. They’d put the QB in the last room in the corridor, with us beside her and the other celebrity guests nearby. This was supposed to give us greater privacy, but I’d already figured out that being at the end of a cul-de-sac made it hard to elude eager fans. Unless we wanted to flee through the emergency exit, we had no choice but to wade through the crowds that gathered along the one exit route.
The priestess took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and knocked on the door.
“Miss Wynncliffe-Jones?” she called. “We’re here to escort you to the VIP reception.”
“Go away!” the QB shouted, through the door. “I need my rest! Go away! Leave me alone!”
The priestess’s face fell, and she returned with a defeated look on her face.
“I suppose we’ll have to apologize to the fans,” she said.
I was tempted to suggest the ostensible star’s absence wouldn’t upset all that many fans. Not as many as if Michael or Walker missed one of their appearances. But I decided that in addition to being unkind, that would be a stupid thing to say to people who might eventually talk to the QB, so I wished them luck and went into our room.
The room service cart had disappeared, and the parrot with it. No doubt when housekeeping came they’d take care of the feathers and droppings.
I peeked out on the balcony. Most of the fans were gone, but the few remaining had made themselves quite at home. One had plugged a toaster oven into the balcony’s electrical outlet to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Smelling them reminded me that I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Maybe I should pick up something in the lobby on my way to the rehearsal, I thought, as I scrambled into the skirt and bodice of my costume and threw various accessories into the leather haversack that served as the Renaissance-period equivalent of a purse.
And maybe I should find Dad and borrow Spike to guard our balcony from squatters.
The phone’s red message light was blinking so I called the message number.
“Michael?” I heard. Francis, his agent. “Listen, when you get a chance, we need to talk about that meeting with Miss Wynncliffe-Jones. I’m in room 108; call me.”
Francis had been meeting with the QB? Or did he mean Michael’s brief talk with her yesterday? Or maybe it was a future meeting. Perhaps the two of them were going to meet with her later in the weekend.
I’d find out soon enough. I scribbled a note for Michael, in case he came back to the room before I saw him.
Out in the hallway I found the pink-and-lavender priestess having hysterics just outside our door. Quiet hysterics, apparently in deference to the QB’s sensibilities, but she was crying, wringing her hands, and generally working up as much of a fuss as possible without raising her voice above a stage whisper. The Amazon guards were fluttering around nearby.
“What the hell’s wrong now?” I asked.
Chapter 7
“She’s ruining our convention,” the priestess said, through sobs and hiccups.
“Nonsense,” I said, in the brisk tone I’ve found effective with hysterical people.
“What will we do if she never comes out?” the priestess asked. “What’s a Porfiria convention without at least one appearance by Porfiria?”
A vast improvement, if you asked me.
“Don’t worry,” I said aloud. “You’ve got your special guest: the first convention ever to feature an appearance by Ichabod Dilley!”
“If he appears,” she said, her tears starting again. “He checked into the hotel, but he hasn’t gotten in touch with us yet, and he’s not in his room. What if we can’t find him in time for his panel?”
“I’m sure he’ll show,” I said. “What does he look like? I’ll keep an eye out for him. In fact, why not organize a task force to look for him?”
“We could if we knew what he looks like,” she said, sniffling. “But we’ve never even met him. One of our committee found him through the Internet, and he sent us an e-mail agreeing to come. He didn’t even send a photo for the program.”
“Then let’s all keep an eye out for someone who looks like an Ichabod Dilley,” I said. “I’m sure a name like that leaves a mark on its owner.”
With that, I left. As I turned the corner, I could see one of the junior Amazons steeling her nerves to knock on the QB’s door again. Good; as a drama queen, the priestess left much to be desired. She could use a little more exposure to the techniques of an expert like the QB.
I only got lost twice on my way to the Ruritanian Room. Apart from the predictable difficulties of trying to fence in a room filled with curious monkeys, the rehearsal went well. I wondered if Chris had picked me because I was the best woman fencer available or only because I was the tallest. Harry, the troupe’s other male cast member, was only five two, and half the sight gags in the skit drew on the eight-inch discrepancy in our height. But I did well enough that Chris talked me into rehearsing a second, more difficult show scheduled for Saturday night.
When we’d finished our rehearsal, Chris reminded us to meet him in the green room at eleven forty-five.
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“It’s not actually green,” Chris said. “That’s an old theater term for the room where the performers hang out while waiting to go on, and they keep snacks there and—”
“Chris, I live with an actor, remember?” I said. “I know what a green room is. I meant, what does the hotel call what we call the green room?”
Chris looked blank.
“The Baskerville Room,” Harry said. “Ask around enough and someone can show you where it is.”
Chris nodded and wandered off, looking anxious and distracted. We watched as he pulled out the cell phone for about the twentieth time.
“Wish Andrea would answer her damned phone,” Harry grumbled.
“They have a quarrel?” I asked.
“A stupid quarrel,” Harry said. “Like it’s Chris’s fault the QB fired Andrea.”
“Oops,” I said.
“Yeah.” Harry shook his head. “Only a lousy bit part as an Amazon guard, but Andrea hoped it would lead to better roles. But the QB wants bigger guards.”
“Bigger? Andrea’s my height.”
“Yeah, she’s tall enough, but not burly enough,” Harry said. “She wants guards who make her look petite and demure. I guess Andrea thinks Chris should quit his job in protest or something. But he can’t—the QB owns him.”
“Owns him?”
“Owns his contract,” Harry said. “Same thing. If he quits, she can keep him from working as a blademaster anywhere else for the term of the contract. So even if he wanted to quit, he can’t. Not if he wants to eat.”
“He can’t break the contract?” I asked.
“He could try,” Harry said. “Might work, but it would probably take as long as just waiting out the contract, and do you have any idea how much a good contract lawyer charges?”
We shook our heads in sympathy for Chris and went our separate ways. I headed for the dealers’ room to pull my weight for a while before the show.
On my way through the lobby, I ran across three musicians in scarlet jesters’ costumes, singing familiar songs with the words changed to Amblyopian references. I stopped to listen to their version of the theme song from the Beverly Hillbillies, which began, “Come listen to my story ’bout a wizard named Mephisto.” Unfortunately, before I could learn what they’d found to rhyme with Mephisto, the monkeys overhead drowned them out.