"The sooner they knock this place down, the better," said Smithson.  He'd been drinking during office hours, something Lucas had never seen him do before.  The whiskey bottle stood on his desk beside a half-full glass.  There were glass-marks ringing his accounts, and his hand had a bad dose of the shakes.

"What's the news from the hospital?"

"She's a beautiful woman," he said, staring at the glass.  Lucas could have sworn he was on the verge of tears.

"Smithson? How is she?"

''She's in a coma.  But her condition is stable.''

"That's something, I suppose."

Smithson stared up at Lucas, his erupting brows knitted in anger.

"You ass," he said,  "you were screwing her, weren't you?  Fancy yourself like that, don't you?  Well, let me tell you something, Scarlett Saiche is worth a dozen of you.  A dozen!''

"Is that why you let this last production go on, Smithson?  Because you'd seen her, and you wanted to get your hot little hands on her?"

"You wouldn't understand.  You've got your brain in your pants." He seemed genuinely offended by the interpretation Lucas had put on his admiration for Miss Saiche.

"All right, have it your way.  We stilt have no Viola."

"That's why I'm canceling," said Smithson, slowing down to savor the moment.  It had to come.  Without Scarlett Saiche, there would be no Twelfth Night; and maybe it was better that way.  Then came a knock at the door.

"Who the fuck's that?" said Smithson softly,  "Come."

It was Winchester.  Lucas was almost glad to see that strange, scarred face.  Though he had a lot of questions to ask of Winchester, about the state he'd left Scarlett in, about their conversation together.  But it wasn't an interview he was willing to conduct in front of Smithson.  Besides, any half-formed accusations he might have had were countered by the man's presence here.  If Winchester had attempted violence on Scarlett, for whatever reason, was it likely that he would come back so soon and with a big smile on his face?

"Who are you?" Smithson demanded.

"Richard Walden Winchester."

"I'm none the wiser."

"I used to be a trustee of the Walnut."

"Oh."

"I make it my business… "

"What do you want?" Smithson interrupted, irritated by Winchester's poise.

"I hear the production is in jeopardy," Winchester replied, unruffled.

"No jeopardy,"' said Smithson, allowing himself a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "No jeopardy at all, because there's no show.  It's been cancelled."

"Oh?" Winchester looked at Lucas.  

"Is this with your consent?" he asked Lucas.

"He has no say in the matter; I have sole right of cancellation if circumstances dictate it; its in his contract.    The theatre is closed as of today; it will not reopen."

"Yes it will," said Winchester.

"What?" Smithson stood up behind his desk, and Lucas realized he'd never seen the man standing before.   He was very short.

"We will play Twelfth Night as advertised," Lich­ field purred.   "My wife has kindly agreed to understudy the part of Viola in place of Miss Saiche."

Smithson laughed, a coarse, butcher's laugh.  It died on his lips however; as the office was suffused with lavender and Constance Winchester made her entrance, shimmering in silk and fur.  She looked as perfect as the day she died: even Smithson held his breath and his silence at the sight of her.

"Our new Viola," Winchester announced.

After a moment Smithson found his voice.  "This woman can't step in at half a day's notice."

"Why not?" said Lucas, not taking his eyes off the woman.  Winchester was a lucky man; Constance was an extraordinary beauty.  He scarcely dared draw breath in her presence for fear she'd vanish.  Then she spoke.  The lines were from Act V, Scene I:

"If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp'd attire,

Do not embrace me till each circumstance

Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump

That I am Viola."

The voice was light and musical, but it seemed to re­ sound in her body, filling each phrase with an undercurrent of suppressed passion.  And that face.  It was wonderfully alive, the features playing the story of her speech with delicate economy.  She was enchanting.

"I'm sorry," said Smithson, "But there are rules and regulations about this sort of thing.  Is she Equity?"

"No," said Winchester.

"Well you see it's impossible.  The union strictly precludes this kind of thing.  They'd flay us alive."

"What's it to you, Smithson?" said Lucas.  "What the fuck do you care? You’ll never need set foot in a theater again once this place is demolished."

"My wife has watched the rehearsals.  She is word perfect."

"It could be magic," said Lucas, his enthusiasm firing up with every moment he looked at Constance.

"You're risking the Union, Lucas," Smithson chided.

"I'll take that risk."

"As you say, it's nothing to me.  But if a little bird was to tell them, you'd have egg on your face."

"Smithson, give her a chance.  Give all of us a chance.  If the union blacklists me, that's my problem not yours.”

Smithson sat down again.

"Nobody'll come, you know that, don't you? Scarlett Saiche was a star; they would have sat through your pedestrian production just to see her, Lucas.  For no other reason then to see the star shine on stage… live and in person no matter how wretched an actress she really turns out to be.  But an unknown...?  Well, it's your funeral.   Go ahead and do it, I wash my hands of the whole thing.  It's on your head Lucas, remember that.  I hope the critics pan you and the union eats you for lunch.”

"Thank you," said Winchester.  "You are most kind."

Smithson began to rearrange his desk, to give more prominence to the bottle and the glass.  The interview was over and he wasn't interested in these lollygaggers any longer.

"Go away," he said, "Just go away, all of you."

"I have one or two requests to make," Winchester told Lucas as they left the office.   "Alterations to the production which would enhance my wife's performance."

"OK… shoot.”

"For Constance's comfort, I would ask that the lighting levels be taken down substantially.  She's simply not accustomed to performing under such hot, bright lights."

"Doable.”

"I'd also request that we install a row of footlights."

"Footlights?"

"An odd requirement, I realize, but she feels much happier with footlights."

"They tend to dazzle the actors," said Lucas, "It becomes difficult to see the audience."

"Nevertheless I must insist.”

“Alright then, I guess."

"Thirdly, I would ask that all scenes involving kissing, embracing or otherwise touching Constance be redirected to remove every instance of physical contact whatsoever."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"For God's sake why?"

"My wife needs no funny business to dramatize the working of the heart, Francis."