“I’ve been trying to remember what it was like when I was six. What was he told and how much does he retain?”

“At a guess, I’d say he was told his father was mentally very ill and committed to an asylum. No more.”

“Poor little man,” said Emily.

“He’ll be a good actor. You’ll see.”

“Yes. How’s your bruise?”

“Better every day.”

“Good.”

“In fact, everything in the garden is —” He pulled up. Emily saw that he had crossed his first and second fingers.

The next day shone brightly. Peregrine and Emily drove happily along the river, over Blackfriars Bridge, and turned right for Wharfingers Lane and the theatre. The entire company had been called and had nearly all arrived and were assembling in the auditorium.

It was to be a complete run-through of the play, with props. This would be the last one entirely for the actors. After that would come the mechanical, effects, and lights rehearsals with endless stops, adjustments, and repositionings. And then, finally, two dress rehearsals.

Emily knew a lot of the company. Sir Dougal was delighted that she had come down to rehearsal. Why did they not see more of her in these days? Sons? How many? Three? All at school? Wonderful!

It struck her that he was excited. Keyed up. Not attending to the answers she gave him. She was relieved when he strolled away.

Maggie came up to her and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll want to know what you think,” she said. “Really. What you think and feel.”

“Perry says you’re wonderful.”

“Does he? Does he, really?”

“Really and truly. Without qualifications.”

“Too good. Too soon. I don’t know,” she muttered.

“All’s well.”

“I hope so. This play, Emmy, my dear.”

“I know.”

She wandered away and sat down, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Nina Gaythorne came in, draped in a multiplicity of hand-woven scarves. She saw Emily and waved the end of one of them, at the same time making a strange grimace and raising her faded eyes to contemplate the dome. It was impossible to interpret; some kind of despair? Emily wondered. She waved back conservatively.

The man with Nina Gaythorne was unknown to Emily. Straw-colored. Tight mouth, light eyes. She guessed he was the Banquo. Bruce Barrabell. They sat together, apart from the others. Emily had the uncomfortable feeling that Nina was telling him who she was. She found herself momentarily looking into his eyes, which startled her by their sharpness and the quick furtive withdrawal of his gaze.

Macduff, Simon Morten, she recognized from Peregrine’s description. He was physically exactly right; dark, handsome, and reckless, and, at the moment, nervous and withdrawn. A swashbuckler nevertheless.

Here came the three witches, two girls gabbling nervously and Rangi: aloof, indrawn, anxious. Then the Royals: King Duncan, magnificent, portentous, and his two sons, to whom he seemed to lend a condescending ear. Two Murderers. The Gentlewoman and the Doctor. Lennox and Ross. Menteith. Angus. Caithness. And, coming over to Nina Gaythorne, a small boy. So that’s William, she thought. Last: huge, brooding, his claymore held upright in its harness, Gaston, the sword-bearer.

I’m thinking about them as they are in the play, mused Emily. And they are behaving as they do in the play. No. Not behaving. How absurd of me. But they are keeping together in their groups.

The front curtains parted and Peregrine came through.

“This,” he said, “is an uninterrupted run-through, with props and effects. It will be timed. I’ll take notes at the end of the first half. There has been a slight tendency to drag. We’ll watch that, if you please. Right. Act One, Scene One. The Witches.”

They went up through the box.

Peregrine came down the temporary steps into the house and to his desk. His secretary was beside him and the mechanical people behind.

Emily’s heart thumped. A faint, wailing cry, a gust of moaning wind, and the curtain rose.

There are times — rare but unmistakable — in the theatre when, at rehearsal, the play flashes up into a life of its own and attains a reality so vivid that everything else fades into threadbare inconsequence. These startling transformations happen when the play is over halfway to achievement: the actors are not in costume, the staging is still in its bare bones.

Nothing intervenes between the characters and their projection into the void. This was such a day.

Emily felt she was seeing Macbeth for the first time. She was constantly taken by surprise. Perfect, Wonderful. Terrible, she thought.

Duncan arrives at the castle. The sound of wings fluttering in the evening air. Peaceful. Then the squeal of pipes, the rumble of the great doors, the opening and the assembly of servants. Seyton. Lady Macbeth a scarlet figure at the top of the stairs. Don’t go in, don’t go in.

But she welcomes him. They all go in and the doors rumble and close on them.

Afterward Emily could not remember if the sounds Shakespeare introduces actually were heard: the cricket, the owl, the usual domestic sounds that continue in an old house when the guests are all asleep in bed. Other ambiguous sounds the Macbeths think they hear…

It’s accomplished. The terrible imaginings are real, now, and they go to wash the blood from their hands.

Now comes the knocking at the south entry. Enter from below the drunken Porter with his load of obscenely shaped driftwood. He commits it to the fire, piece after piece, staggers to the entry, and admits Macduff and Lennox.

Simon Morten looked fit, his fair skin bright with the flush of health. He and Lennox brought the fresh morning air in with them, and Simon ran swiftly upstairs into Duncan’s bedroom. The door shut behind him.

Macbeth stood very still, every nerve in his body listening. Lennox went to the fire, warmed his hands, and gossiped about the wildness of the nights.

The door upstairs opened and Macduff came out.

Extraordinary! His face was totally drained of color. He whispered: “Horror. Horror. Horror.”

Now disaster broke: the alarum bell, the disordered guests, Lady Macbeth’s “fainting” when her husband’s speech threatened to get out of hand, the appearance of the two frightened sons, their decision to flee. The little front scene when Macduff, an old man, and Ross speak an ominous afterword, and the first part closes.

Peregrine finished his notes. Macbeth and Macduff waited behind. They were onstage.

“Come on,” said Peregrine. “What was the matter? You’re both good actors but you don’t turn sheet-white out of sheer artistry. What went wrong?”

Sir Dougal looked at Simon. “You went up before I did,” he said. “You saw it first.”

“Some idiot’s rigged a bloody mask in the King’s chamber. One of those Banquo things of Gaston’s. Open mouth, blood running out of it. Bulging eyes. I don’t mind telling you it shocked the pants off me.”

“You might have warned me,” said Sir Dougal.

“I tried, didn’t I? Outside the door. You and Lennox. After I said, Destroy your sight with a new Gorgon.”

“You muttered something. I didn’t know what you were on about.”

“I could hardly yell, ‘There’s a bloody head on the wall,’ could I?”

“All right, all right.”

“When you went up the first time, Sir Dougal, was it there?”

“Certainly not. Unless —”

“Unless what?”

“What’s the color of the cloak attached to it?”

“Dark gray,” said Peregrine.

“If it was covered by the cloak I might have missed it. It was dark up there.”

“Who could have uncovered it?”

“The grooms?”

“What grooms? There are no grooms,” said Simon. “Are you crazy?”

“I was making a joke,” said Sir Dougal with dignity.

“Funny sort of joke, I must say.”

“There’s some perfectly reasonable explanation,” Peregrine said. “I’ll talk to the Property Master. Don’t let a damn silly thing like this upset you. You’re going very well indeed. Keep it up.”