"It wos a fire. We 'ad candles then. It wosn't a place like the Alhambra; the Canterbury wos respectable, it wos. I was a ingenoo. The Moor's Bride. I wos the bride, wif a white veil…"

Marianne squeezed the limp hand. "I am so very sorry," she repeated helplessly.

Maggie pulled her hand away. "Stand up and let's 'ave a look. I ain't so sure about them roses."

Marianne obeyed. She wished, humbly, that she could remember some of the fine religious sentiments Mrs. Jay had taught her, about beauty being skin-deep, and a good heart being more important than a pretty face. But she doubted that she could have expressed these ideas with conviction. She knew, and Maggie knew, that a pretty face was important.

Maggie decided against the roses, and removed them. Then Marianne sat down again while the woman put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup.

"That'll do," Maggie said finally. "Come along, you'll be going on in a few minutes."

She opened the door. Marianne heard thumping strains of music somewhere in the distance. She became aware of a peculiar sensation in her insides. "Oh," she gasped, putting her hands on her stomach.

"Come along," Maggie repeated.

"I – I can't. Oh… I really feel most unwell!"

Maggie emitted a hoarse sound that might have been a laugh. "Stage fright. You'll get over it when you're out there."

At least, she added to herself, I hope so. She had not believed Wilson when he told her the girl was a beginner. Amateurs were not welcome at the Alhambra. Now, having seen Marianne's total ignorance and uncharacteristic gentleness of manner, she realized that the manager had been telling the truth. A sentiment so long foreign to her heart that she did not recognize it made her voice softer than usual as she added, "I'll come down wif you. Don't worry now."

Marianne was convinced she was going to be sick, but she had been taught to face her duty with a stiff upper lip. She tottered toward the door, where she was met by Mr. Wilson, who had come to fetch her. He nodded with satisfaction. Then recognizing the significance of her pale cheeks and trembling mouth, he smiled faintly.

"You look utterly lovely, Miss Ransom. Don't be nervous; sing as I heard you sing this afternoon, and you will win all hearts. Just nod at the conductor when you are ready to begin."

Taking her icy hand in his, he led her along the corridor and down the steep iron stairs. Neither he nor Marianne noticed Maggie skulking along behind them.

Marianne was also happily unaware of the looks and murmurs that followed her progress. Wilson's presence, as he knew, was the one thing that saved her from some of the unsavory practical jokes that were often practiced on unpopular performers by their fellow actors: the rude placard on the back, the foot outstretched to trip, the slashed gown. The music battered at her ears, and as they reached the wings and she looked out on the stage she saw only a dazzle of light, with dim figures moving in it. The music ended in a crash, blending with an unenthusiastic spatter of applause, and the acrobats who had finished their turn ran offstage, their makeup streaked from the hot lights and violent exercise.

"Now then, my dear," Wilson said, and led her onto the stage.

She scarcely heard his introductory phrases, nor the half-ironical applause that followed it; the thundering beat of her heart drowned out most other sound. But she did hear the orchestra. As always, music had the power to make her forget herself, and this was the first time she had sung to any accompaniment other than harp or pianoforte. Catching the leader's eye, she began to sing.

After a few bars Mr. Wilson, in the wings, relaxed and allowed a smile to curl his lips. It had worked! He was not listening to, or looking at, Marianne; he was watching the audience.

It was a somber-looking crowd. Almost the only shade of color visible was the dead black of masculine evening attire. A splash of violent magenta or brilliant red marked the places of the few women who were present. Waiters trotted back and forth serving the customers, who sat at small tables scattered about the floor; the eating and drinking continued unabated through the entire performance. But, Mr. Wilson observed gloatingly, most of the men had stopped drinking to stare.

They had never seen anything quite like Marianne on the stage of the Alhambra. Maggie had been right to rip off the offending roses; the severe black gown was now, in design, what any well-bred young lady might wear to an evening party. What made it shocking and subtly perverse was its color; for no young lady wore black unless she was in mourning, and no young lady in mourning carried on an active social life. The stark, unrelieved black framed Marianne's white shoulders, curved with reflected highlights over her breasts, and reduced her waist to nothing. Her manner was perfect. No winks, no smiles, no suggestion of double entendre in the simple, sentimental words of the ballad. She looked like a lady and acted like a lady, and there she stood, in a place where no lady would have dreamed of appearing.

Mr. Wilson rubbed his thin white hands together. She was a sensation, a novelty. Of course the novelty would wear off, it always did; but while it lasted the Alhambra would retain its hold on the most dissipated and sophisticated members of London's haut monde. And when they tired of Marianne he would find something else.

When Marianne crept into the house several hours later she was in such a happy daze she did not even feel tired. It had been just as she had seen it in her daydreams. Of course the Prince of Wales had not been there; but no doubt he would come, another night. She had sung a second time, and on that occasion she had been scarcely troubled by stage fright, so that she had been cool enough to survey the audience while she sang. What a rich, elegant crowd they were! The snowy linen and diamond studs of the gentlemen, the satin-lined evening capes and gold-headed canes… She had been a trifle surprised to note that people kept drinking and eating while she sang, but concluded that this must be the mode in London. Some of the men had been quite nice-looking. One especially, sitting at a table to the right of the stage, had looked just like the Byronic hero of her dreams – a thin, clean-shaven face with curving dark brows and high cheekbones. She had not been able to judge his height, since he had been sitting, but she was positive he must be tall. And he had never taken his eyes off her the entire time. She hoped to dream of the handsome Unknown; instead she dreamed of Mrs. Jay scolding her for some childish misdemeanor, and woke in a sweat of terror, because Mrs. Jay's distorted face had been so terrible.

Marianne's luck held – though in retrospect it would be hard to say whether that luck was good or bad. Her landlady's friend did not improve, so Mrs. Shortbody remained away from home. Had she been there, Marianne would never have been able to continue her career without explanations, since her schedule necessitated her leaving the house late in the evening, after the other residents had retired. She was able to do this because the overworked housemaid and cook went to bed early, and because her room was next to the back stairs. Marianne was able to creep down them unobserved, unlatch the kitchen door, and pass out. It was a miracle that none of the enterprising denizens of London's extensive underworld happened to try that unlocked back door. No doubt something of the sort would have happened sooner or later; but Marianne's career was over sooner rather than later.

It may seem incredible that Marianne should continue to be unaware of the real nature of the establishment in which she was performing. That she did may be attributed to two factors: first, the abysmal ignorance of a young lady of that period, and second, the assiduous efforts of Mr. Wilson to keep her ignorant. Even he underestimated her naivety; he felt sure that when she discovered that the "theater" was one of London's most infamous clubs, pandering to the jaded appetites of titled and wealthy roues, she would be too pleased by her success to object. However, he knew full well that her greatest charm – aside from her undeniable beauty – was in her innocence, and he did his best to maintain it as long as possible.