The Show Must Go On

At the time, Derek Noble couldn’t recall ever having been happier. In his fifth year as an instructor at the Wagner Academy for the Visual and Performing Arts, his turn had finally come around to direct the year’s Shakespeare production. He hadn’t gotten to do A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as the school had done that only three years past, but his second choice – Romeo and Juliet – had been approved. He’d worked his ass off all through the summer break, making quite an annoyance of himself by frequently faxing his costume and set ideas to other instructors for comment. He’d agonized over the audition process and cast selections, and had nearly had a panic attack when it became obvious that the student he’d imagined as an absolutely perfect Juliet turned out to be completely incompetent at romantic scenes. He’d driven his actors and crew hard, and himself even harder. He’d skipped his workouts. He didn’t sleep regularly, and he could tell he’d lost weight. Sometimes he’d finish a day’s worth of courses and not remember anything that had happened during the day. And in the end, it had all paid off. The performance had been a rousing success, with even the worst curmudgeons among the faculty declaring it the best Shakespeare production the Wagner Academy had put on since the production of Othello done fifteen years earlier by the head of the Drama department. That instructor was preparing to retire at the end of the year, and the word among the faculty was that despite his youth, the current production and the overall performance of his students made Derek the leading candidate to take over as department head.

The last of the production’s four performances had ended an hour or so earlier. Derek had classes to teach in the morning, but he wasn’t yet ready to let go this moment of glory. He walked across the stage, handled a few of the props and set pieces, then jumped off the stage and walked the aisles to the theatre lobby. There he saw the woman. Without her saying a word, he knew she’d been waiting for him.

He’d caught a glimpse of her in the lobby earlier, during intermission. The Governor and his wife had been in attendance, and Principal West had introduced them. That’s when he noticed her, across the room, over by the punch. He had no idea who she was – some wealthy donor to the Academy was his best guess – but he’d found her intriguing. Now that he was able to see her in full, she was captivating.

She was tall and slim, with waist-length platinum blonde hair and the most astounding, pale blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her features were exquisite - he remembers being reminded of architecture - and she wore a low-cut white gown that looked to be made more of sequins than fabric. She wore a bracelet, necklace and ear rings that he recalled surely must have been diamond, but looked and reflected the light in a manner more suggesting razor-sharp shards of crystal.

She introduced herself as Thalia Glass.

“I had hoped we might have a moment to talk.” She spoke in a tone part whisper, part moan, her accent completely captivating and like none he’d ever heard before.

He couldn’t reply at first, only nodded and returned her gaze. He could feel his heart pounding, and a sensation like vertigo. The lobby seemed to fade into the distance.

They talked for a bit. Afterward he couldn’t remember much of what was said. He remembered her complimenting him on the production, and comparing it to one she said she’d seen in London many years earlier. She might have asked him a bit about some of the student actors. There were two things he clearly recalled, though. The first was her question.

“If you could produce one play, one work from all the masterpieces of the stage, what would it be?”

Without hesitation, he’d told her she’d give just about anything to head a major production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The other thing he most recalled with crystal clarity was her reply. So simple, so casual.

So final.

“So be it,” she had said.

And then he was Taken.

(End Act 1)