Mercedes Lackey - Reserved for the Cat

Morning rehearsals could end up in shouting matches, with both sides appealing to the stage manager, and often threatening to escalate to the theater owner.

The only time this did not happen was in the case of the very popular performers, the equivalent of the etoiles. They might supply music fully as old as the most down-at-heels and outdated comic, the most woefully inadequate singer, but the most the musicians dared to do was grumble, and send up the orchestra leader to the performer—or more likely the performer’s assistant—to urge that this time, really, he should buy some new music.

For these very prominent performers did not attend the morning walk-throughs themselves, oh no. They had assistants to do this for them. And they might not put in more than a cursory appearance at the rehearsals just after lunch, unless they were practicing a new “turn.” This baffled Ninette; no matter how lofty the etoile, he or she was there at every rehearsal. Warm-ups might be done in the luxury of one’s little studio in one’s grand flat, but rehearsals? Rehearsals were sacred. You did not go all out in them, of course; that would be absurd, you would exhaust and possibly injure yourself to no purpose. But you came and you practiced, and you had better make sure that the ballet master did not get the impression that you were losing form . . .

But Ninette watched and made mental notes. She could not at all see how the cat was going to make her an etoile at this point. Possibly under the Paris system, yes. If the theater owner, the ballet master, the stage manager could all somehow be persuaded that she was this mysterious dancer she was supposed to impersonate . . . yes. It could be done. Even if she came with nothing but the clothes on her back, it could be done.

But here? She had no assistants, no scenery, no music... and even if she somehow conjured these things up, like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, out of backstage mice, how could she survive the “booking circuit”? She had no agent, she knew no one and nothing, had no idea what the next city was, let alone how to get to it, find a place to stay, and begin all over again.

That cat only said, Wait and see. She counted the money left in her purse, and tried not to think too hard about the number of days it would last.

A barrage of thunder startled her awake, and she sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding. She stared at the window, clutching her blankets up to her throat, seeing the cat sitting there, silhouetted intermittently by the flashes of lightning.

It was a hideous storm. She could not recall ever having seen one this bad in Paris. A violent wind lashed the windowpanes with rain, and thunder grumbled in the distance or crashed near at hand. Perhaps it was that the sea was so near; certainly all the operas and ballets she had been a part of over the years linked dreadful storms with the sea.

This, said the cat, could not be better. Satisfaction permeated every word.

“Why?” she asked.

You’ll see. The cat could be absolutely maddening sometimes. But at the moment . . . silhouetted black against the lightning-filled sky, with that sure tone to his words . . . she felt her irritation slipping away, replaced by a kind of superstitious fear. What was he, anyway? This beast that spoke in her head, that controlled her like a puppeteer, that had taken her away to a strange land? What did he want from her? True, he had been kind so far but—he couldn’t want her body. Could he be after her soul? Les Contes d’Hoffman, in which she had danced the part of one of Guillietta’s attendants, immediately sprang to her mind. Could this cat, this creature, be a servant of the Devil?

Oh, don’t be silly, the cat said, calmly. Whatever would I do with your soul? I don’t want it.

“Then why are you doing all this?” she whispered.

Because I am interested in you. Because I take pleasure in clever tricks. But above all, it might just be only because I am a cat. She could almost hear him laughing. That alone is reason enough. Now go back to sleep. I will be waking you about dawn.

Well that was unlikely to bring her any sleep.

Wake up, Ninette.

The voice penetrated the soft, dreamless dark. She tried to bat it away, like an annoying fly, but it persisted.

Wake up. It is time.

It couldn’t possibly be time for anything important.

Four sharp needles pierced her big toe and her slumbers. With a gasp of outrage and pain, she sat straight up in bed, now quite well awake.

“You bit me!” she hissed indignantly at the dark shape at the foot of the bed.

I scarcely broke the skin, the cat replied. You weren’t moving, and we have very little time. Get up.

“Time for what?” she demanded, but the cat wasn’t answering.

Put on that cut-up dress over your best underthings, he told her. And your cloak over all. Don’t bother taking anything else. We’re going out.

In the darkness, she gaped at him. “But—”

When this has all settled you can send someone for your things or come for them yourself. But right now, all you need is that dress and your cloak.

“It’s still raining!” she protested. Outside, the storm had turned into a steady, slow rain without any thunder or lightning, but she had no doubt that it was terribly cold out there—and why was she going out in a gown slashed to ribbons?

I know. I told you I was waiting for something. This was it. The storm. Now come on!

Maybe if she hadn’t been half-muzzy with sleep, or if she wasn’t more than half convinced this was just a surreal dream, she might have protested more. Instead, she did as she was told, and stole down the stairs, letting herself out at the kitchen door, following the silent cat.

Of course, the face full of wind and cold rain that she got woke her up thoroughly, but by then it was too late. And the cat was pushing against her ankles, herding her down into the street.

“What is this all about?” she gasped.

You are about to become the victim of a dreadful shipwreck. Can it be a shipwreck if it is only a yacht? A yacht-wreck doesn’t sound quite right. The cat ran on ahead, pausing in a circle of lamplight to look back at her.

“A what?”

A shipwreck. Remember I told you that we were going to borrow someone else’s reputation? You will be Nina Tchereslavsky, Russian prima donna. She has never performed further west than Berlin. You look enough like her photographs to pass. She speaks French almost exclusively outside of Russia, although she does know some English, and I will arrange for you to learn Russian in the same way I arranged for you to learn English.

“But how does this—”

Let me finish. You—that is, Nina—decided to come to England on holiday, possibly to arrange a tour as well. Possibly to stay. You are certain there is no dancer half so good as you here. A friend with a yacht arranged to bring you. In last night’s storm, the boat was wrecked, your friend is presumably drowned, and you have lost all of your possessions.

“But I cannot see—”

I will arrange the rest. You have only to remember your name and the storm and the wreck and act dazed. Speak French. I will take care of the rest. The cat herded her quickly down the street to the seashore. By that time, her hair was soaked, the rags of her gown and her cloak were soaked, and with her hair straggling into her eyes she was certainly going to present a convincing imitation of a shipwreck victim. As she staggered along the sand, the sky was just starting to lighten in the east, and the piers of the boardwalk loomed darkly above her head. She had not yet been down to the boardwalk, although she gathered that there were all manner of places of amusement built on it. Out of the holiday season though, most of them were fairly desolate.