Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“Good,” he says, “I’m glad you all agree; and incidentally I’ve got that bargain we just made on video as well, as a further precaution.”

“So the riot, the lockdown—” says Lonnie. “Were they — They weren’t…Was it theatre?”

“And where’s Freddie?” says Sal. “Is he really dead? I heard him scream. I heard the shot!”

“I sympathize,” says Felix. “I lost my own daughter, in this late tempest. It’s irreparable.”

“But,” says Lonnie, “that was at least twelve years…”

“Come with me,” Felix says to Sal. Sal stands, and Felix links their arms. “I want to show you something.”

“Here they come,” Anne-Marie whispers. “It’s Felix and your dad. Act surprised.” She and Freddie are sitting on the floor of the cell, cross-legged, the chessboard between them. “In one second they’ll be peering through the window. Got the lines?”

“All set,” Freddie whispers back.

“Sweet lord, you play me false,” says Anne-Marie at her most winsome.

“No, my dearest love, I would not for the world,” says Freddie.

The door to the cell bursts open. “Freddie!” yells Sal. “You’re alive!”

“Dad!” Freddie reciprocates. “You’re alive too!”

“Thank God!” They fall into each other’s arms.

The Bard provided more eloquence at this moment, thinks Felix, but they’ve covered the main points.

Once the exclamations of joy and the hugs and back-patting are done, Freddie says, “Dad, I’d like you to meet my new partner, Anne-Marie Greenland. She was with Kidd Pivot, and she just played Miranda.”

Anne-Marie has scrambled to her feet; her dress has slipped quite far down her shoulder, the paper flowers are askew. She grins impishly, sticks out her hand to be shaken. Sal does not reciprocate. He narrows his eyes at her. “Business or romantic?” he asks.

“Both,” says Freddie. “At least, I mean—”

“Hang on a minute,” says Anne-Marie. “We haven’t really talked! I need to think about this!”

“Dinner tonight?” says Freddie.

“I guess,” says Anne-Marie. She hitches up her sleeve. She’s even blushing.

Felix turns to Sal. “True romance,” he says. “You can’t fight it. Anyway, it’s the best outcome.”

Having taken their leave of the cast, the dignitaries are being escorted back through the hallway and out through the fail-safe doors to the reception area. Miraculously, their security pagers have reappeared on their belts.

They’re due to share a drink with the Warden and some others at the high end of the hierarchy at a special reception, with photo ops scripted in. There will be wieners on toothpicks, less toxic than the grapes; there will be cream cheese on crackers; there will be an alcoholic drink or two. Estelle will be there, listening to everything. She’ll tell Felix later how it went.

Will there be any talk of how thoroughly they were all fooled? There will not, thinks Felix. Nothing about the so-called riot or the so-called lockdown. Nothing about the strange hallucinations. Nothing about the backstory of Mr. Duke. Nothing, in a word, discreditable to the visitors.

Instead the Warden will be complimented on the high standards of excellence achieved by the Fletcher Correctional Players. He will be assured that an announcement will be forthcoming, affirming the continuation of the program and an increase in funding. There will be handshakes and toasts. There will be congratulations all round.

Sal won’t have any problem with lying: he’s a practiced politician. As for Tony and Sebert, they’ll keep their lips zipped; that way, at least, they’ll be allowed to maintain their reputations, unsullied by any viral videos, and will thus have some hope of seats on various corporate boards once they retire from politics. Maybe they’ll even be hoisted into the Senate, one of these days. For services rendered.

Freddie and Anne-Marie have gone to the Warden’s reception, but not before Anne-Marie has planted a kiss on Felix’s bearded cheek. “You’re the best,” she says. “I wish you really were my dad. It would be an improvement.”

“You did brilliantly,” he tells her.

“Thanks,” she says, “but Freddie helped. He understood it almost right away, he really got into it.” She’s glowing.

Young love, thinks Felix wistfully. So good for the complexion.

Felix stays behind to help 8Handz roll up the tech. The tiny mics have to be gathered, the speakers taken down; the special lights have to be dismounted. All of it has to be packed up, after which it will be returned to the rental agency.

Felix busies himself with the sorting, while 8Handz checks the quality of the last audio-visual he recorded — the scene in the main room, with Sal’s acceptance of the conditions. That might prove crucial at some future time, because you never know.

“I think I’m picking up a radio station or something,” says 8Handz. “Through my headphones. There’s, like, singing.”

“What kind of singing?” Felix asks.

“It’s faint, but…wait. Okay. It’s ‘Merrily, merrily.’ ”

“ ‘Merrily, merrily, will I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough’? ” says Felix. It must be Miranda, prompting again. Clever girl, she’s infiltrated Ariel’s headphones! But she seems to be confused about the script. “We already did that part, it’s in the video,” he says for her benefit. They’d used the original Ariel song after all, with only a little change to get rid of the sucking. Where the bees buzz, there buzz I.

“No,” says 8Handz. “ ‘It’s not that. It’s ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream.’ ”

A chill shoots through Felix. The hair on his neck bristles. “I used to sing that to her,” he whispers to himself. “When she was three.” Does she remember after all? Does she remember being three? Does she remember not ever being four? If so, then…

“What a coincidence,” says Felix. “I was thinking of putting it in the backstory, but I didn’t.” He’s making this up. “Maybe as a song Prospero sings to little Miranda when they’re in the leaky boat. That’s what you do when kids are frightened, you sing to them.”

That’s what you do while you hold their feverish hands and stroke their foreheads in the hospital room, but despite everything they slip gently away from you, into the dark backward and abysm of time.

“I know that song. It would’ve been nice,” says 8Handz. “And seriously, thanks for getting me the early parole. That was genius.”

“Happy to help,” says Felix. “I couldn’t have worked this whole thing without you. Is that music still coming in?”

8Handz listens. “Nope, it’s gone.”

“Can I try your headphones?”

8Handz transfers the phones. Felix listens, listens. Nothing there now, no singing. Only silence. Where is his Miranda? What is she trying to convey?

Outside, it’s dusk. Felix trudges toward his car. The expected blizzard has already swept through, though it can’t have been major: small drifts of white snow ripple the tarmac.

He drives down the hill in silence. If this were a real first night the cast and crew would all go out, eat somewhere, encourage one another while waiting for the reviews. As it is Felix will have an egg for supper; by himself, unless his Miranda decides to join him. She must be in the car somewhere, though there’s no sign of her.

“Anyway I succeeded,” he tells himself. “Or at least I didn’t fail.” Why does it feel like a letdown?

The rarer action is / In virtue than in vengeance, he hears inside his head.