Page 44 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Yes.”

“You look like you have had a rough night, love.”

“You could say that.”

She studied me a moment longer, then stepped aside. “Come in, then. But if you cause trouble, I will have you out on your ear faster than you can blink. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The Crown and Anchor's back room was quieter tonight. No show, no Madam Fortuna holding court on the makeshift stage. Just clusters of people at small tables, candles burning low in mismatched holders, the gramophone in the corner playing something slow and French. Smoke hung in the air like gauze, softening the edges of everything.

A few heads turned when I entered. Eyes taking my measure, cataloguing the uniform, the posture, the way I stood like I expected to be thrown out. Conversations didn't stop exactly, but they shifted. Quieted. The room drew in on itself like a creature sensing danger.

I understood that wariness. Had felt it myself in other contexts. The instinct that said: outsider. Threat. Be careful.

“Can I help you, soldier?”

The voice came from my left. A woman stood behind a small bar, polishing glasses with a cloth that had seen better days. Middle-aged, grey-streaked hair pinned up severely, face carefully blank.

“I'm looking for someone,” I said. “Madam Fortuna.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Never heard of her.”

“I was here three nights ago. Watched her perform.” I held her gaze, trying to communicate something I didn't have words for. “I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to talk to her.”

“Lots of people need lots of things. Doesn't mean they get them.”

“Please.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “I'm trying to understand something. About someone I care about. About myself, maybe.”

The woman studied me for a long moment. Then she set down her glass and cloth and jerked her head toward a door at the back.

“Wait in the corridor. I'll see if she's receiving visitors.”

The corridor was narrow and dark, lined with costume racks and prop boxes. I stood with my back against the wall, listening to the muffled sounds from the main room, the distant strains of the gramophone. My heart was beating too fast for standing still.

What was I doing here? What did I think I would find?

Answers, maybe. Or permission. Or just someone who could tell me that what I was feeling wasn't madness. Wasn't something broken inside me that needed fixing.

Footsteps on the stairs. I straightened.

Madam Fortuna descended into the corridor like royalty granting an audience. Without the stage makeup and the elaborate gown, she looked different. Older. Tired in a way that spoke of years, not hours. She wore a simple dress now, dark blue, her wig replaced by close-cropped grey hair. But her eyeswere the same. Sharp. Knowing. The eyes of someone who had seen too much and decided to keep seeing anyway.

“The soldier from the shadows,” she said. “I wondered if you'd come.”

“You remember me.”

“I remember everyone who watches my Arthur with that particular expression.” She gestured toward a door further down the corridor. “Come. We'll talk properly.”

Her dressing room was small but comfortable. Cluttered with the detritus of performance: wigs on stands, pots of makeup, costume pieces draped over a folding screen. She settled into a chair before a mirror and gestured for me to take the other, a wobbly thing that creaked when I sat.

“So,” she said, watching me in the mirror's reflection. “You've come seeking wisdom from the oracle. What troubles you, soldier?”

“I don't know how to start.”

“Then let me help.” She turned to face me directly, her gaze uncomfortably penetrating. “You followed Arthur here. Watched him from the dark like a man afraid of what he might see in the light. And now you've returned alone, which tells me you're trying to work something out. Something you can't ask him directly.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.