Mystery at the Millennium Theatre
By Freya Bell
Freya Bell is a new Canadian writer residing in Alberta with her husband, cat, and dog. The head moderator of Worldsmyths, Freya has helped shape this anthology alongside her co-editors, all driven by her love of speculative fiction.
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Irava stifled a yawn as she placed smelly beads of brown oil onto the workings of a piece of brass machinery built into the floor of the theatre’s backstage. Harnesses dangled far above her head in the rafters, fitted with clever hooks connected to anchors that had once supported the bodies of dozens of wooden marionettes. The marionettes had always said it didn’t hurt, but Irava couldn’t help but flinch at an old memory of them suspended above the audience. It had been years since they had enough functioning marionettes to put on a flying show but the theatre manager liked to keep the machines in working condition, just in case any of the broken marionettes woke up.
She yawned again and stretched, her back popping. It was late; the theatre curtains were long since drawn and the human dancers were asleep in their dormitories. Only she and Heta were still up, carrying out maintenance on the impressive machinery that made the Millennium Theatre a one-of-a-kind attraction. Sure, the Astaria a few blocks away had a team of professional illusionists that could make you feel like you had been transported to a faraway land. But that was just flashy, untouchable magic. The marionettes that lived and danced on this stage were real and tangible. They could talk to fans, shake their hands, sign autographs for them. An illusion couldn’t do that.
Irava sighed and reached for her wrench to tighten the bolts on the hoist. The crowds certainly didn’t agree with her, now that more than half of the marionettes had broken down. Fewer and fewer people came to their shows, even the ones with human dancers. The Great Sleep, the marionettes called it. Sleep? It seemed more like dying to Irava, but she wasn’t about to say that to them. It scared them enough as it was.
“Irava? Are you done yet?” Irava’s head jerked up as a voice called from the other end of the backstage area.
“Yes, Heta. Just a moment,” she called back. Despite the oil, the bolts squeaked as she hauled back on the wrench, and the sound seemed too big for the room. The backstage was packed with backdrops, props, and bits of costume; she’d have thought all that fabric would muffle the sound. Perhaps it was the loneliness of the place. Even in childhood this place had felt empty in spite of the clutter. She had been younger than the apprentice dancers when she arrived, and had spent a lot of time playing backstage. Irava could feel the weight of the silence on her shoulders like a physical thing. She chucked her wrench into her toolbox with a groan. Why was she so introspective tonight?
“Irava, are you coming?”
She stifled a second groan. “Yes, Heta. I’ve just finished up.”
Heta, always with her schedules and perfect order. No doubt the older woman was thinking of Irava’s tendency to daydream. Irava couldn’t help herself; her dreams were so much more real than her life here.
Irava stood and collected her toolbox. It’s not like life in the theatre was bad. She loved the marionettes. But now that Goldfeather had fallen into the Great Sleep, she had no one she liked to talk to. Heta was old and ornery, and Barnaby was on the opposite shift as her. Even when he had time, he was always running off somewhere.
Heta was stationed at the other lift over on the opposite side of backstage, and Irava wasn’t in a hurry to meet her. The Head of Maintenance took her duty over the marionettes dead seriously. Her sourness was legendary, enough to almost wrinkle Irava’s uniform with a glance, but she paid it no mind. Heta always looked like that. Nevertheless, she picked up her feet as she hurried over.
Irava has just passed midstage when a strange sound echoed out of the air vent in the wall beside her. The sound of electrical sparks and grinding metal brought her head up—the marionette cradles being activated. Irava frowned and set down her toolbox. No one should be in there at this time of night.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Heta,” Irava shouted. “I just need to check something.”
Irava turned right towards the back of the theatre and made her way past props of castles and dragons and silhouettes of painted knights, still needing repainting to prepare for tomorrow’s showing of Prospero’s Revenge. The sound of the cradle machinery powering down echoed through the vents, and she hastened her steps.
Several doors branched off the back wall of the theatre, leading into a labyrinth of gas-lit hallways and storage rooms. Irava took the first door on the left, past the dormitories of the human performers, past storage rooms for props and instruments. She strode to the back of the theatre, where a tall ornate door stood at the end of a wide hall. The polished dark wood of the door was carved with dancing figures of marionettes, their jointed limbs flung with wild joy.
Irava tried the handle. Locked, as it should be. But the sound of the machinery had been clear, so someone must be in there.
There were only a few keys. She had one, Heta had the second. Barnaby had the third key, and Master Blomstadt the fourth. No one had business in the Cradle Room at this hour. She pulled out her own key and stroked its filigree decorations. She had had to work hard to earn it, and the weight of it in her hand always brought her joy.
The lock turned under the touch of her key, and she eased the heavy door open. Well-oiled, it made no sound as it swung into the Cradle Room.
The room was narrow, but long. Gas lamps lit themselves as the door opened, another invention of the creator of the marionettes, Alistair Tompre. He had gone missing decades ago, and no one knew what happened to him. The lamps illuminated the strange devices lining both walls, like elongated chairs that the occupant could sit upright in while being fully supported. Forty marionettes slept there, their bodies held in place by deep red leather straps. Their hands lay on armrests set with copper inlays. They had to maintain physical contact with the copper while they rested; it revitalized them.
If anyone had been here, they were gone now. There was no sign of movement, and the crank at the back of the room was still.
She had seen inside one cradle once, when the brass panels had been removed to discover if they could be repaired so that the marionettes caught in the Great Sleep could wake up once again. It hadn’t worked; the knowledge required was lost after their inventor’s disappearance, and Master Blomstadt wasn’t about to pay to bring in a University thaumaturge to study them.
Irava reached out and adjusted a fallen strap on Champion’s cradle. He had only recently been taken by the Great Sleep. She hoped his dreams were sweet, if he dreamed at all.
Handsome Tom, Lady Moon, The Mariner, Elliott the Grin. They were the few that still woke up. Old Fisheye, Bold Eagle, Benny, Fenn. And Goldfeather. Her friends, now trapped in the Great Sleep.
She paused in front of Goldfeather’s cradle and brushed the blonde hair from her painted wooden face. They had been friends since Irava had arrived at the theatre as a small child. She’d been her favourite. Heta had allowed her to wake Goldfeather outside of showtimes so they could play together. The Sleep had taken her a few months ago, and Irava tried not to mourn, but it was difficult to act like she wasn’t dead. She sighed and continued down the hall.
And stopped.
Marilla’s cradle was empty.
Irava’s thoughts scrambled. A marionette weighed twice what a full-grown man did. You couldn’t just carry one away. This had to be why she’d heard the machinery moving, but who could have woken her up?
The inlays. Maybe they came on for her, some sort of… stored charge woke her? There had been a thunderstorm earlier. But no, Marilla would still be in here if she had woken up: the door was locked. Someone had to have taken her.
She should tell Heta.
No. Wait. Heta would blame her, say she forgot to lock the door in her daydreaming. What if she was fired! Irava had nowhere else to go, no family, no skills. No, calm down. One step at a time. Marilla wasn’t in her cradle. There had to be a logical explanation.
Irava would look around, check the area before reporting to Heta. She would look like an idiot if Marilla was found just around the corner.
She was no investigative Brownstaff, and had no powers to create tracer spells and reveal footsteps. She couldn’t recreate the scene from the wall’s memories. But she had determination. Marilla was a friend. She would find her.
The door bore no signs of tampering, no tell-tale scrapes from a lockpick. The carpet was clean and unmarked, as was the crank at the back of the room used to wake the marionettes. The crank’s wheels and cogs looked exactly as they had after this evening’s show, though she could hardly claim to understand them.
The marionettes slept peacefully in their cradles, bodies reclined and unmoving. Unbreathing. There was a time when she found that frightening, but now it was part of the charm of them.
Marilla’s cradle looked as it always did, polished and gleaming. The straps lay at the sides of the chair and were uncut.
Basically, the room was pristine, with nothing out of place.
Irava’s next stop was the equipment room. Located off the back of the Cradle room near the crank, it held everything needed to keep the marionettes dancing-fit. A shelf to Irava’s left held different oils; some for smoothing the action of joints, others for polishing. A pegboard hung beside it, where tools like pliers and screwdrivers rested in orderly rows. The right wall held a long table which Barnaby used to conduct repairs and fix up costumes.
It was the back wall she was curious about. Barnaby had once mentioned it getting warm in here. It was true: the air was still, and a little on the stuffy side. The large vent, as wide as her arms, was embedded into the wall several feet off the ground. It was made of a light, silvery metal, and, like so many mundane items in the theatre, was pierced by holes that made up the image of two dancing marionettes. It should be more than sufficient to provide fresh air for a room this size, but nothing stirred beyond its grate.
She may not have the powers of a Brownstaff, but before they even let you attempt a tracer spell, they taught you to study the situation with all your senses.
Irava closed her eyes.
Scents of oils and woods filled the air. The scent of a marionette. It was quiet, still. She heard no movement of fans. Maybe it had shut down, with no need for cool air so late at night.
She opened her eyes and reached up to examine the vent by feel. A thin layer of oil covered the cool metal. Irava frowned and dragged over the chair from the table. Climbing up, the oil tracked up the right edge of the vent. She ran her fingernails under the edge and pulled.
Something moved.
She pulled harder. Metal grated on wood as the vent began to pull forward, then stopped. Irava tugged firmly, and something unseen deep within the wall clicked, and the section of wall swung open on silent hinges. Someone had to have oiled them, and recently.
She smiled and paused before ducking through the secret door. The inside was dark, but light reflected from somewhere further down the tunnel. It was hard to picture someone dragging Marilla’s body down here, but it had to be the only explanation. She crept forward as quietly as she could.
The passageway led her to a round room with tunnels branching off into the darkness. Pipes and wires and things Irava couldn’t identify lined the walls. Moonlight from windows high above lit the dust motes that swirled in her wake but she couldn’t picture where the windows would appear on the roofline of the Millennium Theatre. The air wasn’t as fresh as it should be, considering the number of vents, but moved enough to stir the loose curls on her forehead if she stood still.
As she moved into the room, gas lamps on the walls lit themselves. The dust was not entirely undisturbed. Two sets of footprints led from the Cradle Room passageway and off to the right. They could belong to anyone, the imprints plain like a dancer’s shoe. She followed them into the darkness. Vents studded the walls at irregular intervals, allowing the gas-lamp’s light to illuminate her path. Peeking through, she could see into the backs of closets and storage rooms, office spaces and practise halls and into spaces she was pretty sure had no doors.
Other narrow passageways led off, with stairs going up and down. The footsteps trailed off in different directions - whoever they belonged to, they had wandered far. Irava picked one at random, one that led upward, towards the attics.
The tunnel twisted and grew narrower, and it wasn’t until she reached a crossroads that she realized the footprints were gone. No thick layer of dust up here. She was lost. Irava spun in a circle, but the passage looked the same in both directions, with unevenly spaced gas lamps and grey brick walls.
No choice but to continue forward. She came to a crossroads of five passageways before long, but not just any crossroads. A pair of dancing marionettes were depicted in a fine mosaic under her feet, the colours a washed-out orange under the light of the lamps. Above her were skylights showing weak moonlight and a cloudy sky.
The clouds parted and the moon shone, banishing the orange-tinged shadows to reveal a door set back in a recess. It too bore the motif of dancing marionettes, a circle of them inlaid in gold into its dark wood.
Irava ran her hands over the engraved metal and paused. Air stirred through cracks in the airlay, just barely, something a marionette could never detect with their wooden hands. She pressed them and they shifted, the air coming stronger from behind the panel of the door. Interesting. She pushed harder and the circle of dancers turned. She applied more pressure. Click. Mechanisms within the door came to life, and the circle of dancers spun.
The door opened.
More dust. Irava coughed as she pushed the door open. Every surface was covered in a thick layer of dust. The room was circular, with a dome of skylights. A desk was built into the entire circumference of the room, with papers and books strewn about. Shelving lined the walls, each shelf bearing strange trinkets and baskets of gears and wire. A single chair sat at the desk directly across from the door.
Irava sprang back. Someone was in the chair. But they weren’t breathing. A Marionette? Her heart beat. Had she found Marilla? She stepped closer, and put her shoulder on the hand of the figure.
The head slumped forward, coming off the shoulders and rolling over. No, not a head. A skull. It smiled up at her from a nest of dust, and she screamed and jumped back.
Heart pounding, she stood in place, fighting the urge to flee. Gods, why hadn’t she told Heta? Why had she come here alone, in the middle of the night?
Collecting her wits, she stepped forward again, hands trembling. The dead person was dressed in antiquated clothing, mouse-nibbled and filthy with the ever-present dust. A heavy gold ring rested on a boney finger, bearing the initials A.T.
Her eyes went wide, and her fear was forgotten. It couldn’t be. She took another step, and brushed the dust away from the notebook the hand was resting on. She picked it up. Inside were diagrams of marionettes. She recognized Marilla, Alonzo, Ava Maria. And there were drawings of the cradles, with tiny notations. Her heart beat faster.
Allistair Tompre. She hadn’t found Marilla. She had found the long-lost inventor of the mechanisms that the theatre was built on.
Journal clutched to her chest like the treasure it was, she spun and headed back into the corridors. This time she had to tell Heta. And Master Blomdstadt, and Barnaby. Everyone! With these notes, the theatre was saved.
*************
Irava retraced her footsteps in the dust and made it back to the Cradle Room. She locked the door behind her and raced back to the hoists, footsteps echoing through the empty halls as she ran. She found the Head of Maintenance in the tool room just off backstage, putting away their tool boxes onto a tall shelving unit.
“Heta! Marilla, the Cradle Room, I just found--”
“Whoa!” Heta’s hand came down on the shelf with a crack. “First you disappear, leaving me to pull the hoists up by myself, and now you babble nonsense at me? Slow down, girl.”
Irava took a deep breath. “Marilla is missing.”
Heta gaped at her. “What do you mean, missing?”
“I mean, I thought I heard the Cradle crank so I went to investigate--”
Heta turned and strode towards the Cradle Room, leaving Irava to scramble in her wake. “The crank? Why didn’t you come to me first?”
“I thought I was imagining it! So, I went to check, and Marilla was gone! The room is empty, no signs of tampering. And that’s not all I found.” Irava paused, barely able to find the words. Heta raised an eyebrow and Irava took an excited breath. “Alistair Tompre’s hidden office. I found it!”
Irava thrust the book into Heta’s hands and bounced on her toes. Heta flipped the pages of the book with trembling fingers and exchanged a misty-eyed glance with Irava. “After all these years…”
Irava took the book back and tucked it into her coat. “Marilla is still missing. The book has waited decades for us. It can wait a few hours more. We must find out where she has been taken.”
“Taken. That is a frightening proposition, the idea that someone can get in there without us,” said Heta before sighing. “Go fetch Master Blomstadt, and Barnaby and bring them to the Cradle Room. I will meet you there.”
***
A few minutes later, Irava stood in the Cradle Room with a furious Heta and a bedraggled Master Blomstadt. The Theatre Master wasn’t pleased at being woken up, but he at least agreed the matter was serious enough to warrant his attention. Barnaby slunk into the room a few minutes later, still doing his shirt up.
The Theatre Master surveyed the empty cradle with his hands on his hips. “Who was here tonight?” asked Blomstadt, his voice gruff.
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Heta nodded at Irava. “We were, sir, doing the monthlies on the theatre equipment.”
“Hmm.” Master Blomstadt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Heta, go up to the dormitories, bring everyone to the theatre. Barnaby, go around to the kitchens and round up the staff. Irava, lock the doors. No one is to leave until I’ve questioned them.”
Heta pointed at Marilla’s empty cradle, vibrating with emotion. “Shouldn’t one of us go for a Brownstaff? A crime has occurred!”
“A Brownstaff? Honestly Heta, after how they handled the murder of the lady of Deveron? We’ll report this later. For now, we are treating this as an internal matter, simply misplaced property.” He held up a hand to forestall Heta’s indignant reply. “Yes, Heta, property. That’s all she is in the eyes of the law, no matter how amazing her inner workings are.”
Irava coughed. “If I may, sir?” Blomstadt waved for her to continue. “I know I’m not a Brownstaff, but I’d still like to help investigate. Marilla is a good friend of mine. I want to find who took her.”
Blomstadt hesitated a moment before nodding. “Yes, of course. Wake the marionettes, they might have seen something. Try to reassure them. You know how upset they get when one of them goes into the Sleep. They might refuse to perform tomorrow night.”
Heta frowned. “Sir, with all due respect, Marilla is our princess. We can hardly put on Prospero’s Revenge without her.”
“Yes, we can. One of the chorus girls has been understudying, what’s her name, the little blonde one. She can do it.”
“Taera? She’s not ready!” said Heta.
“Heta, please. This is a business. You can’t run a theatre with no shows, and we are struggling enough as it is. Irava, you can start your investigation after I’ve addressed everyone. Now go.”
***
The Millennium Theatre had a seating capacity of over one thousand and was once considered the most beautiful theatre in all of Helpurnia. Now though, its midnight blue curtains and plush purple seats were faded, and the stars and planets that covered the ceiling needed re-guilding. Still, it had a sense of dignity, of remembered splendor. Carved marionettes danced up the wooden arms, a motif that continued through the entire theatre, from the railings on the stairs to the mantels about the fireplaces. Irava bowed her head as she found her seat.
Ten minutes after having been informed of his star performer being missing, Master Blomstadt paced the stage, hands clasped behind his wide back, as the human staff gathered before him. Heta and Master Comard stood off to the side with healthy space between them. Their rivalry was legendary. As more marionettes fell asleep, the theatre relied more on Master Comard’s human performers to fill in the gaps.
Heta had recovered her composure. Her iron grey hair was firmly in place in her habitual bun, her green and purple uniform pristine. Master Comard waited at the edge of the stage with ill grace. Heta hadn’t given him time to do his hair or put on his makeup before hauling him down, and his foul mood showed. He wore an emerald green dressing gown over a simple blue nightgown, and his long blonde hair lay loose around his shoulders. No doubt his chill gaze was why the chorus girls were sitting so quietly.
Irava jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. Barnaby sat behind her, looking dishevelled and out of breath. His shoulder-length brown hair was mussed, and his shirt still partially unbuttoned. She raised an eyebrow at him.
Barnaby shrugged, blushing. “I had to run to get the kitchen staff up. What have I missed?”
“Nothing yet. Oh, shush, I think Master Blomstadt is about to speak.”
The theatre manager stopped his pacing and took center stage. His solemn expression and posture invited the audience to lean in and hear his words. He had been an actor once.
His deep voice filled the room. “Thank you for gathering so quickly. Some of you have already heard, but for those who haven’t, I can confirm the whispers. Marilla has been taken, a theft that happened less than an hour ago.”
He held up his hand to smother the chatter and questions that sprang up from the front rows.
“I don’t yet know what happened tonight, but I intend to find out. I have had the building locked. No one is to come or go until I’ve had a chance to interview everyone. You will remain here while I conduct these interviews, under the watch of Master Comard. While you wait, please think of earlier tonight. Did you hear anything unusual, or see anyone who shouldn’t be here? Remember, you aren’t in trouble. We simply want to find out what happened to our beloved princess.” A blonde chorus girl snuck to find her seat from the side wings, and Blomstadt glared at her before continuing. “Heta, report back with what the marionettes say, I want to know if they saw anything too. Thank you everyone for your cooperation.”
Talk filled the theatre as Blomstadt walked offstage. Irava pushed herself to her feet and hurried to follow Heta backstage. She passed the chorus girls, and earned a glare from Taera. The pretty blonde was combing her fingers through her long hair with a sneer.
“You there, marionette girl. Is it true that Marilla is dead?” asked Taera.
Irava rolled her eyes. “You know my name, Taera. We’ve worked together since we were twelve.” Taera sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. “And she’s not dead. She’s just missing. But don’t worry, we’ll find her.’
“Oh, I’m not worried. I’m thrilled. It’s about time this theatre moved into the modern age, and put these silly wooden toys away.”
One of Taera’s friends gasped, hand to her mouth. “Taera, you can’t say that! The marionettes are the only reason people come to see us!”
Taera’s sneer intensified. “As far as I’m concerned, whoever took Marilla can come and take the rest of them. Good riddance.”
Irava bit back sharp words and shouldered her way past the chorus girls without comment, and made her way backstage.
Barnaby joined her as she passed through the velvet curtains. “What did Taera have to say?”
“That she hopes all the marionettes get taken. I can’t believe her!”
Barnaby flinched. “I’m sure she didn’t say it quite like that.”
Irava turned to Barnaby. “Look, I know you’re sweet on her.” He flinched again. “But she’s pure trouble! She wants us to be like any other theatre on the promenade, and then you and I are out of a job. She’s not worth it!”
Barnaby sighed, but was spared replying by Heta’s famous glare. The Head of Maintenance motioned for them to follow, and they made their way back to the Cradle Room together as Irava filled them in on what she had found so far.
Irava coughed and broke the tension. “Do you think someone from the theatre could have had a hand in this?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I hope not. Why would they? Everyone… well, almost everyone... loves the marionettes. They’re the reason any of us have a job.”
“A rival theatre, one that only has human performers?”
“Who would bother?” Heta pointed out. “Everyone knows we’re just a lingering fancy. With Marilla gone we only have four marionettes left, and you’ve seen how slow Elliot the Grin has been blinking. It won’t be long before the Sleep claims him too.”
The door to the Cradle Room loomed before them. Heta unlocked it, and walked to the end of the room, where a large crank stuck out of the wall. Irava followed her.
She stopped dead.
There was another empty cradle.
“Heta!”
The older woman turned and gasped. “Champion! But how?” Heta’s fists clenched and her jaw tightened for a moment before she sighed and released her tension. “There’s nothing to be done for him now. Best we can do is to continue to investigate.” She stepped up onto the copper plating in the floor and pulled a pair of bracelets off a hook on the wall. The mechanisms didn’t work without the bracelets; Irava had tried.
The crank made a loud clicking sound as it activated the mechanisms hidden behind the walls. Irava stood in front of Handsome Tom’s cradle and waited for her cue. The wires that led from the wall to his cradle vibrated, and Irava pulled a tiny key out from under her shirt.
She pulled the scarf down from Handsome Tom’s neck to reveal a keyhole. Red sparks fizzed up from the copper plates under his hands, and she inserted the key and turned it slowly. To her left, Barnaby was patting at his shirt and pockets. Heta hurried over to Elliot the Grin and pulled out her own key, nudging Barnaby towards the crank to continue working it. She stuck her key in Elliot’s throat while the sparks still flowed and turned it five and three-quarter times.
Handsome Tom’s eyelids fluttered and Irava held her breath as his face transformed from inanimate wood to something magical. The intricate joints of his face that emulated muscles twitched and jittered as his lifeblood pumped once more.
His glass eyes popped open, a startling milky green that would be impossible on a human. Wooden lips smiled at her and she tried to smile back as she removed the key. The marionette flexed his finely carved hands and undid the straps that held him in place. Irava undid the straps around his waist and helped him step out of the cradle.
He yawned and stretched, joints creaking.
“Good morning Miss Irava, how are–,” His echoing voice froze as he caught the look on Irava’s face. “Did something happen?” He looked around the room. “Where’s Marilla?”
“Tom, I need to ask you some questions.” Irava’s voice was barely audible. She took a deep breath. “Marilla’s missing, gone from her cradle.”
The Mariner gasped and stumbled as he climbed out of his cradle. Tom looked to Heta, who stood just behind Lady Moon.
“Heta, what happened?”
“Tom, she’s… she’s gone. Someone has taken her. Champion, too.”
“What do you mean gone? Did she fall asleep somewhere else?” said the Mariner.
Tom bowed his head. He and Marilla were close. She played the princess; he played her lover. Always.
Irava cleared her throat. “Master Blomstadt is questioning the others and sent us here to wake you. I know it’s unlikely, seeing that you were asleep, but do you remember anything?”
Lady Moon shook her head, red curls swaying against the white paint on her throat. “We followed our routine, same as every night. Marilla was looking forward to another showing of Prospero’s Revenge, and we went to sleep by the ninth bell like always. And we all sleep so soundly, I recall nothing between falling asleep, and waking up.”
The Mariner nodded in agreement and plopped his leather hat over his grey wig. Elliot looked away and covered his permanent, broken grin with a wooden hand.
“Elliot, have you got something to add?” asked Irava.
Elliot shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. The Mariner nudged him. “Elliot, the lady asked you a question.”
“It’s just… I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Oh, Elliot.” Heta reached out and patted his arm. “That means nothing, maybe we just need to replace your copper plates.”
Elliot shook his head sadly. “That’s what we tried for Goldfeather too, but she never woke up again, did she?” He sighed. “But, that’s unimportant. I heard voices last night as I drifted in and out of sleep. A man’s voice. I couldn’t hear what he said, he was too far away, but I think I heard the crank too. I think he woke Marilla up.”
Irava raised her eye at Barnaby, who flushed and looked away. “I talk to myself when I do maintenance, so what? I didn’t do anything to Marilla.”
Heta nodded. “Of course, Barnaby. We don’t suspect you, do we, Irava?
Irava paused. “There’s still the matter of Elliot hearing a man’s voice, and you’ve admitted to being in here alone”
Barnaby flushed bright red. “It’s not like that! I would never do anything to harm the marionettes. You aren’t the only one that loves them, you know.”
“Then talk, Barnaby. Why was Elliott hearing a man’s voice?”
Barnaby flushed deeper, mouth working as he searched for words. He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” asked Irava in a sharp voice.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I was in here with Taera. That’s… that’s why I had my shirt off.”
“Oh. Oh!” said Irava, exasperated. “Barnaby! She had better corroborate this.”
Barnaby winced. “I hope so, too. You know what Master Comard thinks about ‘fraternization’”.
Heta sniffed. “He thinks, rightly, the chorus girls and the theatre staff shouldn’t let themselves get so distracted!”
“Speaking of distracted,” interjected Irava, “We should get back on task. Assuming Barnaby’s story is true, that still leaves a mysterious person or persons working the machinery and taking marionettes.” She gestured up the length of the space. “If it wasn’t for the sound of the machinery I heard earlier, I would have assumed one of us just forgot to lock the door, and that Marilla’s cradle malfunctioned and she just woke up and wandered off.”
“Marilla would do no such thing!” Tom spat with a glare. “She loved performing, she loved us! She would never leave us.”
Irava’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean anything by it. You know how these old things are. Maybe there was a malfunction, maybe the cradle gave her nightmares and she didn’t know what she was doing.”
Tom turned away, arms crossed and face hard. “The theatre is our life. None of us would do anything to jeopardize it.”
Irava patted his hard arm. “I know, Tom. We just have to explore every possible explanation, no matter how absurd. Is there anything else you can tell us about Marilla? Has she run into any trouble with the staff, the performers?”
Tom hesitated a moment before dropping his arms. “Marilla’s a good person.”
“I know, Tom.”
“It’s just… The human performers annoyed her. She was always saying things about them, how clumsy they are. But they were just complaints, she barely even talked to the girls.”
Irava nodded. “For what it’s worth, Taera doesn’t think much of Marilla, either.”
Tom flinched at the name, but offered no explanation.
Irava frowned at him, but turned to Heta. “I think we’ve learned all we can here. It’s time we go into the vents.”
Leading the others, Irava retraced her footsteps and found her way back to the prints in the dust. She pointed to them. “See here? I followed them as far as I could, but some passages are less dusty than others, and I lost the trail. That’s when I found the office and the notes. I can lead you there after we find Marilla.”
Heta nodded, and they split up to cover more passageways..
Irava continued down the leftmost passage. The floor was clean and dust free, but ten minutes of wandering the footprints reappeared. They came and went, accompanied at times by a second set of larger footprints. Whoever had taken Marilla had definitely come this way.
The lights were more sparse here, and in the darkness she ran into an unseen set of stairs. She rubbed her bruised toes and sat on the step with a groan. But wait. Somewhere above her. Was that a voice?
Irava stood and slowly felt her way up the staircase. Yes, two voices: a man’s and a woman’s. They sounded familiar, but the echo distorted them, and she couldn’t quite determine to whom they belonged.
Light shone from a large vent at the top of the tall, narrow staircase. She slowed as the voices grew louder. They were near the vent, on the other side. She crept up to it, noting that both large and small footprints disturbed the dust here.
“...Replace me! I’m not about to let that filthy air breather take everything I’ve built up here,” said the woman, her voice sharp and biting.
“Master Blomstadt would never let that happen; he knows we are the reason people come to the Millenium Theatre. Please, just let Taera go and come back to the Cradle Room!” The man’s voice was pleading and tired.
“Silence! If you want to see your Goldfeather awake, you will help me with this.”
The man moaned with frustration.
Irava crept closer. She knew those voices, she was certain. The vent opened up onto the top of the stairs that led to the dormitories. The door into the women’s rooms was on the right, the men’s on the left. The staircase itself was wide and carpeted, to minimize the echoes. She almost didn’t see the speakers in the faint gas-light at first. They stood perfectly still. It was their lack of breathing that finally allowed the clues to come together in her mind.
She had found Marilla.
The marionette stood facing her, with the silhouette of a larger male figure blocking most of Irava’s view. But she’d recognize that strongman costume anywhere, with the fake lion skin cape and the leather breeches. It was Champion. But hadn’t he fallen into the Great Sleep?
There was a third figure, a human girl tied up at the top of the stairs, mouth kept shut by a length of cloth. Taera! But Marilla wouldn’t really hurt her, would she?
Marilla hissed, her normally smiling face contorted with rage. Champion had his huge hand wrapped around her upper arm, and she twitched with a half-hearted attempt to escape his grasp. But Champion held strong and muttered something under his breath. Marilla shook her head and replied with bared teeth, and pointed towards Taera with her free arm. Champion made a cutting motion and began pulling her towards the vent Irava was hiding behind.
Irava scrambled backwards, but before Champion could reach the vent, Marilla reached into her embroidered silk robe and brought out a knife. She stabbed it into the joint of Champion’s arm, and he released Marilla with a surprised yelp. Marilla ran towards Taera, but Champion caught her by the back of her wig, pulling her back. Irava scrambled at the vent, trying to open it. Marilla spun and grabbed the knife out of Champion’s arm and swung it at him, scoring his wooden chest. But he refused to let go. She struggled, wig ripping, and slashed at Champion again.
Champion dodged backwards, and Marilla fell forward. He tried to catch her, but she had too much momentum, and went crashing down the stairs. Her wooden skull bounced off several steps as she tumbled head over heels. She hit the bottom with a thunderous crack and lay still.
Irava scrambled with numb fingers at the vent. Champion approached Marilla with slow steps, the joints of his face turned down with grief. Irava pushed the vent open with a clang, and Champion looked back at her, frozen.
“Champion, wait!” said Irava. Her voice broke Champion’s pose, and he bolted down the stairs. He hesitated at Marilla’s prone form before running off towards backstage.
Irava hurried to Taera. She tore off the cloth and Taera burst into tears.
“She was going to kill me, she said she would!” Taera wailed. Irava undid the ropes binding her and nearly toppled over as Taera threw herself into her arms. “Thank you, thank you! You saved my life.”
It was difficult to pull Taera’s arms off of her, but Irava managed to wiggle out of her grasp. She took a deep, calming breath and ran her hands through her curls. “I think you should be thanking Champion, not me. There’s no way I would have been able to stop her myself.”
Irava stood and approached Marilla as she lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs like last year’s playbill. Her face was crushed and broken, and one shiny eye was missing. Her left arm was flung to the side at an unnatural angle, and the dark wood of her shattered form glistened in the light from the gas lamps. The fluids that passed as her lifeblood leaked into the carpet, staining it a vibrant mustard yellow. Irava stared, speechless with disbelief. Tears prickled her eyes, and she knelt and reverently closed the one remaining eye. Marilla may have been murderous, but with so few marionettes left in the world, it was still a tragedy.
The sound of Marilla falling down the stairs had travelled far. Heta burst from the open vent, followed closely by Barnaby. Taera ran and threw herself into a baffled Heta’s arms, who patted her back awkwardly. Irava watched as their eyes traveled from her to Marilla’s body and put her hands up.
“I realize how this must look,” said Irava.
Heta’s face was hard as she approached. “Explain.”
Irava took a deep breath and told her of the unseen voices. Heta’s face moved from anger to incredulity to sadness as she described the struggle between Marilla and Champion.
“...Marilla was saying something about being replaced by the human dancers. She was trying to get Champion to do something to Taera. I think… I think she meant for him to kill her.”
“This is almost too much to take in. Taera, can you confirm this?” said Heta.
Taera sniffled and nodded. “Marilla’s always hated the dancers. She said such horrible things to me.”
Heta sighed. “What a mess. We must go into the tunnels if we are to untangle it. Approach Champion slowly if you do see him. The boy has a good heart, he would hurt no one on purpose.”
A sound from inside the walls—footsteps in the distance. Heta gasped. “He’s in the vents.”
Irava led them into the network of tunnels, pausing from time to time to listen for the echoes of Champion’s footsteps. They went down a different path than before and the passageway led steeply downward and turned in on itself in a spiral. Gas lamps sputtered to life as they passed and lit the ramp with orange light. The dancing marionette motif of the vent carving continued here on the walls.
The dusty footprints opened up to a second round room, much larger than the passageways above. Rows of shelves lined the doorway, bearing marionette limbs and half-carved heads. Tables hooked up to wires that disappeared into the ceiling stood in the center of the room in a circle.
And on the far side of the room, beside glowing tanks of yellow lifeblood, was a cringing marionette. Champion. The strongman marionette was curled up on the floor, hands covering his face.
Heta motioned for him to step forward and Champion reluctantly stood.
“Alright Champion, slowly now. What’s going on here. Who woke you? I thought you were in the Great Sleep?”
The bulky marionette shuffled forward, head bowed.
“I was never asleep, Sir. Marilla woke me, made me pretend to be in the Great Sleep so I could help her.”
Irava and Heta exchanged a confused glance.
“But who woke her up? What happened with her, up by the dormitory?” asked Irava
“She woke herself up. The copper inlays just came on sometimes, and… I’m so sorry Miss Irava. Marilla, oh, Marilla.” Champion covered his face with his hands, sobs echoing up from the barrel of his chest. “I didn’t mean to do it! We were fighting. She was trying to get up to the dormitories. She didn’t want them training to take her place. She hated them. I tried to stop her, but she attacked me. She went down, so I ran.”
“You ran here? Why?” asked Irava.
“I didn’t know what else to do! When Marilla first woke me up, she promised that she could fix the others, so of course I said yes. I’d love to see my Goldfeather again.”
Irava held up a hand. “Marilla knows how to fix the marionettes? Why did she leave everyone to sleep?”
“She doesn’t know how to, not yet. She’s been looking for Master Tompre’s office. He kept it hidden, even from us,” Champion turned and gestured at the lifeblood tanks. “I came here to see if I could wake Goldfeather up myself, now that Marilla is… Gods. I can’t believe she fell. I never wanted that to happen!”
“I believe you, Champion. We all know you would never hurt anyone on purpose,” said Irava.
Heta cleared her throat. “What’s this about Marilla waking herself up, that’s what I want to hear about. Did she turn her own key?”
Champion’s shaggy blonde hair swayed as he shook his head. “No, nothing like that. She said it was her Cradle, it didn’t stay off. Marilla didn’t need a key because the copper plates were always active for her. She’s been wandering around this place by herself for months now, trying to find the office.”
Irava cleared her throat and held up the leather notebook. “About that…”
Barnaby gasped at the sight of A.T. stamped on the cover. “Is that…”
“I’ve seen that before, it’s his!” said Champion.
“It’s true, these are Master Tompre’s notes. Oh, Heta! We might be able to wake everyone else up!” Irava’s smile faded. “But first we must attend to Marilla. Move her to the maintenance room, now that we have Master Tompre’s notes it may be possible to repair her. Even if she was mad with rage. But after that, we celebrate. The Millennium Theatre has a future again.”