Page 33 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“Oh no.” Maggie gasped and rose halfway out of her chair.

Freddie sat on the floor, massaging his forehead. “I’m going to get a goose egg.”

“First you’re going to get off the stage.” Ferdy tugged his twin to standing.

“‘Nine ladies dancing . . .’” Prescott sang fine, acted fine, danced fine. But the spark was missing. Before the performance, he’d been quiet and glum. Had something happened?

Maggie resisted the urge to chew her thumbnail. She’d cured herself of that habit in junior high, but Prescott’s downcast gaze and slumped shoulders churned her insides.

“‘Six geese a-laying . . .’”

Nothing happened.

“Carol,” Maggie muttered under her breath.

Barbara and Greta prodded Carol, who squealed, grabbed her top hat, dashed onto stage, and pulled an egg from her hat, echoing her magic act.

Maggie’s thumbnail gravitated toward her mouth, and she gripped her hands together. That was—appropriately enough—the twelfth major missed cue in the show. Plus countless minor errors, which might or might not escape Mr. Anderson’s attention.

She ventured a glance at her boss’s impassive face. Not once had he even chuckled.

Why hadn’t she streamlined down to a regular USO show format? Three or four acts, each performing song and dance and comedy for half an hour. Each responsible for their own performance. No interconnection.

“‘Two turtle doves . . .’” Prescott extended a hand to Vi, who joined him for a twirl and a bow. Then he stepped aside and gestured to Vi, standing alone at center stage. Vi sang in her soaring soprano, “‘And a partridge in a pear tree.’”

After she curtsied, the cast lined up onstage, alternating men and women—in costume, green and red would alternate in a festive way—and they sang “Happy Holiday.”

At least they knew the lyrics.

What did it matter? It was over. The run-through made the Keystone Cops look like sailors on parade.

She’d lose her job. Grandpa would lose his house. What would he do with Tobias?

After the final note, Maggie stood. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll see you after lunch.” When they would practice Christmas carols to sing trapped on risers.

As the cast dispersed with their usual teasing and joking, Maggie returned to her seat. An apology to Mr. Anderson welled in her mouth, but she swallowed. An apology would be as unprofessional as begging for praise.

What should she do? She offered the thought as a prayer and felt a soft pressure to her throat, as if being silenced. As if being told to wait.

Mr. Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, and his mouth worked. On his far side, Ria caught Maggie’s eye and gave her a prodding look.

Maggie raised a slight shrug. The man was thinking, and perhaps it was best not to interrupt. For good or ill.

“It’s rough,” he said.

For ill, but Maggie calmed her expression. “Yes, sir. We do have another three weeks.”

His small gray eyes turned to her. “I like it.”

Ria’s brows shot high.

So did Maggie’s. But she injected confidence into her voice. “Thank you. We do too.”

The corners of his mustache turned down. “It needs work, mind you.”

A lot of work. “I know. We’ll practice hard.”

“I’ll write up some suggestions and bring them over in the morning.”