He was only four rows back, under a tumble of seats. She could see his arm in the space between them. “Sir Godfrey,” she said, squatting down, but it was too dark under there to see him. “Is that you?”

“Yes. As you can see, my attempt to avert disaster was unsuccessful.”

“What are you doing out here in the theater? I thought you’d be backstage.” She was babbling in her relief that he was alive. “If I hadn’t caught my shoe, I’d never have heard you.” And as she said it, something echoed in the back of her brain: Eileen saying at Padgett’s, “If Marjorie hadn’t told you where I was …”; saying, “If Alf and Binnie hadn’t delayed me, I’d have caught Mr. Bartholomew.”

Polly stopped, struck by the sudden sense that this was important, that it held the key to something, if she could—

“I heard the bombs,” Sir Godfrey said, “and was on my way to find you.”

And if you hadn’t done that, she thought with that same sense of being on the verge of something vital, you’d have been underneath that asbestos fire curtain when it came crashing down.

“I was worried that you—” Sir Godfrey began.

“You mustn’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. Can you move?”

“No. There’s something on my legs. ‘All the world’s a stage,’ and at the moment it seems to be atop me.”

“Can you feel your legs? Are they injured?”

“No.”

Thank goodness. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

“No.” The pause again. “ ‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ ”

Oh, God.

“I’ll have you out of there in a moment.” She raised her head and shouted, “There’s an injured man in here! We need a stretcher!” She stood up and began pulling the seats off him. The row of seats had broken apart, which was a good thing. If they were still connected, she’d never have been able to shift them.

Sir Godfrey murmured something. “What is it?” she asked, crouching down to hear.

“Leave me,” he said. “Go find Viola. She’s at the Alhambra. The bombs—”

“I’m here, Sir Godfrey. It’s me, Polly—Viola.”

“No,” he said. “ ‘Thou art a soul in bliss. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave.’ ”

He’s only quoting Lear, she told herself fiercely. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Don’t try to move,” she said, looking back toward the doors. “Help’s coming.” But it wasn’t—there was no sign of the incident officer or rescue workers.

They didn’t hear me, she thought, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “There’s an injured man in here! We need a stretcher and a jack! Hurry!” She went back to shifting the seats and then a piece of the balcony.

Oh, God, it was too heavy to lift. She put both hands against the end and gave a mighty shove, and there he was, a foot below her in a narrow hole, lying on his back across a row of upended seat backs, his legs under a piece of the balcony which she could see at a glance was far too heavy for her to lift.