Would Edwin be pretending to be Wilford, the fatherless orphan, while Father actually was Mortimer, the childless murderer? Is that what real acting is, that moment you stop pretending? And if so, can a person ever be sure, even offstage, even in the parlor of his own house, that he isn’t simply acting a part? All the world’s a stage and etc., etc. You don’t have to be the son of a Shakespearean actor to have such thoughts. Everyone has them.

The curtains by Edwin’s face are lace, white spiderwebs all the way from Nottingham, a source of much pride for Mother. They smell of dust. Edwin leans forward, breathes on the window, clouding the glass in front of his face. He puts one hand on the cold pane and draws its outline with the other. He erases it, sees the street beyond unobstructed again.

The O’Laughlen house across the street is shuttered; it looks tired and sad. Perhaps the O’Laughlens are away for the day. Johnny would know. William O’Laughlen is Johnny’s close friend. Kate O’Laughlen is Asia’s enemy; it’s not clear to Edwin which of the two started the feud, but they are equally interested in maintaining it. Michael O’Laughlen is about Joe’s age, but the two don’t play together. Instead, Michael tags along after William. He’ll do anything for Johnny’s attention. He’s a grimy little boy with messy hair and smudged clothes. I’d like to give him a good scrubbing, Mother says, but Edwin sees no point. It wouldn’t last to sunset.

A carriage pulled by matching black horses passes, their necks arched, their steps high and careful on the slippery ground. The crows flutter down to peck through the pile one leaves behind.

He wonders if Father might finally let him see the play. Museum theaters are all about gentility. No alcohol is sold. No one who might make a lady uncomfortable can get a ticket. The fare is chosen for its uplifting content. The pit is called the parquet and the audience is made to understand that throwing things at the stage will not be tolerated. Surely he is old enough—he’ll soon be thirteen!—to see his father act in such respectable plays in such respectable surroundings. It’s a museum as well as a playhouse. Every schoolchild in Baltimore has been to see the fossilized mastodon jaw, the diorama of menacing jungle cats.

“Edwin!” His mother’s voice is irritated. “You really must learn to listen. It’s annoying to say something three times without an answer.”