He is still, very still, for a long while, watching her. His gaze is soft. She feels it brush her shoulders, her stomach, her feet, her breasts. She is aware of her legs, tightly crossed again—when did that happen?—the position of her hands. Aware of the heat in her palms, under her armpits. She is aware of the balance of power, of how it belongs to him. Then, “You look sad,” he says.

“I look sad,” repeats Lissa, surprised.

“You look sad.”

“I look sad.”

“You look sad.”

“I look sad.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I’m turning red.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I’m turning red.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m upset.”

“I’ve upset you.”

“I’ve upset you. No”—she stumbles—“you’ve upset me.”

“I’ve upset you.”

She can feel her cheeks flaming. “You—have a black shirt,” she says.

Johnny raises an eyebrow. “I have a black shirt,” he repeats.

“STOP.” They turn to Klara, who is out of her chair now, incandescent.

“Why did you do this? Why did you talk about his shirt? Something was happening. Something was starting to happen for the first time in this stinking fucking room and you talk about his shirt? No. Now. Go again.”

Johnny turns back slowly, smiles at her. It is the smile of an assassin. His blue eyes barely blink. “You’re uncomfortable,” he says.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“You’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“I make you uncomfortable.”

“You make me uncomfortable.”

“I make you uncomfortable.”

“You make me uncomfortable.”

“You look sad.”

“I look sad.”

“You look sad.”

“I look sad.”

“You have a sad face.”

“I have a sad face.”

Her throat is tightening. There is no time to recover from the last blow before he is on to the next.

“You’ve lost something.”

“I’ve lost something.”

She can feel it—the other members of the cast, sitting forward in their seats. As the various faces become an audience, the invisible filaments between her and them tightening, something is happening.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m crying.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m crying.”

“Good!” Klara is hopping. “Now. Now. Begin your scene.”

SHE NEEDS FRESH air. She pushes her way outside and stands in the stairwell, staring up at the sky.

Michael is out there already. “Fuck,” he says. “That was harsh. But electric.”

Lissa says nothing.

Behind her, Johnny appears.

“Fucking electric, mate,” says Michael. Johnny ignores him. Michael nods to himself. “Electric,” he says, into the void.

“That was rather good,” says Johnny to Lissa. “You could be a much better actor, you know, than you allow yourself to be. If you just let go.”