“Artists emanate a great deal. They agonize over their looks, over their age, over the competition. A very minute detail can become a matter of great gravity. The building in which they perform soaks in their failures, their jealousies, their disappointments like a sponge and holds all that misery in. That’s why empaths don’t go to anything above the level of spring fair performances. The atmosphere overwhelms them. It was incredibly stupid to transfer the weight of so many years to the new place.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand you,” he said. “How can you be so damn pragmatic?”

I wondered what nerve I struck. Mister Smooth had suddenly turned confrontational.

“After all, there are other emotions.” His tone was irate. “Triumph, exaltation at the magnificent performance, joy.”

“That’s true.”

We stepped into the dim lobby, lit with torches despite the presence of electric bulbs. People around us moved in a steady stream toward the double doors at the far wall. We went with the flow, passing through the doors and into the large concert hall, filled with rows of red seats.

People looked at us. Crest looked pleased. We were the center of attention, tall, dapper Crest and his exotic date in a distinctive dress with a scar snaking its way down her shoulder. He didn’t see how much the crowds bothered me, he didn’t notice that I was beginning to limp. If I told him, it would only make matters worse. I kept walking and smiling, and concentrated on not falling.

We sat smack in the middle and I let out a tiny breath of relief. Sitting was a lot easier than standing.

“So who are we waiting for?” I asked.

“Aivisha,” Crest said with gravity.

I had no idea who Aivisha was.

“It’s the last performance of the season,” he continued. “It’s getting too warm. I didn’t think she would perform this late, but the management assured me that she will have no difficulties. She can use the residual magic.”

I leaned back in my seat and waited quietly. Around us people settled into their seats. An old woman, dressed in an impeccably white gown and escorted by a distinguished older gentleman, stopped by us. Crest jumped to his feet. Oh dear God, I would have to get up. I rose and smiled and waited politely until we completed the introductions. The woman and Crest chattered for a few minutes while the escort and I quietly shared each other’s misery. Finally she moved on.

“Madam Emerson,” Crest told me and patted my hand. “Probably the last true Southern socialite. You did very well. I think she likes you.”

I opened my mouth and clamped it shut. I hadn’t done anything but stand still and smile. Like a well-behaved child or a disciplined dog. Had he expected me to hump her leg?