“Have to go,” Scarlett said, propelling herself out of the tub.

That afternoon, while Scarlet was on sewing duty, it was pretty much the Spencer and Eric show. Their many hours of unicycle practice, handstands, self-punching, and falling had finally paid off. Their routine was now to be woven throughout the entire play. They had even worked out an elaborate comic fight between Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

It was a good one, too—a carefully crafted version of what they did in the park, played for maximum comic effect. Spencer tripped Eric, causing him to fly offstage. Eric stormed back and punched Spencer, knocking him down. Then he flipped Spencer and grabbed him by the ankles, forcing him to walk in a handstand.

There was a loud smack from the stage that cut through the empty room like a gunshot. Of course, this was just Spencer doing the face-first falling trick, but it startled Scarlett so much that she jammed the needle she was sewing with into her thumb. Blood dripped out of it and onto Hamlet’s coat.

“Idiot,” she mumbled to herself.

“Okay!” Trevor shouted. “Let’s take a little break! That was great guys…”

Scarlett pulled out the needle and stuck her thumb in her mouth. She was digging around in her bag for something to wrap it in when she felt something bounce off her back and land on the floor behind her. It was a towel, marked with the Hopewell monogram. And it was followed by Spencer.

He sank down to the floor, picked up the towel, and began rubbing his face and neck dry. He was drenched in sweat from the fight.

“What did you do to yourself?” he asked. “Lemme see.”

The normal ease still wasn’t there, but he was talking. He leaned over and examined the injured thumb. That was at least brotherly.

“It’s fine,” he said. He dug around in his bag and produced a packaged hand wipe, the kind that comes with take-out food. “This will clean it up a little.”

He cracked open his water and settled back for a long drink.

“I haven’t seen you do that handstand-flip thing in a long time,” she said, ripping the wipe open and giving her wound a lemonscented cleaning.

“I had a bad experience when Dad waxed the lobby floor,” he said. “Hand grip is pretty key. But it did teach me that falling on your face is a funny way to end that. When you’re faking, at least.”

He drained the rest of the water in one long gulp. The bottle crackled under the suction.

“Okay,” he said, getting up. “Tonight. I’ll go with you. I think Paulette has Band-Aids. She has everything.”

He was clearly trying not to make a big deal about it. He just sauntered off to talk to Trevor as if nothing unusual had happened. Scarlett suddenly felt something in her chest—a real, physical sensation like something horrible she couldn’t see had just been lifted off of her, enabling her to breathe.