“Do we really? Well, I’ve had quite enough of Guy Monteray. I want his poems taken out of the magazine.”

But Betterson was glued to the performance.

The wedding day has arrived. The girl, desperate to rid herself of her shadow once and for all, takes up a pair of scissors and brandishes them threateningly. Ignoring the shadow’s pleas, she reaches down to her feet and hacks at the place where they are joined.

“Are you listening to me, Norman?”

“What?”

It is the girl, not the shadow, that starts to totter, one hand to her head. Blood is flowing from her feet, pooling on the floor. The shadow rushes to support her, to catch her as she falls. And now the girl lies lifeless, while the shadow gently lowers the veil—a shroud—over her face, and weeps.

“I said I want Monteray out of the magazine.” Genevieve could hear the bitterness, the vitriol in her voice. She was aware, as she spoke, that it wasn’t really Monteray she was angry with—or even Betterson. But it felt good to do this—to throw her monetary weight about. Here was a situation over which she had control. Oh, yes, this felt good.

Betterson appeared unperturbed. Perhaps he still hadn’t heard. “Sorry, doll.” He slipped down off the stool and twiddled with the curled ends of his mustache. “I’m on.”

“What are you—” But before she could get the words out, he’d darted across the room and into the performance.

The girl’s fiancé has arrived at the tragic scene. Hands pressed to his heart, he gazes in anguish at his dead love, and then at the shadow. After a moment he moves closer to the shadow. His face is unreadable, and the shadow cowers away from him.

The fiancé reaches down to the dead girl. Gently he lifts the veil from her face and then detaches it altogether. Then he straightens—approaches the shadow, bearing the veil in his arms. The shadow backs away in fear but there is no escape, nowhere to go. The man reaches out, sets his dead lover’s headdress on the shadow’s head and lowers the veil.

Throughout the bar, everyone was still. Barely a breath could be heard as the audience waited.

Now the fiancé puts his arms around the shadow and draws her close to him. He lifts the veil, touches the shadow under her chin to raise her head, and kisses her full on the mouth.

The show is over.

“So, chérie.” Lulu was wiping off the stage blood with a bar towel. “What did you think?”

“It was a great performance. But you know that already.” She handed over a glass of beer, which Lulu gulped back thirstily.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were working with that dancer?”