I nod before it dawns on me to add, “Oh…I’ll also have a little one with me. I hope you won’t mind.”

His eyes go wide before he attempts to downplay his startle. “Yeah. I mean, no, of course not.”

I rarely bother to explain to strangers, but Charles is far from that. “Her name’s Evelien. She isn’t mine. But she is. In a way.”

Now he looks confounded, though not without amusement. “So you’re saying…we got some catching up to do.” While the warmth he exudes harkens to the height of our friendship, the added creases around his eyes indicate that he, too, has stories to tell.

Where will we begin? How much can I divulge? Shall I tell him of the train ride to Tilburg, how in a despairing moment, he saved my life, and Evelien’s, without even knowing it? He might not understand. How could he really? But then, maybe what’s most important is just the sharing.

The ring of a bell echoes through the hall. A ten-minute warning, prodding me.

“Mercy. If I don’t get moving, I’ll miss my own show.”

“See now? You caught my strategy of takin’ out the competition.” He winks and dons his hat at an angle. “I’ll be there in the shadows cheering ya on.”

I smile gratefully, and we go our separate ways. For now. Only when I round the corner do I register the significance of his parting words. How so often it’s those in the shadows we come to rely on most.

I shake my head, casting off thoughts that can wait, and charge toward the stage.

Time to focus.

Through my strides, I tie the lilac kerchief chicly around my neck and smooth my hair, styled to my shoulders. In the right wing of the stage, I find Evelien perched on a tall stool. As she readies to draw the red velvety curtains, over in the left wing, my assistants signal that all is ready.

I sneak a glance at the sea of faces, the audience settling in. A giggle here and there breaks through the murmurings of conversations.

A swarm of nerves buzzes within me. I run through my mental and physical checklists, including my costume’s features.

Minutes later, music projects from the pit, quieting the crowd.

On cue, Evelien races to pull the ropes with such concentration, it’s clear she believes at least half the job is being done by her. All the while, the burly stagehand behind her works doggedly to yank the weighted, cumbersome ropes with his gloved hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” the house manager declares onstage, “welcome to the show!”

My pulse races and chest tightens. While the man rattles off the usual rules of the theater, I take a moment to close my eyes. With hands clutched to my chest, I steady, as always, from the memory of a voice.