He wasn’t bothered about how good I looked for Vincent, but he was always on the alert that one of the audience would work out that I was Amazonia. Without the make-up and the costume and with my hair tied back, the resemblance was slight but I was the only Black member of the company and, to be fair to him, someone sharp might put two and two together, especially if they noticed my filed nails. It was why Barky always ensured I stowed my costume and Amazonia’s effects at the theatre, and had advised me to put on my gloves before I left.

Ellen took charge but the direct order from Barky must have riled her, because now she didn’t trouble to be gentle. If I’d been strong enough, I would’ve pushed her away, done it myself. She was always pettish when Vincent came for me, but I could hardly blame her. As long as she’d been seeing Crillick he’d never dreamt of sending a carriage for her, let alone picking her up himself. She sponged down my face, and scrubbed my body, wiping away Amazonia with strong strokes that left me feeling raw. When I was clean, she helped me on with my drawers and skirt, buttoned my corset and scraped back my hair. I’d told her the tight curls weren’t meant to be brushed, but she forced her way through the tangles from top to bottom and I ignored the pain as she weaved two plaits and jammed in a handful of pins to stop them unravelling.

‘There. Happy now?’ she said.

I stood up slowly, testing myself. Definitely more tired than usual. My own fault. I’d pushed myself hard and all for nothing when the African hadn’t even stayed to the end to appreciate it. Ah well. He wasn’t anything to me. I looked in the small glass and pinched my cheeks to bring out the roses in them. I couldn’t let Ellen’s jealousy get me down. If Vincent was coming for me, it was important to look my best.

IV

The Language of My Forefathers