It wasn’t so different to being at Crillick’s just before the show began. Same excitement, same chatter, but somehow the room felt a little less alive. Like the action was happening behind a pane of clear glass. At the theatre it was rowdy. By this point in the proceedings, drinks would be sloshing. Here they were sipped. We’d been waiting a while now – ten minutes since Vincent and I had been the last of the party to enter the library. By now the crowd of punters would be drumming their feet on the floor of the theatre. Here the air beat with the rapid movement of ladies’ fans.

‘Excuse me, would you?’

It was a slender, dark-haired woman I had not noticed before. She moved carefully past me and sat in the next window seat along. The hand I’d felt when she brushed past me was cold; she must have just come in from outside. She was dressed as fine as the other guests but there was something different about her, less frivolous; the dove-grey silk of her dress more sober than the pinks and greens of the other women. Maybe she was a little older. Judging by her looks, she definitely wasn’t one of Crillick’s cronies, but if that was true then what was she doing here?

Now that all the guests had taken their seats, I felt an air of expectation descend on the room. The attention of the audience was drawn to the makeshift stage, which was two crates high and about nine yards across. For now it was empty, giving no clues to what we would be presented with. Barky was right. Surely if it was an act with the scale to displace me as headliner, there’d at least be a prop or two and some scenery? While I tried to reassure myself, the oil lamps were dimmed. I gave a slight shudder as if the temperature in the room had been lowered as well as the lighting. For two long minutes we waited in semi-darkness while the vague shapes of servants shuffled and scraped as the stage was dressed.