Last Act by Jane Aiken Hodge

contract, of course. Then, rehearsal until lunch. “Dining room: 13 to 14 hours,” ran the message, “Your room: any time. After lunch, rest.” No doubt about it, Josef had composed this missive. At three she had another rehearsal and at five an appointment with the wardrobe mistress. Her heart sank as she reached the last item: “Twenty hours, cocktails and dinner at the castle. The car will fetch you at 19:40.”
    It was obviously a royal command, and must be obeyed. She finished her breakfast and got out of bed to pad over to the wardrobe where Lisel had hung her clothes. A pity about that gold brocade, she thought wryly, looking at the one evening dress she had not sold at the local second-hand shop. Brown velvet; low cut; and she had no jewels. Oh, well. She found herself smiling suddenly. The last thing she wanted was to attract His Promiscuous Highness. And smiled again a little wryly, remembering the contract she was presumably going to sign, undertaking to sing at next year’s opera festival. It was not so much, she thought, that being about to die concentrated the mind, it seemed to free it wonderfully. So many things that should have been problems were simply immaterial, trivial … She dressed quickly in Jaeger skirt and pullover and was just reaching for her lipstick when the telephone rang by the bed.
    She lifted it nervously. “Yes?”
    â€œGood morning, Miss Paget.” Josefs friendly Oxonian voice. “I hope you slept well.”
    â€œLike an angel, thank you. It’s all so heavenly … And the delicious breakfast … I feel like a queen!”
    It got her a dry laugh. “With a view of the castle. But, to business. Herr Meyer and the lawyer are here; they apologise for being a little early and have no wish in the world to hurry you.”
    It was her turn to laugh. “You mean, they want to see me atonce. Tell them I’ll be right down.”
    â€œNo need. If you are ready they will join you in your sitting-room.”
    â€œMy—”
    â€œâ€”Sitting-room. The door facing the one to the bathroom, Miss Paget. I can see you were too tired last night to explore. I hope the piano meets with your approval. The room is soundproofed, by the way.”
    â€œGoodness! I feel like a princess in a fairy tale.” She used the lipstick, ran a comb through her hair, and, feeling a little like Bluebeard’s wife, ventured to open the panelled door that faced the one into her bathroom. In so far as she had noticed it, she had assumed that it would be locked, allowing access to the next bedroom when necessary. Now she discovered her mistake. If her bedroom had a view of the castle, this corner room almost seemed to contain it. A bay window, with cushioned seats, had been designed so that the castle hung outside, like some magnificent stage set. Valhalla, perhaps? Not altogether a cheerful omen.
    But there at the far side of the room was the piano. A Bechstein baby grand, it made her realise just how large the room was. I shall never live up to this, she thought, and then, Well, I won’t be trying for long. And pulled herself up short at a knocking on the door that must lead to the passage. “Come in,” she called. Here, presumably, were the Nibelungs bearing their disastrous gold.
    Carl Meyer was spruce this morning in sharply tailored light grey, and again she was surprised at the conscious change he had made in his appearance. But that of the lawyer who accompanied him did something to explain this. He was almost absurd in formal morning dress, and looked hot with it, she thought sympathetically.
    Their good mornings said, he put an elegant flat dispatch case down on the table by the bay window, apologised briefly for troubling her so early, and produced the contract and a golden ballpoint pen. “If you would just sign here,” he said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” The acoustics of this room were good, too, and she was