The Motion of Puppets by Keith Donohue

front of her removed the strap from her left hand. “You’ll be tempted to play the part. Give in, give in.”
    On her right side, the Good Fairy said, “Pay him no heed. He’s nothing but a big ham. All that talk about performance. Feh, just wait till they come for you.”
    â€œWho is coming for me?”
    â€œWhy, the Quatre Mains and the Deux Mains, of course. You don’t think you’ll be allowed to stay in the Back Room forever.”
    â€œWhen will they come?”
    â€œWe never know. But they will get you.”
    â€œSuppose I leave before they come for me.”
    â€œOh, you can never leave,” said the Good Fairy. “You are not allowed to leave on your own accord.”
    Worn out by her perambulations, Kay sat on a box of foam noses and ears and considered her surroundings. She had not given much thought to the extent of the Back Room, how its yellow walls circumscribed a world with gunmetal shelves, bins of odds and ends, bolts of fabric, the vaguely menacing hammers and saws and awls. The novelty of the place inured her to its limits. All around her, the puppets returned to their business, arranging themselves in familiar cliques. The Queen sat on her oatmeal-box throne. Nix took up his juggling, tossing three ping-pong ball eyes with nonchalance. The Three Sisters lounged by a toy samovar, sipping tea in tiny glasses.
    â€œDo you mind if I join you?” Kay asked. “I have no idea what to do or where to go.”
    â€œYou are trapped,” Irina said. “In the same bourgeois drama we all are. The melancholy parade of day and night marches by, and not a one of us knows where it leads.”
    Masha chimed in. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. We are forever waiting for tomorrow and looking for a better day.”
    Making room for her on the box that served as a settee, Olya bid Kay come sit by her side, and with great show she pantomimed another glass of tea, wincing slightly as she handed it to her. The tea was hot, to Kay’s surprise, and when she pretended to take a sip, she was astonished by how strong and sweet the taste was. Almost immediately she realized that in the whole time she had been in the Back Room, hunger and thirst had deserted her. She hadn’t had so much as a bite in what … weeks? Months?
    â€œSpasibo.” She remembered her Russian manners.
    â€œIs nothing,” Olya said. “You are surprised to find the tea to your liking? Usually we drink a bitter brew. For you, a pinch of sugar.”
    â€œIt’s good,” Kay said. “But how is it possible?”
    â€œMy dear girl,” Masha said. “All things are possible with imagination. You might as well ask the same about all of life. How does the thrush know when is spring and time to return? How is cherry tree both flower and fruit and then a scrag of bones in October? Tea knows how to be tea.”
    â€œBut how do you make the real tea out of imaginary nothing?”
    Like three magpies, the Sisters cocked their heads and stared at her, puzzled by the abstract nature of her question. She wondered if she had unwittingly crossed a line, and the long pause disconcerted her. They looked lifeless again, reverted to their puppet state. Snapping her finger in front of their glass eyes, Kay tried to wake them from their stupor.
    Olya blinked first. “Dahlink, we are practicing.”
    â€œPracticing for what?”
    â€œIn case we are called to play our roles.”
    Masha leaned in and whispered confidentially. “True freedom, golubushka, comes in knowing your limitations. We are all waiting here for whatever happens next.”
    Looking over the lip of her teacup, Irina smiled at her. “When the puppeteer calls, the puppets must be ready.”
    From the doorway came the ringing of the school bell and Mr. Firkin shouting that the night was nearly over. The Dog began to bark excitedly as the puppets whirled into motion,