Read Online In the Court of the Yellow King by Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
Tags: Lovecraft, cthulhu mythos, Mark Rainey, Yellow Sign, Lucy Snyder, William Meikle, Brian Sammons, Tim Curran, Jeffrey Thomas, King in Yellow, Chambers, Robert Price, True Detective
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thought it was a little boy.”
“Pretty sure it’s a girl.”
“Okay.” Boy or girl, the kid was a mystery. Always lurking in the shadows, never quite revealing his or her face. Six or seven years old at most. She had never heard the child speak, yet he — she was s ure it was a boy — sometimes mimicked the actions of the players during rehearsal. She didn’t think the kid was Broach’s; he was reputedly as gay as they came and had been an old bachelor since before Moses’ day.
“We still don’t even know who that is playing the King.”
“Nope. Could be anyone, since we never see his face.”
“The orchestra’s on tonight. You ready?”
Kathryn nodded. The play featured a single musical number, “The Song of Cassilda,” in the second scene of Act 1. Till now, she had simply sung it a cappella from the sheet music, which, most curiously, Broach had transcribed by hand. This evening, the prior production having finally cleared out, the theater proper would be open for rehearsal, and she would sing with orchestral accompaniment. She had a fair mezzo-soprano voice, best suited to singing in a chorus, but in college she had held her own as Lady Macbeth in their production of Verdi’s Macbe th , and more recently as Luisa in a revival of The Fantasticks . She had no doubt she could nail the song, yet for some reason she was on edge about it.
Like about so many t hings in this play.
“What are you doing?”
Jayda was looking at her, one eyebrow raised. Kathryn realized one finger was tracing a pattern on the table and had twisted a portion of the tablecloth into a knotted mass. She’d had no idea she was doing it.
A chilly worm slid down the back of her neck. “I’m done,” she said, pushing away her half-eaten croissant. “Not hungry. And I gotta get back to work.”
“You really are nervous.”
“Something about being poor as dirt, I guess. I need this play to fly, and I’m not sure it’s going to.”
“If it doesn’t, it won’t be on your account.”
“Well, thanks for that.”
They settled their bills and headed out of the café into the afternoon sunshine. Lunchtime pedestrians and traffic choked West 47th Street, the usual barely controlled chaos. For the moment, the aroma of cooking meat from a dozen nearby eateries overwhelmed the exhaust fumes, just barely.
“Till tonight, then,” Kathryn said. She gave the younger woman a little wink. “If you see crowds of people running away, it’s because I’m practicing my song in the streets.”
“Now, that I believe.”
“Oh, and Jayda?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s a little boy.”
Jayda returned an exaggerated sneer. “Yes, Mother.”
Dark, dark theater.
The cavernous space beyond the stage might as well be outer space, Kathryn thought, the only illumination out there the murky red glow from a pair of exit signs over the far doors, like ancient, dying suns floating in the void. The Frontiere, once a posh venue for first-run shows, had decayed as old buildings will decay over the course of a century, and nowadays audiences rarely filled more than half the seats, even for its biggest shows. Still, its acoustics were phenomenal, the ceiling rising to dizzying heights, the spacious stage framed by columns and faux-Greek sculptures.
The cast had assembled within a warm island of light on the otherwise barren stage, and director Broach was in a corner conversing with Joseph Morheim, the orchestra conductor. Down in the pit, the musicians were tuning their instruments, producing a stream of background noise that alternated between soothing and jarring. This felt almost like a normal production, Kathryn thought, which in itself seemed bizarre, since little about The King in Y ellow had so far been “normal.” She had no understudy; no one did. At their read-throughs, the director stopped them at varying points before the non-existent ending. It wasn’t only her script that was incomplete. Broach — or perhaps the anonymous
“Pretty sure it’s a girl.”
“Okay.” Boy or girl, the kid was a mystery. Always lurking in the shadows, never quite revealing his or her face. Six or seven years old at most. She had never heard the child speak, yet he — she was s ure it was a boy — sometimes mimicked the actions of the players during rehearsal. She didn’t think the kid was Broach’s; he was reputedly as gay as they came and had been an old bachelor since before Moses’ day.
“We still don’t even know who that is playing the King.”
“Nope. Could be anyone, since we never see his face.”
“The orchestra’s on tonight. You ready?”
Kathryn nodded. The play featured a single musical number, “The Song of Cassilda,” in the second scene of Act 1. Till now, she had simply sung it a cappella from the sheet music, which, most curiously, Broach had transcribed by hand. This evening, the prior production having finally cleared out, the theater proper would be open for rehearsal, and she would sing with orchestral accompaniment. She had a fair mezzo-soprano voice, best suited to singing in a chorus, but in college she had held her own as Lady Macbeth in their production of Verdi’s Macbe th , and more recently as Luisa in a revival of The Fantasticks . She had no doubt she could nail the song, yet for some reason she was on edge about it.
Like about so many t hings in this play.
“What are you doing?”
Jayda was looking at her, one eyebrow raised. Kathryn realized one finger was tracing a pattern on the table and had twisted a portion of the tablecloth into a knotted mass. She’d had no idea she was doing it.
A chilly worm slid down the back of her neck. “I’m done,” she said, pushing away her half-eaten croissant. “Not hungry. And I gotta get back to work.”
“You really are nervous.”
“Something about being poor as dirt, I guess. I need this play to fly, and I’m not sure it’s going to.”
“If it doesn’t, it won’t be on your account.”
“Well, thanks for that.”
They settled their bills and headed out of the café into the afternoon sunshine. Lunchtime pedestrians and traffic choked West 47th Street, the usual barely controlled chaos. For the moment, the aroma of cooking meat from a dozen nearby eateries overwhelmed the exhaust fumes, just barely.
“Till tonight, then,” Kathryn said. She gave the younger woman a little wink. “If you see crowds of people running away, it’s because I’m practicing my song in the streets.”
“Now, that I believe.”
“Oh, and Jayda?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s a little boy.”
Jayda returned an exaggerated sneer. “Yes, Mother.”
Dark, dark theater.
The cavernous space beyond the stage might as well be outer space, Kathryn thought, the only illumination out there the murky red glow from a pair of exit signs over the far doors, like ancient, dying suns floating in the void. The Frontiere, once a posh venue for first-run shows, had decayed as old buildings will decay over the course of a century, and nowadays audiences rarely filled more than half the seats, even for its biggest shows. Still, its acoustics were phenomenal, the ceiling rising to dizzying heights, the spacious stage framed by columns and faux-Greek sculptures.
The cast had assembled within a warm island of light on the otherwise barren stage, and director Broach was in a corner conversing with Joseph Morheim, the orchestra conductor. Down in the pit, the musicians were tuning their instruments, producing a stream of background noise that alternated between soothing and jarring. This felt almost like a normal production, Kathryn thought, which in itself seemed bizarre, since little about The King in Y ellow had so far been “normal.” She had no understudy; no one did. At their read-throughs, the director stopped them at varying points before the non-existent ending. It wasn’t only her script that was incomplete. Broach — or perhaps the anonymous
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