“Miss Mary, this isn’t necessary.” Tears stood out in Violet’s eyes. “Send me out in your place. I’ll make something up. Send the twins. Send anyone. You can’t possibly go on like this.”
Marrionetta bared her teeth like a bear. She was quaking all over. Large beads of sweat dewed her bark as if she were dotted over with fairie’s pearls.
“Shut up you heel trotting little bitch,” Marrionetta seethed. Then she began dry heaving in the empty vomit bucket.
Outside Marrionetta’s dressing room, they could hear the pitter patter of circus employ and performers as they traversed the subterranean halls of the big top. The gathering audience up on the surface was cheering, stomping, drinking and crying out for the show to begin. The organ was grinding itself loudly with its lascivious and inviting melodies and its bellows reverberated everywhere. Violet had the impression that she and Miss Mary were sitting inside the empty belly of an iron pot; a quiet abscess puncturing a world that was otherwise composed of endless, pitiless sound and activity. Here in the tense knot of the dressing room, there was only a strained silence and slow, laboriously movement.
“Give me my costume,” Marrionetta said wetly.
Violet handed over the leotard. Marrionetta stretched it over herself. It was pink and tight, shiny with silver sequins. To Violet’s eyes, her mistress appeared as the totality of a courtly funeral. She was the trimmings, the trappings, the officiant, and the primary attendant, all in one.
“Assist me,” Marrionetta said. Violet took her arm and lead her mistress lurching up the stairs to the stage.