A Rose by Any Other Name by Mary McMyne

Author:Mary McMyne [MCMYNE, MARY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2024-07-17T00:00:00+00:00

Everyone pushed their masks up on their foreheads as they sat at the tables, and I realised I wouldn’t be able to eat. Nor could I sit at the prominent table where Henry and Will did. There was a tall man with a stiff air about him, in a dark mask and cloak, whose solemn bearing and gestures reminded me of Graves. He can’t be here, I told myself. He’s only a servant. But I kept seeing him everywhere, jumping at shadows. I excused myself and sat in the most remote corner of the most remote table, where a guttering candle wasn’t quite doing its work, refusing course after course. Wafer cakes and suckets, tarts and baked pears, roasted swan and goose. How I wanted to eat them!

Finally, I gave in, surreptitiously blowing out the candle at my table and removing my mask to eat the baked pears soaked in cream and gulp my mead before a servant came to relight it. When the servants brought away the final course, Lord Burghley held up his goblet. “To my lovely niece and the Veres, who are so gracious as to bless us with their company today—”

The countess stood. “To the Veres!”

On the other side of the room from where I sat, I could just barely see Elizabeth straightening in her seat, smiling demurely. She mirrored the gesture reluctantly, as if she were embarrassed at all the attention.

Several more pledges went round, and then the masque began. A true spectacle. A musical reenactment of the Persephone myth beginning with her abduction by Hades, followed by her ingestion of the pomegranate seeds, and ending with her escape from the underworld. An extravagant set, elaborate guises, a cast of as many women as men. Women played all the goddesses, and Demeter, Hecate, and Persephone had such extensive speaking roles that I wondered if the script had been written by a woman. The fact that women are allowed to perform in private masques but not in professional plays has always nettled me.

I was particularly taken with the woman who played Hecate. She was beautiful, fair-haired, dressed in flowing black robes. She wore a mask with a face on either side of her own, making her three-faced like the goddess, and she held real torches. The way she danced—the subtle movements of her hips—reminded me of Cecely. I felt my friend’s absence, suddenly, the hole that had yawned within me while Will was gone opening back up.

I blew out my candle again and tried to fill the emptiness with mead.

When the performance ended, I checked to make sure my mask was straight and approached Will, who was staring into his drink with a thoughtful expression. Henry made his way toward us. “What did you think?”

Will cleared his throat, meeting the earl’s eyes with a slight bow. “There was much to admire. Hades’s part was masterful. Do you know who wrote the script?”

“Her ladyship will not say,” Henry said, referring to his mother with mocking deference.

He led us up a grand staircase, two grooms hurrying out after us with harried expressions.

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