Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood

Author:Margaret Atwood
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2016-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

At the Print Pro shop in Wilmot, Felix makes copies of his revised cast list—just the character names and the actors, no descriptions—to hand out to the actors. Then he drives into Makeshiweg and picks Anne-Marie up outside the house she shares with her three roommates. He gives her the Fletcher Correctional pass Estelle has arranged for behind the scenes, and she follows him in her own car—a dented silver-gray Ford—up the hill and through the outer gate to the parking lot.

She clambers out of her car, sets a tentative boot upon the ice. Should he extend a helping hand? No, he should not, he’d be slapped down with a quip. She surveys the chain-link fence, the barbed-wire topping, the searchlights. “This is grim,” she says.

“Yes, it’s a prison,” he says. “Though ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage.’ But they do contribute to a cage-like ambience.”

“What play is that in?” says Anne-Marie.

“Not a play,” he says. “A poem. The man who wrote it actually was in prison—he chose the wrong political side. It does say in The Tempest, ‘Thought is free,’ but unfortunately that’s in a song sung by three idiots.”

“What a downer,” says Anne-Marie. “Dwelling on the dark side these days? Winter getting to you? Cold enough for you?”

“It’s over this way,” says Felix. “The entrance. Watch out. Icy.”

—

“This is Anne-Marie Greenland,” he says to Madison and Dylan at Security. “She’s a very well-known actress,” he lies, “who has kindly agreed to join our acting company. She’ll be helping us out with the play. She’s got a pass.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Dylan to Anne-Marie. “Anything, any trouble, you can call on us.”

“Thanks,” says Anne-Marie curtly in her I-can-take-care-of-myself voice.

“This is like a pager,” says Madison to her. “You push this button. Can I clip it onto your—”

“Got it,” says Anne-Marie. “I’ll clip it on myself.”

“Then you put your bag through here, and you walk through here. What’s that in the bag? The sharp things?”

“Knitting needles,” says Anne-Marie. “For my knitting.”

Felix is taken aback—knitting and Anne-Marie don’t seem a fit—but Dylan and Madison smile indulgently: it’s a womanly occupation. “Ma’am, sorry, but those have to stay with us,” says Dylan.

“Oh for God’s sakes,” says Anne-Marie. “I’m going to knit someone to death?”

“Those needles could be used against you,” Madison says in a patient voice. “Anything sharp can. You’d be surprised, ma’am. There are dangerous men in there. You can pick up the bag on the way out.”

“Right,” says Anne-Marie. “Just don’t mess with my wool while I’m gone.” They grin at that, or maybe just at her, because evidently she delights them. Why not? thinks Felix. Despite her razor edge she’s a bright light in a dim space. She breaks up the monotones.

Felix steers her down the hallway of his dedicated wing, indicating the various empty rooms. “We’ve got the use of these, plus the two demonstration cells, for green rooms and backstage. And rehearsal space,” he adds.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll be needing one of those.

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