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 Page B

her as peculiar. Usually, when cast members gathered for the first time, a certain excitement ran through them like a humming electric current, but here, a somber, almost funereal atmosphere pervaded the chamber. Director Vernard Broach, a portly, swarthy man with dyed black, slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache, spoke so softly she could barely make out his instructions.
    “The audience is there ,” he said, pointing to the farthest wall of the long, deeply shadowed rehearsal room. “We do not concern ourselves with them. You are in the city of Hastur on the Lake of Hali.” He gave the group his most theatrical scowl, pointed to the opposite corner of the room, and said, “The King in Yellow lives ther e . We do not look there, we do not speak of there, we do not go there. Now, look at your scripts, look at them. We have Queen Cassilda and her daughter, Camilla. Who is Camilla, where are you?”
    “Here.” An attractive young black woman raised her hand and then pointed to herself. “Jayda Rivera.”
    “That doesn’t matter,” Broach said. “Read, will you?”
    Jayda Rivera gave him a questioning look, and Broach replied by staring at her with impatient eyes and stamping one foot.
    Jayda glanced at Kathryn and drew a steadying breath. “‘Forgive my bluntness, my queen, but you have been looking for Carcosa. Again.’”
    “‘The Hyades have not yet risen, thus Carcosa may not appear. I am simply watching the Lake of Hali swallowing the suns. Again.’” Kathryn’s gaze at Jayda was haughty, but her voice carried a wistful note. She felt Broach’s eyes warm with approval.
    “‘If only the lake would swallow our enemy,’” Jayda said, her voice gaining assurance as she began to immerse herself in her part. “‘But, Mother, does it not lie within your power to destroy Alar?’”
    “‘It does not, and you know this.’” She drew herself up and in a commanding voice said, “‘Listen well, daughter. Do not mock me, for I still have power in Hastur, and I would as soon you never live to succeed me.’”
    Jayda’s eyes widened in pure, authentic fear. “‘I do not mock, my queen. You withhold powerful secrets. I desire only to learn.’”
    “‘I should first share them with agents of Alar.’”
    The ensuing silence felt so deep that Kathryn swallowed hard to make sure she could still hear. From the direction that Broach had indicated lay the purview of the King in Yellow, a movement caught her eye. Do not look there.
    She looked. Just for a second.
    A tiny figure, standing in the shadows, barely visible. A child .
    A sudden rhythmic clattering drew her attention back to director Broach. The stout man was doing a weird little two-step dance to himself, a blissful grin broadening his already broad face. The sounds of his feet tapping on the floor were soon joined in syncopated rhythm by another set of echoing, tap-tapping footsteps.
    In the room’s far shadows, the child was dancing as well.

    Three weeks later: lunch at Brodjian’s Café with Jayda, who, it turned out, worked by day in a nearby office.
    “I don’t like those damned masks,” Jayda said, giving her chicken salad wrap a suspicious glance. “They’re creepy and uncomfortable.”
    “Creepier on some than others.”
    Jayda smiled and nodded, then looked back at her lunch. “I asked for no walnuts. Screw it, they won’t kill me. You think this play has a chance of taking off?”
    Kathryn’s turkey and brie croissant must have sat on the counter overnight. It was not thrilling. She shrugged. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever been in. I tell you, if I were in the audience, I don’t know I’d sit through it — at least as much of it as we can perform.”
    “Please! What are we going to do at the end? Stand there like dummies as the curtain falls? And who’s that little girl? One of the cast members’ who can’t find a babysitter?”
    “Little girl?” For a second, she drew a blank. “Oh, wait. I