Wishing in the Wings by Mindy Klasky

else could be. There’d been something about Kira’s tone of voice, something that told me our implacable stage manager spoke from experience, from first-hand knowledge of the never-ending Battle of the Bulge. Kira had smiled as she spoke, though, and reminded all of us that we were lucky—the costumes were normal, everyday street clothes. Nothing hard to find. Nothing that required major tailoring.
    Ordinary street clothes. Like the ones that were now locked inside my inaccessible apartment.
    The original Lauren and I were about the same size. My available wardrobe had just increased by leaps and bounds. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
    “And there’s one more thing.” Kira reached into her magical box of tricks, extracting a plain blue pillowcase that was bunched up around something. She deposited it on my desk, generating a faint metallic clink.
    “What’s that?” I asked. I reached toward it, but her hands lingered on the wrinkled cloth.
    “Something I found a couple of years ago. Before I got that dream job, back in Minneapolis.” She smiled, a bit wistfully. “Use it in good health,” she said, meeting my gaze with an intensity that was unnerving. Her naturally dark eyes were even more shadowed in my dim office lighting, and for just a moment, I wasn’t sure if she was happy to give me her gift, or if it somehow made her sad.
    “Kira?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
    She shook herself a little, seeming to wake from a dream. “I’m fine.” And then she smiled at me—a full, open smile, as if we’d spent the morning talking about ponies and rainbows and other perfectly splendid diversions. “I’m fine. And you will be, too.”
    Before I could say anything, she hurried out of my office.
    I only hesitated a moment before grabbing the pillowcase. Kira had been some sort of guardian angel, dropping off clothes. I couldn’t imagine what else she might have left behind, what else would make my newly disgraced status more bearable.
    I certainly never thought that she’d give me a brass lantern.
    A classic brass lantern, like an oil lamp, one that would have been useful if the Mercer ever decided to stage a night of Turkish one-acts, or Scheherazade, or Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
    Something about the metal handle whispered to my hand, as if it hid a magnetic charge and I was made of iron. The spout swooped up gracefully, with a delicate flair that spoke of master craftsmanship. Nevertheless, the brass was tarnished—it looked like the lamp had spent decades buried in the back of some prop closet in a theater very far away from New York City.
    I grasped its perfect handle in my left hand and used my right fingers to rub hard at the brass body, trying to clear away some of the dark residue. As my flesh made contact with the metal, though, an electric shock jolted up my arm, burning, jangling with fiery pain. Surprised, I cried out and dropped the lamp.
    My fingers tingled viciously, as if I’d tried to grab hold of an electric fence. I shook my hand, snapping my wrist, trying to ease the pain. My heart pounded, and for one insane second, I wondered if Kira had been sent by the board, told to deliver a final blow, a message I couldn’t refuse, a brutal execution so that they’d never need to deal with my sorry self ever again.
    That was absurd, though. Ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly stupid.
    I forced myself to take a steadying breath, to move past the pain that had flash-dried the tears in my eyes. And then I was able to see the fog pouring out of the brass lamp’s spout.
    Honest to God fog, swirling around me like I’d been transported to some London street. It poured out of the lamp, a cloud of tiny jewels, brilliant even in my dim office—cobalt and emerald, ruby and topaz, glinting like one of those Star Trek transporters gone berserk.
    I blinked, and the mist disappeared.
    In its place stood a woman—a tall, blonde woman, clad in a perfect navy suit. Her hair was expertly bobbed; her