Miss Chamuel leaves her hat in the empty coat check, walks down the mezzanine, and drives her sword into the wall below the stage.
The proscenium wakes, roars, smashes at her with coils of velvet curtain; but Miss Chamuel is quick and sharp. She dodges and lops. Curtains shred. The proscenium howls in pain.
“Recognize my key,” says Miss Chamuel, brandishing, “and I’ll stop.”
“Fiddlesticks,” it grumbles, and yawns wide.
“Thank you,” says Miss Chamuel, who is used to setting an example of politeness. She wipes the blade on the proscenium’s hardwood tongue. She walks into its mouth, and the dark.