a ring. Liz, go get some tin foil. Twist it up and make two rings out of it.”
“And where am I going to get this tin foil from, pray tell?” Liz says. “We can postpone the wedding till tomorrow, and I’ll try to get some.”
“No,” Mia says. “Look at them out there. They need it now. And what if there won’t be a tomorrow? Look what happened to our plans for the Savoy.”
“We’ll go to the Savoy,” Julian says. “Now we must go. Where else are we going to celebrate our fake wedding? And also—I have the rings.” He slips the rawhide rope off his neck. They gather around him like birds.
“What’s that, Jules?” Mia asks, pointing to the crystal quartz.
“Is that a diamond?” says Duncan. “Because if it is, we could stay at the Savoy until the war is over.”
“It’s not a diamond,” replies Julian.
“What’s the red thing tied up?”
Julian unlaces the leather strings, unfurls the beret, smooths it out, shows them.
“It’s a beret!” Liz exclaims. “Mia, look at that. Not only does Julian have a ring for you, but he’s got a spiffy head covering as well. It’s not a veil, and it’s red, but it’ll do.”
Mia puts it on her head. It’s dim in the tunnel; the kerosene lamps don’t give off enough light to see the old faded blood stains.
There’s hearty approval of the beret, of the gold bands, of Julian in general.
“Where did you get the rings?” Duncan asks with envy.
“Are they real gold?” Nick asks and before Julian can answer follows up with “Fuck off!”
“I had a gold coin melted down into two rings,” Julian says.
“Are these the coins you keep talking about?” says Mia, tilting her red-beret-clad head. “I really thought you were joking.” She stares at him uncertainly. “Were you married before, Jules? Is this not your first fake wedding?”
“Don’t worry.” Julian smiles into her questioning, fascinated face, leans over and kisses her cheek. “I came close to a fake wedding once. Real close. Never quite got there.”
“You won’t get there tonight either,” Frankie says, suddenly a stickler for propriety. “You haven’t asked Mia to marry you.”
“Calm down. He’s already asked me,” Mia says. “On stage. When I was Cecily, and he was Algernon. But if you insist, he can ask me again tonight. Right, Jules?”
“Whatever you want, Mia.”
She slips the smaller ring over her finger. “It fits perfectly,” she says with amazement.
“What a shock,” says Liz.
“Go us, right?” says Julian.
“Go us,” echoes Mia.
“Somebody help Jules with his tie. Somebody shine his boots. Hurry up. The gallery is getting restless. Who can sing ‘Ave Maria’? For me.” Mia smiles. “Because I’m Maria.”
“I can,” Shona says timidly.
“You can sing?”
“A little. Driving is not the only thing I do.”
“Oh, yeah?” Duncan says, instantly towering over her, his grin wide. “What else do you do, darling, besides sing and drive?”
Shona slaps his chest. Not, get away from me, Duncan, but, aren’t you so funny, Duncan.
Liz remembers they have no flowers.
“Damn it,” Duncan says. “What kind of a fake wedding would it be without flowers?”
“Girls, go find a towel,” Julian says, “white preferably. Pleat it loosely on top and tie it at the bottom so it looks like a bouquet.”
Shona and Liz run off, find a towel, follow Julian’s instructions. It looks pretty good.
Already on the stage, Peter Roberts motions for Julian to stand with him as they wait for Mia. The door wobbles. They shift their positions.
“The stage is not fixed,” Peter Roberts says. “It’s alive like us, unstable like us. It buckles and bends under the weight of our bodies.”
Julian nods. “It changes its shape under the movement of our feet. And its new form in turn affects and alters our own motion.”
With a nod and a smile, they shake hands.
It begins.
“Dearly beloved,” says Peter Roberts, facing the audience. “We are gathered here for your evening’s entertainment to act out for you the love story of Ghost Bride and Johnny Blaze, ending in their matrimony which they do not enter into lightly or wantonly but reverently, with hope and with purpose.”
“Ending in their matrimony or their weddin’ night?” someone from the back yells, not Duncan. “Now that would be a show.”
“Lords and Commoners of England!” Robbie sternly rejoins. “In the words of John Milton, consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are governors. Behave yourselves. You want that kind of play, wait for the Windmill to reopen. Is everyone ready? Birdie, hit it.”
Shona sings Schubert’s Ave Mariiiia. To everyone’s astonishment,