“Oh, Trevor! You’re not supposed to duck. You’re supposed to catch it, catch the energy! Have you never played this game? Why don’t we—”
“Miranda,” Grace says touching my shoulder, pulling me down to earth. “We want to get started on rehearsal, don’t we? Before it gets dark out here.”
Dark? I look around and realize the sun is already setting. A great ball of red, sinking fire. The sky is deep blue, the trees black. The students appear to be shivering violently now.
“Right. Right, of course. Of course we do. Grace, always keeping me grounded. Reminding me of the time, ticktock, ticktock! Am I right? Why don’t we go back inside to finish up? Since we’ve taken what we can from the sun, hmm?”
* * *
Back in the theater, I make Ellie and Trevor do the final scene again and again. Let’s do it again, shall we? Act Five, Scene Three. In which Helen returns from the dead. In which everyone who thought she was dead, killed off by grief, by the indignities she has thus far suffered at the hands of Bertram, at the hands of fate, is in for a very big fucking surprise. Because she was never dead, not really, of course not. “Were you, Helen?” I say gently, turning to Ellie.
Ellie shakes her head. “No, Professor.”
“That’s only what everyone thought, wasn’t it? Including stupid Bertram,” I say, waving a hand at Trevor. His pants are still wet from the fall in the slush. I hear his inaudible sigh.
“But they were all fools, obviously. You, Helen,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder, “are far too resilient for death. Aren’t you?”
Ellie smiles uncertainly. “Yes, Professor Fitch.”
Grace ahems in the audience. “Resilient? Try cunning.”
I ignore Grace. I continue, my hand on Ellie’s shoulder: “Helen reveals all she has endured to the French court, all the indignities she has suffered.”
“All her schemes and tricks,” Grace interjects loudly.
“All she has withstood,” I correct, “in order to survive. In order to navigate the cruel world in which she finds herself heartlessly thrown. She must reclaim what is merely, rightfully hers. Her husband. Her home. Her life! All she has suffered is laid before Bertram,” I say, looking meaningfully at Trevor. “And he is mystified—Trevor, look mystified. He is enchanted. He is won over. He agrees to love her dearly, ever dearly. He kisses her—Trevor, kiss her.”
“Kiss her?” Trevor repeats. He’s still just standing there a few feet from Ellie. Looking bewildered. Looking infuriating. Really, unintentionally a perfect Bertram.
“Yes, go on, please.”
He hesitates but only slightly. I watch him reach forward and peck her pathetically on the cheek. Ellie goes red.
“Not a peck, Trevor, a kiss. On the lips. She’s your wife back from the dead. She’s wearing your ring. She’s bearing your child.” With my hand on her back, I steer Ellie closer to his face. She stands there, literally shivering at her physical proximity to this idiot. She lowers her gaze to the floor.
“The very least you could do is kiss her on the lips, am I right? Again, please.”
I ask them to kiss again as I stand in the middle row center. As I stand in the back row. As I stand in the left and then the right wings. I want to see this moment from all angles. I want to see it from afar, I want to see it up close. I hop back onto the stage, to where Ellie and Trevor are crouched down, turned toward each other, their faces close as per my direction. His hands are gathered in her hands, her left hand bearing his ring （my old ring, which I lent them for the scene）。 I crouch down, the better to see their faces turned toward each other in this pivotal moment, in which all becomes well. Fall to your knees with the knowledge of it, that’s it, good. I fall to my knees too. All this woman has endured. All her pain. Her many trials by fire.
“How can you not be charmed? How can you not be won? You are. Of course you are.”
I place my hand on Trevor’s shoulder, and he shivers at my touch. I look at Trevor shivering now. With desire of course.
“You desired her all along,” I tell him. “You were blind up until this moment. You were a fool, an immature shit.”
“Professor,” Grace warns.
“But you look at her now,” I say, pointing to Ellie, laying my hand once more on her shoulder, which is now still, now steady.
“You look at this steadfast young woman who has loved you all along, who has been forced to live in the shadow, cast out. Now you look at her and at last you see. You see how she glows with a light all her own. And you can only marvel. You can only be bewitched.”