Page 6 of Potion Sickness

“Of course they do.” She doesn’t miss a step. “The curse is wonderful copy. Four centuries of theatrical tradition alive and well in a Vermont gymnasium.”

“I’d suggest you hold off on publishing anything about the wiring until after we close,” Dana says. “Just in case the fire marshal happens to read the magazine.”

“Come, let me show you everything,” Vivian says. “Have you seen the cauldron? Dana found the cauldron at an estate sale in Rutland. It’s a genuine antique sap kettle. It has provenance.”

The tour takes approximately eleven minutes and covers the cauldron, the costume rack, the fog machine, and the light board, which is being operated by a fifteen-year-old named Cody. Vivian calls him ‘our technical director.’ She then shows me the lobby, where a card table has been dressed with a cloth and a cash box and a sign that reads:

TICKETS: $8

STUDENTS AND SENIORS: $5

CHILDREN WHO SIIT STILL: FREE

The cast trickles in through the lobby doors. I know most of them by face if not by name, which is a permanent condition of living in a town this size. Ms. Pelham, the one who lost her wig on the exit sign, waves at me with a thermos. Jackie Chambers from the hardware store, who’s playing Banquo, comes in still wearing her shop apron. Behind them, in athleisure the color of orange sherbet, carrying a yoga mat for reasons that will presumably soon reveal themselves, is Moonbeam.

“Mari!” Moonbeam hugs me. Moonbeam hugs everyone. I’ve stopped fighting it.

“You’re covering the play! That’s perfect. The energy in this building is so” —she makes a shape with her hands like she’s holding a cantaloupe— “thick right now. You’ll feel it. Are you sensitive to buildings?”

“Only when they’re rebelling against me,” I say, silently grateful that the wards protecting Wardwell Manor have been holding up without incident lately.

“That’s more common than you would think,” she says, unrolling the mat in the aisle before folding herself onto it.

Moonbeam is First Witch, a casting Englebert described, in private, as ‘containment.’ Second Witch is Dorcas Logan from the bakery, who arrives with a pink box of baked goods.

“Day-olds,” she announces to the room and sets the box on the props table next to the corn syrup blood. “Scones, mostly. The lemon ones go first, so govern yourselves.” She sees me and my notebook and points a flour-dusted finger. “The Second Witch keeps this company alive. You can print that.”

“Someone’s gotta, since Viv keeps scheduling rehearsals through dinner,” Dana pipes in as she rushes by, wheeling some sort of lighting contraption behind her.

Third Witch is Tiffany Reagan.

She’s also stationed at the props table, absentmindedly spinning Lady Macbeth’s crown — a thin gold band Hannah cut from sheet brass — in her hands.

“Mari Wardwell.” She sets the crown down on its stand. “I heard they’d let the press in.”

“Tiffany. Hi.”

“That’s great about the magazine thing. Good for you. It’s smart, honestly, pivoting to” —she pauses and gestures vaguely around the room— “this, you know? When the real journalism didn’t work out, I mean.”

I choose to ignore her jab. I’ve gotten very good at that. After all, I’ve been practicing since middle school.

“How’s the salon?” I ask.

“Booked solid.” She angles herself toward me, inching a little closer. “You don’t want to hear about that, though. You’re not here for small talk. I know you’re looking for a scoop. And you know, some of us are doing two jobs around here. If you’re going to interview anybody, it should be me. I’m one of the Witches and I’m understudy for Lady M, and frankly, it’s a harder job. Harder than the main role, I mean. I’ve had to learn my part and her part, all on my own time, with no coaching. I don’t get any private tutoring from the cat.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Nobody thinks about the understudy until the night the lead can’t go on, and then everyone thinks about the understudy.” She smiles at me through perfect lipstick. “And you never know, do you? With this play. Things happen to people in this play.”

“Are you saying something is going to happen to Pru?”

“Well, I’m not a psychic, Mari. That’s your family.” The smile holds. “I’m just saying Prudence hasn’t been on a stage since like, the twentieth century. It’s a very demanding role and some people tend to fold under pressure. Others of us have been doing four heads of highlights a day for twenty years without ever missing a beat.”

Pru arrives at ten of seven, still in her blazer, carrying her script.

“He’s not here yet,” she says. “Thank god.”

“Who?”