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“My lord, as I was sewing in my closet…”
I broke character with an unladylike snort of laughter. “I’m sorry, but sewing in the closet?”
“Closet merely means room,” Martin said with a mild smile.
“I know, but it just sounds so…”
“Archaic?”
“Yes,” I said. “I picture her locked away in an actual closet with hardly any light, sewing like a dutiful little woman. I’m just not feeling it. Hamlet came to visit her and she’s explaining what happened? Why not just show what happened?”
“Without dialogue?” Martin shot me a grin. “Shakespeare doesn’t ever not use words. Words are kind of his thing.”
I pursed my lips in a smile.
“Ophelia is explaining how Hamlet scared her, but Polonius takes it as a sign that Hamlet’s so in love with his daughter, he’s losing his mind.”
My cheeks flamed. “Okay, well, I’m having a hard time with this. Finding the emotion. The pretty words make it hard to get into that mindset, you know?”
Ugh, actor fail.
Getting into Ophelia’s mindset was exactly my job, but Martin smiled patiently.
“Why don’t we try making it real?” he asked. “Perhaps if we acted it out first, the lines would make more sense when you describe them to Polonius. You’ll have a physical memory to draw from.”
“Anything to help.”
He scanned the theater and found Isaac running lines with Mel Thompson, who played Horatio.
“Isaac,” Martin called. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”
My heart started pounding in my chest as Isaac came up the stage steps. Or came anywhere near me, I suddenly realized.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“In this scene, Ophelia is describing to yours truly how Hamlet barged into her room with his clothes a mess, acting strange enough to frighten her.”
Isaac nodded. “Okay.”
“Willow’s having trouble finding her motivation. So why don’t we do this?” Martin turned to me. “Willow, I’ll read your lines. Isaac, you act them out. It’ll give Willow an idea of the severity of the situation.”
Isaac looked at me as he answered, “If you think it would help?”
I nodded. “I want to get this right.”
He looked reluctant, but we took our spots, me sitting in a chair pretending to sew.
“Very well,” Martin said. “Hamlet has flown into your room, looking pale and disheveled, his knees knocking, et cetera.”
Isaac took one step and somehow made it seem he’d rushed onto the stage. His eyes were wild in his bruised face. His breath came in short hard gasps, his fists clenching and unclenching.
As Martin read Ophelia’s description of Hamlet’s behavior, Isaac performed them.
He flew at me and grabbed my wrist, hard, hauling me out of the chair. I barely found my feet when he pushed me away, holding me at arms’ length but his fingers still dug into my wrist. The wild intensity of his gaze flew over my face again and again, as if he were trying to memorize me. My heart began to pound, this time with a hard, panicked clanging that made me want to tear my arm out of his grasp. He moved close to me, bent his head toward mine, his nose in my hair, inhaling me. Then he exhaled and let it out on a soft groan of regret as he let me go.
I pulled my wrist to my thudding chest. Isaac backed away, his eyes locked on mine. He turned and walked off stage, all the while watching me over his shoulder, heedless of anything in his way. He melted into the curtains and I stared after, trembling, my legs weak.
Martin dropped the script to the floor, jerking my wild gaze to him. He was Polonius now, and he grabbed me by the shoulders, seizing the moment while I was still trapped in it.
