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just prevented Pip from quite getting hold of his. The troupe performed this bit of jugglery nimbly, especially the Pips (who had the difficult job of appearing to catch at the oranges without actually disrupting their trajectories) but most of the other humor somehow didn’t work. It was too broad, too Dickensian, not Renswickian enough. Ruth would have to learn to be less respectful of her co-librettist, Juliet decided. After reaching this insight, she considered herself at liberty to turn her thoughts to her own problems (books did not write themselves, she reminded herself sternly), and so she spent the rest of the hour mulling over how Lady Porter could engineer a marriage between her niece and the Earl of Suffield.
    She had no opportunity to share her thoughts with Ruth during the next union-required break, for the company publicist—a fanatically groomed woman in her middle fifties—sailed into the studio the instant Ruth dismissed the dancers and carried the choreographer off, peppering her even as they went with questions about an imminent press release on Great Ex. When Juliet turned around, she found Hart Hayden standing by her chair, an unexpectedly warm smile on his handsome, rather ascetic face. Along with the other principals, he had had little to do in the last hour, as Ruth focused on the corps and soloists, so his breathing was relaxed and he did not seem very tired. Looking at him now, Juliet could see that his complexion was badly pocked, no doubt by acne in his teens.
    Instinctively, she stood.
    â€œNo, don’t,” he said. She ignored him, discovering as she did so that she stood a disconcerting two or three inches taller than he. “I hope you don’t mind my introducing myself.”
    He did so. Juliet reciprocated.
    â€œI couldn’t help wondering who you were,” Hayden continued. His voice was surprisingly resonant and deep, his accent slow and Southern. “People are taking bets, you know. Some of the dancers think you’re on the board, some that you’re a reporter doing a story on the company. And some say you’re the lighting designer.”
    There was something inviting in his manner that prompted Juliet to ask, “And what’s your theory?”
    Hayden grinned and leaned over—and up—to speak into her ear. “Oh, I think you’re Ruth’s lover.”
    Juliet was too startled to answer at once. To the best of her knowledge, at least, Ruth was not and never had been gay. Nor was she.
    â€œWell, it’s a theory, anyway,” she said at last.
    â€œObviously a wrong one,” he observed contritely, stepping back. “Who are you?”
    Juliet gave her credentials.
    â€œOh, really? Do you have a pen name?”
    â€œAngelica Kestrel-Haven,” said Juliet, experiencing the quiver of silliness the admission always gave her.
    She was relieved when Hayden replied admiringly, “Good choice. I was born George Washington.”
    Juliet laughed before she could stop herself. “Oh, dear,” she said.
    For a minute or so, they stood in companionable silence, gazing around the room. The studio was once more full of dancers blowing their noses. Several of the women stood stretching their thigh muscles, one leg bent and held by the foot behind them, like cranes. Kirsten Ahlswede sat near the front mirror, dexterously sewing a ribbon onto a pink pointe shoe, her long, slim body curled, her shiny blond head bent, her cold, beautiful, sharply cut features completely blank. Her partner, Anton Mohr, had resumed his supine position and was once more pumping his legs in the air with fierce concentration, a plastic bottle of Coke by his side.
    â€œWhat is he doing?” asked Juliet, indicating Mohr with a discreet thrust of her chin.
    â€œStrengthening his abs. He hurt his back a few months ago,” Hayden said. “A lot of dancers rely on their backs too much and let their abs get weak. Then when