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But—”
    “But—?”
    “I’m too young. I’m not experienced enough.”
    “You’re still young to the craft, it’s true, but you’re good enough, and you have more than enough room to grow. You have to make the leap. Otherwise you’ll never be anything but a supporting player. Is that what you want?”
    She dropped her eyes away from his gaze, unwilling to let him see the extent of the sheer driven ambition in them. “No. You know it isn’t.”
    “That’s why you must take advantage when the opportunity presents itself.”
    “But it just seems—unethical, somehow.”
    “This isn’t politics, Diana, it’s art.”
    “Does that mean that simple standards of human decency don’t count for us, because we’re artists? That we’re beyond ethical considerations because art is a higher form of discourse? I don’t think so. Quite the reverse, I’d say.”
    He laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that in politics there may be times when it’s expedient to leave someone in power who’s become incompetent, because in a web like that, there are ways to circumvent the damage that person might do. But not on stage. Her work is suffering.”
    It was true. Anahita’s work was suffering. Diana felt it impolite, as a junior member, to agree with Gwyn.
    Gwyn added, “And that impacts on all of our work.”
    “But to be fair, Gwyn, it’s not just her. We’re all suffering. I never imagined what a catastrophe it would be to lose an actor like this. Not to mention what a catastrophe it must be for Hyacinth, if he’s even still alive.”
    “I can’t imagine anyone less suited to wilderness survival than Hyacinth. But he made the choice. Here, I’ve got this all in order now.”
    While they raised the tent, Owen came by. “Diana.” He blinked owlishly at her as she struggled to lift the canvas up over the pole. “You’ll be taking over the leading roles starting tonight. We’ll have our first performance with you in that capacity as soon as the army halts for longer than a single night.”
    If Diana had not been so well-trained, she would have let the entire edifice, balanced precariously between her and Gwyn, collapse on top of her. “Of course, Owen,” she said, her voice muffled by fabric. She wanted to ask about Anahita, but felt it impolite to do so. It might seem too much like crowing.
    “How is Anahita?” Gwyn asked.
    “Doctor says she has an ulcer, and some other unspecified complaints. She’s agreed to take supporting roles until her health is better.”
    “She agreed to it?” Gwyn asked.
    Owen wore his vague look. “She understands professional necessity. Rehearsal in thirty minutes, then, and I’ll need extra time with you afterward, Diana.” He left.
    “I wish I’d been able to eavesdrop on that conversation,” said Gwyn. “I wonder what he threatened her with? Hyacinth’s fate?”
    “Owen wouldn’t threaten anyone—” Diana trailed off, seeing that Gwyn was laughing at her.
    “Di, the man is as ruthless as Bakhtiian when it comes to his domain. You’re being sentimental.”
    “Goddess,” she swore. “The leading roles.” She fell silent. He honored her silence, and they finished setting up the tent without another word.
    That evening, at their rehearsal on the flat square of ground in between the company tents—there not being time enough to set up the platform and screens—they walked through King Lear, which necessitated few changes except those Ginny wrote in as they worked. Ginny had already recast the play so that Seshat played Lear as an etsana, rather than Dejhuti playing him as the old king. Ginny had as well conflated the parts of the half brothers Edgar and Edmund with those of Goneril’s and Regan’s husbands. Diana played both Cordelia and the Fool. For whatever reason, rehearsal went well; Owen was pleased. For the first time since Hyacinth’s disappearance, the mood in camp felt optimistic.
    Thirty days after Hyacinth’s disappearance, which