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descriptions.”
    “Will do,” Fred said, and hung up.
    Victoria flopped back in bed and allowed herself three minutes of enjoyment before she heaved herself out of bed and made preparations to get back to the city.
     
She made it to the theater by midafternoon, a miracle in itself. She’d looked in the coffee shop up the street and hadn’t seen Gerard there mainlining mocha lattes, so it was a safe bet Fred had straightened him out. She didn’t dare hope Gerard had returned to finish the packing. She sighed, then walked into Tempest in a Teapot and greeted the owner, Moonbat Murphy.
    Moon’s smile was strained.
    Victoria paused at the counter. “What’s wrong? You haven’t been seeing spooks in the basement, too, have you?”
    Moon wouldn’t meet her eyes. “No, Vic.” Then she busied herself scooping tea out of recycled glass containers and putting it into hemp sachets.
    Victoria considered. Was Moon upset because Victoria wasn’t going to be doing shows upstairs over the summer? Was she worried about the potential fallout for her business? Was she upset over a bad batch of chickweed?
    Victoria discounted most of those reasons. The stage upstairs had been rented to some yoga outfit for the summer and Victoria had already paid rent on the prop room through the end of the year, plus she had already reserved the upstairs for her fall season. They’d been doing the same drill for five years now. If Moon had been unhappy with that, surely she would have lit a little incense and gathered her courage for a direct complaint.
    Victoria almost paused to ask more pointed questions, then decided it was probably more than she wanted to know at the moment, so she shrugged to herself, then made her way through the shop, back through the kitchen, and down the stairs to the cellar.
    Then she came to a halt in front of the prop room door. Taped there was a note. Victoria took it and unfolded it. Handmade paper, apparently. But somehow, that just didn’t improve the message.
     
Vic,
    Sorry, but we can’t do your theater upstairs anymore. The guy who’s renting the stage this summer offered to buy Tempest in a Teapot and open a yoga studio upstairs forever. Just Say Yes to the right price, right? I knew you’d understand.
    Moon
     
P.S. Can you get your stuff out by Monday? Mr. Yoga says your costumes throw off his chi.
     
Victoria looked at the note. No, she gaped at the note. No wonder the Bat hadn’t wanted to look her in the eye. Victoria could hardly believe it. Moon was no doubt planning a very long stay on a tropical island, where she could drink green tea and practice Downward-Facing Dog in peace.
    Victoria wanted to wrap her and her newly acquired fistfuls of cash in her damned yoga mat and drop her in the Hudson.
    Well, maybe it was for the best. Maybe the show would be such a hit in England, she would be asked to stay and set up shop there. Shakespeare had made it in London; why couldn’t she? She’d think about that later, when she’d finished packing.
    If she thought about it now, she might be tempted to do someone bodily harm.
    She shoved the note into her bag, then took her key and opened up the prop room. She looked around for a minute, then indulged in a few less-than-ladylike comments about costume designers in general and Gerard in particular. There was nothing in the room in front of her besides Hamlet costumes and props, all of which she would have to pack herself, damn it, anyway. Where were the manly men when she needed them?
    She rolled up her sleeves and looked on the bright side as she got to work. At least there wasn’t really all that much to pack. Most of her theater gear was in storage. It could have been a lot worse. She could have been looking for members of her crew willing to come down on their last weekend of freedom to help her pack. She could just imagine the complaints—
    The costumes rustled.
    Victoria looked up from where she knelt in front of a box, packing shoes. She frowned.