Narrator 1: Up the winding road to Stationary Hill, Lark guns her weird motorcycle.

[Weird motorcycle zooms by. Lark’s theme begins to play.]

Narrator 1: (continued) She follows the spine of the hill, motoring upwards, clouds of dust filling the air behind her. Her jaw is tense. Her mouth is set in a grim line. Her gaze is stony.

Narrator 3: There’s nothing unusual about THAT, of course; even on a hypothetical GOOD day, this IS Lark we’re talking about. But she’s feeling rather unusually dour right about now.

Narrator 2: A dark purpose brings her into town tonight. One of the roughest gigs she’s ever had. She would never even consider it if Sherman wasn’t a friend!

Narrator 1: It’s not the first time she’s had to do something so dark as this. But it never gets any easier. This is one of the few jobs that really gets under her skin these days. Makes her jumpy. Keeps her guessing.

Narrator 2: She’s here… to BABYSIT.

[Theme music.]

Narrator 1: There’s a big show at the Black Candle tonight. There’s a line out the door. The black curtain of Fold is incoming; it’ll be here shortly. Probably within the hour. And out in the road outside the Cabaret, Lark is parked on her motorcycle. Tzila is with her. Lark is setting up the sidecar. Sherman is with his daughter. Sherman and Lark chat briefly.

Narrator 2: Tzila starts clambering excitedly into the sidecar even before it’s entirely hitched up. She’s ready to go. She’s excited. She loves this.

Narrator 1: (as Sherman Guthrie) “Thanks again,” Sherman says. “She’s a good girl. She’ll take care of herself.

Narrator 2: Lark asks: “When’s the show over?”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “It should be a little after, uh, mid-Fold.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman, cont’d) “But you can bring her back a little earlier if it’s… if you don’t want to hang onto her too long.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “That depends on HER. I’ll keep her outta trouble.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “You gonna have fun, Tzila?”

Narrator 2: (Tzila) “Yeah!”

Narrator 3: (Tzila, cont’d) “And I KNOW what boobs are, dad.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Well, that’s not why I’m sending you away. I just… I gotta pay attention to all these other people tonight.”

Narrator 2: (Tzila) “I don’t wanna see the stupid show anyway. Let’s go, Lark!”

Narrator 3: (Tzila, cont’d) “What are we gonna do? OH! I wanna work on the motorcycle!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Be quiet.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Alright, you guys seem fine. Okay, uh… I gotta go.” People are gathering. The lights inside the Cabaret are coming on one by one.

Narrator 2: The Black Candle is lit up brightly—as brightly as is safe, of course—pulsating erratically to keep the tearrors at bay.

Narrator 1: The Fold draws ever closer, pooling towards town across the desert landscape. [As Sherman:] “Alright, you gotta go, otherwise it’s gonna get dark real fast.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” And the motorcycle roars to life and they’re off.

Narrator 1: Many people in the streets watch it go. It IS one of the wackier Bocular contraptions that comes and goes from town on a regular basis.

Narrator 2: And Sherman heads back inside.

[Black Candle Cabaret interior: murmuring, hushed crowds, dining]

Narrator 2: (continued) There’s already an enormous queue at the bar. He’s not the only bartender here tonight, but all hands are needed.

Narrator 3: He starts slingin’ cocktails!

Narrator 1: The place is in full swing; the orders are flying!

Narrator 3: As the crowd surges in, they always make a pit stop at the bar before entering into the rear theater space—where the main show will be taking place tonight at the Black Candle.

Narrator 1: Music is already resonating through the cabaret space. Waiters are circulating. Tables are filling. The tapestries are being pulled back to admit the crowd. Saskia is walking down the central avenue of the space now, her two black dogs in tow. (She brings them in from home on special occasions. They are the de facto mascots of the cabaret.)

Narrator 2: They are incredibly striking, enormous, statuesque things—stationed on either side of her almost like bodyguards.

Narrator 1: They’re menacing… but friendly enough. They accept a pat on the head here or there stoically.

Narrator 2: As long as Saskia doesn’t give off any vibes to them. (That’s probably how she communicates with her dogs: vibes!)

Narrator 3: Her lilting gaze casts about the cabaret from recently-poured cocktails to the thick-hung tapestries dotting the space around. Most of the crowd are entering into the theater at this point, leaving the bar fairly empty as the show is about to begin.

Narrator 1: A few last cocktails are slung. Mr. Concord makes an appearance this evening! He’s in a VERY good mood for some reason.

Narrator 2: He buys another round for everyone within earshot.

Narrator 3: And Sherman obliges.

Narrator 2: [Concord] tries to crawl on top of the piano. Is shooed off. Doesn’t seem to mind.

Narrator 1: Mr. Stex is here. A few others from around town. Fuze even makes an appearance, crawling in to the back of the room. He’s not really interested in the show. He rarely cares for the debaucherous spectacle on the other side of the bar.

Narrator 2: He’s not a hot-blooded young man anymore!

Narrator 1: No, he’s waiting for things to cool down so he can have a quiet cocktail at the bar while all the tomfoolery is going on in the back. Patrons pour through. The maitre d’ is whisking people left and right. Mr. Weepe passes by, carrying his papers—winding up the stairs behind the bar, heading up to the overlook balcony to take in the show. [As Moc Weepe:] “Have a good night tonight, Sherman! Besta luck. Catchya later.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “I’M not performing, sir.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well you sure as hell earning your tips somehow, my good man! Alright!” Mr. Weepe casts him an arch glance, oiling his way up the stairs.

Narrator 2: Saskia slides onto an empty stool at the bar.

Narrator 3: The dogs flank her, seated on either side. (Not in the stools.)

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Are you going back there tonight?” Sherman says, tipping his head in the direction of the theater in the back. “You have anything onstage?”

Narrator 2: (as Saskia) “Oh, no, I won’t be performing tonight.”

Narrator 1: A few people are passing the bar, saying a few words, waving hellos—good-evenings—to Saskia. She nods to them. Sherman is idly mixing a couple more drink orders here and there. But the music is spooling up in the back. Most of tonight’s patrons are already ensconced in the theater. The show is getting started. A few words are heard (muffled here from inside the bar), booming from on high as Mr. Weepe takes a mic up on the balcony and says a few words, greeting everyone, introducing the evening’s performers.

Narrator 2: There’s applause. Roars of laughter. A full, resonant hubbub of conversation.

Narrator 1: It’s nearly a full house tonight. There is a good show lined up for the evening, and the bar—for now—is quiet. Everyone has their drink. Everyone will be back at intermission.

Narrator 2: Saskia leans one elbow on the bar and idly twirls her abacus on one finger. [As Saskia:] “Actually, I was hoping to have the opportunity to chat with you a bit tonight, Sherman.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Well, now’s as good a time as any. Pretty low-key for the moment.” The other bartender moves over to the far end of the bar, affording them a little privacy. He is nothing if not observant and socially-attuned—qualities any good bartender should possess.

Narrator 2: She doesn’t look at him, but gazes past him to some of the gleaming bottles on the wall behind him. [Saskia:] “How are things going? It’s been a year.”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Pretty well. Thanks.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I never hear you complain. You’re just working. Day in, day out.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Yeah, nothing to complain about, really. Things are… things are good.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Well, listen. I’ve been thinking. I’m… going to reduce your hours, Sherman.”

Narrator 1: He…

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Now…”

Narrator 1: …looks up from the bar…

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Before you say anything, I want you to know this isn’t any kind of demotion. On the contrary, I’m trying to do a favor for you.”

Narrator 1: The other bartender is decidedly not paying any attention at all.

Narrator 2: Oh, no, NOT interested in this conversation one bit.

Narrator 1: The bar is quiet. Music resonates dully from the theater.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I think you’re working too much. The only free time you have to spend with your daughter is when she’s here… which is fine, by the way. That’s perfectly allowable. You know I don’t mind at all, but…”

Narrator 3: (Saskia, cont’d) “…a child needs her parents. Parent, in this case.”

Narrator 1: A few late stragglers are making their way to the bar. The second bartender intercepts them, drawing their attention away from Saskia and Sherman.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I just want to ensure that you have all the time you need to spend with your daughter. And… of course it’s your business who you choose as her caretaker when you’re unable to spend time with her, but… I must admit to some concern… in your particular selection.”

Narrator 1: Sherman… regards her.

Narrator 2: She, surprisingly, is looking straight back at him.

Narrator 1: He is taken aback. Making direct eye contact with Saskia is a rare thing.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “I… uh… appreciate your concern, Saskia. But… I trust Lark with Tzila’s life.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “On what basis, may I ask?”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Because TZILA trusts her.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “So you let your 12-year-old make your decisions?”

Narrator 1: Sherman takes a deep breath.

Narrator 2: The side of her mouth quirks slightly upward, softening the comment somewhat. But her eyes are still serious.

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “I’ve asked Tzila about Lark. It was Tzila’s choice… Tzila LIKES Lark.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Tzila likes Lark.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “I, uh… I like Lark well enough. She—she’s an odd bird, I know, but…”

Narrator 2: He’s disconcerted by Saskia’s steady gaze.

Narrator 1: Ugh, god, this just sounds like garbage coming out of his mouth. She’s not gonna buy any of this anyway.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I don’t mean to put you on the spot. Well… not too much. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

Narrator 1: He feels like a fucking idiot right now. Maybe he IS a fucking idiot! He thinks maybe he should tell her he’s a fucking idiot.

Narrator 3: But before he can…

Narrator 1: He decides he COULD start by actually just telling her the TRUTH. She’s still watching him. He leans in a little bit closer over the bar. The other bartender down at the other end is a consummate professional, seamlessly attracting the attention of the other few patrons still gathered in this part of the cabaret. [Sherman:] “Saskia, this isn’t just a gut feeling,” he says. “I’ve… gotten to know Lark. Rather well.” Saskia’s eyebrows go up slightly but distinctively .

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Is that so?” she asks.

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Tzila doesn’t know and doesn’t NEED to know,” he says. “I… would prefer that no one ELSE know.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Your secret is safe with me,” Saskia says quietly.

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “I trust Lark because I know Lark. And I HAVE known Lark for some time. Since shortly after Tzila arrived here. I trust her for a reason,” Sherman says. “She’s one of us.” Saskia listens quietly, one hand petting one of her dogs.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Sorry to have doubted your reasons. Thank you for trusting me. I will, of course, keep your story in the strictest confidence. I look out for my own. And that includes you and your daughter. Know that you can come to me if you ever have any concerns. And I’ll… leave your hours alone. If you’re sure.”

Narrator 1: She’s getting up from the bar. The dogs get to their feet.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Yes. Work is important to me, so… thank you.”

Narrator 2: She just smiles and nods in his direction. Disappears up the side door to the balcony to watch the show from the confines of the VIP area.

Narrator 3: Shuffling around the corner from the theater comes Fuze.

Narrator 1: Sherman immediately latches on to his oldest customers (in several senses of the word), desperate for some reprieve from the previous conversation. “Fuze!” he says. “Have a seat, my ol’ friend! What can I getcha?”

Narrator 3: (as Fuze) “Something strong, Sherman! I really shouldn’t have come in tonight.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Huh, that bad, eh?” Sherman immediately starts stirring something. He’s putting a little herbal something in there. Muddling. Bit of ice.

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “I’m getting too old for this!”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “How about a digestif?” Fuze is climbing into his seat at the bar. The other bartender is continuing to tend to the opposite side of the counter.

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “Where’s, uh… Tzila tonight?”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “She’s, uh… out on the town. She’s with a… friend.”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “Oh, she’s with that… Lark. Again. Is she?”

Narrator 1: Oh, okay, if this is how this is gonna go…

Narrator 2: Sherman feels beset from all sides tonight. Everyone questioning his choice. His perfectly reasonable, safe choice.

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Yeah, Tzila… Lark and Tzila get along. I’m sure you’ve seen.” Fuze sits forward at the bar, shaking his head, receiving his drink gladly. Taking a sip.

Narrator 2: Sherman wipes his hands. [As Sherman:] “Can I… can I just ask you something? Fuze?”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “Uh, er… of course, Sherman! I mean, you’re a pal of mine!”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “What is your problem with Lark? I’ve… I just feel like there’s some bad blood between you two, and I—”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “Erhhhhhhhhh…”

Narrator 1: Fuze settles back in his chair.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Do you KNOW her?”

Narrator 1: He stares only at his drink. His energy changes. Good ol’ Fuze turns into quiet, withdrawn… ANGRY Fuze? Sherman can see the change.

Narrator 2: It’s a little bit hard to read his expression sometimes with the mouth, but… he can see it in his shoulders.

Narrator 1: Sherman is starting to feel an odd numbness in his fingertips. “Fuze,” Sherman says. “Do you TRUST her?

[A long silence.]

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “Fuze?”

[Another silence.]

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “Can I be honest with you, Sherman?”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “You better be. Please.”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “I… uh…”

Narrator 1: UH-OH.

Narrator 3: Fuze idly stretches out a hand and picks up one of the Black Candle Cabaret matchbooks sitting in a bowl on the counter. He twirls it between his fingers, distracting himself momentarily.

Narrator 1: Customers come and go. The lights are down. Laughter and applause in the back room. Sherman feels light-headed.

Narrator 3: Fuze looks into Sherman’s eyes.

[A haunting silence.]

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “I think she’s gonna KILL me, Sherman.”

[A pause. Eerie music begins to rise.]

Narrator 1: There is a moment of eye contact.

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “She’s not who she appears to be. Believe me, I’ve known her a loooong time.”

Narrator 1: (Sherman) “WHAT?” Sherman says. And then Fuze throws back his head.

Narrator 3: (Fuze) [Bursting into strained, manic laughter] “I’m.. sure Tzila’s FINE! I only MEANT we’ve ALL probably felt like Lark’ll do us in at one point in time or another, am I right!? I mean, that DEATH GLARE of hers, I tellya! Heh… Heh… Heh…”

Narrator 1: Sherman’s eyes are locked on Fuze. He realizes he’s gripping the bar so hard it hurts. “Ha. Ha, yeah, I suppose so…”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “She’s a SOLID type, Sherman! TRUSTWORTHY! ABSOLUTELY! If I had a kid, I’d entrust them to Lark for looking after sometimes, too!”

Narrator 1: And Fuze glances around the room, then looks back to Sherman—his upside down laugh a fake rictus.

Narrator 3: His eyes still UTTERLY HOLLOW.

Narrator 2: And then he drops a little cash on the counter and slides off his stool.

Narrator 1: Fuze turns and begins to hobble for the door. The second bartender at his [Sherman’s] shoulder, says: “Sherman? Need to take a break?”

[The ambiance of the cabaret begins to warp and skew as Sherman grows more uneasy.]

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Yeah… thanks…”

Narrator 1: (as the other bartender) “Gotcha.” And Sherman walks dizzily away from the bar… goes to the staff door in the side… goes into the lounge… realizes he’s sitting on a couch… doesn’t remember walking across the room to sit here. His hands are shaking. Four dancers are sitting across the room at a table, their conversation stopped. They’re looking at him quizzically. He can see them dimly through the low light. Through the smoke in the room. Sherman barely sees them. And he realizes that he doesn’t actually know… where Lark has taken his daughter.”