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God, I needed a cigarette.

We'd had trouble with the props—Dick Buskin and Jack Rover had been larking about before curtain playing at swordfights, and one of the idiots had broken Thunder's cane. If it hadn't been for the old lady in row C being a game old dear who let me borrow her walking stick, he'd have been left to bluster without it. When the curtain finally went up, I breathed a sigh of relief, and reached shakily for the cigarette packet in my pocket.

One of these years, I'd give it up, I promised myself. Probably not while I worked in the theatre, though.

I had to smile, because even on days like this, I couldn't imagine wanting to leave, now I'd found my place here. I'd spent most of my twenties working in a bank, trying to please my parents. But that was before the accident that left me an orphan and a widower in a screech of twisted metal and broken lives... I took a deep breath and leaned against the cool, tiled wall, drawing strength from its solidity and permanence.

The Criterion Theatre was an oasis of old-fashioned elegance set in—or more precisely, underneath—bustling Piccadilly Circus, with its hordes of language students, day-trippers and city folk out west to dip their toes in the decadence of Soho. I'd been a bit effusive about the Cri the day I started working here as a theatre assistant. It was a not particularly glorified euphemism for general dogsbody, and yes, I was too old for the job. But Rob, the house manager, was a friend. A good friend, willing to give me a chance when half the world looked on me as unemployable, what with the tremors in my hand, the dizzy spells and the often-slurred speech that only got worse under pressure. There were a fair few days when I agreed with them.

Rob had raised a world-weary eyebrow at my raptures about the place. "Theatres? They're all much of a muchness, really."

Not this place. The Cri was different, from the pink plush of the auditorium to the ornate Art Deco styling of the box office. I took the stairs two at a time, past the walls tiled in sepia and green, each panel framing the name of a composer of days gone by. The Criterion had been planned as a concert hall but repurposed as a theatre before opening night. Maybe this was why I liked the Cri so much—like me, she was a leopard who'd changed her spots.

Cherubs smiled down at me from where they frolicked on the ceiling, and Terpsichore played her lyre with silent serenity as I passed. I resisted the urge to run my fingers along the ornate tiles—Rob was watching from the box office.

"Going out for a smoke, Ted?" he asked with a knowing smile. "You know, you're not getting paid to sort out the props. Let Miri sweat it next time."

I shrugged and patted my back pocket, reassuring myself my cigarettes hadn't jumped out when I wasn't looking. If it'd been half an hour earlier in the evening, I'd have managed without a smoke, but anyone arriving this late for the show would have more to worry about than me smoking outside the theatre and making the place look untidy. I shouldered through the heavy front door, popping a cigarette in my mouth and fumbling in my pockets for my matches...and found Piccadilly Circus full of ghosts.

I stared, the cigarette almost dropping out of my mouth in amazement. I'd always thought there ought to be something more, something beyond this shallow world of fragile lives and shattered dreams. But to see it confirmed was like being hit with a tsunami in the bathtub.