A theatre on the table

Bartholomew lifted the cloth from the theatre and folded it beside the scenery box.

The frame was dark wood, rubbed smooth where it had been handled. Its little feet stood squarely upon the table. There were two curtains, the colour of a faded plum, and a narrow painted arch above them. The stage behind was scarcely wider than a breadboard.

They had owned it, in one form or another, since they were children.

Some pieces were old and some were replacements. Bartholomew had made stronger joints for the frame. Dorothea had sewn the curtains. The wooden floor had been worn pale along the path where their figures travelled, and neither of them had suggested repainting it.

It looked like a floor that people used.

Bartholomew opened the scenery box. Each piece had its own place in the cloth. He laid the little tree on the table, then the front of the inn, with its door and two shutters. Last came the sign, still wrapped separately in paper.

Dorothea leaned nearer as he uncovered it.

“There he is.”

The painted dormouse lay curled upon its small board, copper-coloured, comfortably round.

“He's the right size?” Bartholomew asked.

“For the inn, yes. For a dormouse, he's doing very well.”

“You sent me the drawing.”

“I know.”

She turned the little sign towards the lamplight. Her brother had followed the curve of the tail exactly. Along its lower edge he had added the soft green colour of the weathered copper outside.

Dorothea smiled and handed it back.

He fitted it into the two small hooks above the miniature doorway. It swung once and came to rest.

“There,” he said.

An original extract from A Cosy Night at the Copper Dormouse · about 2 minutes to read.