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Beneath the Gilded Truss
Elena balanced carefully on the narrow aluminium plank forty feet above the stalls, shining her inspection torch into the hollow belly of the Grand Theatre's ceiling. Behind the crumbling acanthus leaves of the gilded plaster, the main load-bearing timber looked disastrous. What the heritage survey had dismissed as superficial damp was, in truth, an extensive network of dry rot, crumbly and dark as peat.
From the safety of the dress circle balcony below, Arthur, the development director, cupped his hands to call up to her. "Elena! We ought to wrap up the assessment by noon. The festival committee is bringing prospective donors through the foyer at three."
Elena wiped masonry dust from her goggles and began her descent down the scaffolding ladder, her steel-toed boots ringing against the metal rungs. "You ought not to invite anyone onto that balcony, Arthur.