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Fifteen Minutes to the Battlements
The green room clock chimed the three-quarter hour, but Richard had not yet tied the laces of his black velvet doublet. In the harsh glare of the vanity bulbs, his face looked unnervingly pale beneath the powdered foundation. On the table beside a half-eaten green apple lay the plaster cast of Yorick's skull, its hollow eye sockets staring back at him. For six weeks of rehearsal, he had delivered the soliloquies with commanding resonance; now, with six hundred ticket holders filing into the auditorium, his throat felt as narrow as a reed.
A sharp knock broke the silence, and Nora, the veteran stage manager, leaned through the doorway holding a clipboard. "Fifteen minutes to beginners, Richard. The house is completely sold out, and the national theatre critics are seated in the fifth row."