Excerpt from Theatre Of Marvels by Lianne Dillsworth, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

My deception? It was Crillick that was paying me to do it. I'd felt the warmth rise in my cheeks and looked away so he wouldn't see. It wasn't embarrassment. There were more bastards than me in St. Giles and more almond-shaped eyes and thick black hair than could be explained away by God's rich tapestry. Still, it was none of his business who my mother and father were, and anyway, what difference did it make? I had only myself to rely on now.

"Can I help you with your makeup?" I asked Ellen and pointed to the pot of burnt cork on the dressing table.

"Not with those nails." Ellen grimaced. At Crillick's request, she had helped me file them the previous week to wicked points. I regretted it already, used to being able to discard the things that made me Amazonia, but one of my rivals at a show on Shaftesbury Avenue had filed teeth. I drew the line at that, but Crillick's Variety was not to be completely outdone.

"My face won't take a minute, then I'll do Mikey and Bob," Ellen said.

The two men played foot soldiers to her cupbearer. Ellen never said so but I couldn't help but wonder if they were cousins of hers, those three seemed so thick with each other.

I looked into the mirror over her shoulder at Amazonia, the woman who was me and not me. In the programme she was described as "a dangerous savage from darkest Africa" but beneath Ellen's cunning paint I was still Zillah. Ellen turned and her pale, freckled face appeared alongside mine in the glass. Soon she too would be transformed for the performance. She and the boys who acted as my worshippers used a pot of Stein's to blacken their hands and faces. I hated the smell of the burnt cork, but it was cheap and it worked, and for them there was no need for pretense, the black so obviously grotesque and the red smiles painted on. I didn't like that the line between me and Amazonia was so blurred. She was a savage. I wasn't.

"Get on with you, Zillah. I'll be along in a minute," Ellen said. "Now you're the headliner, it's not only Barky that gets blamed if you miss your cue."

III
The Great Amazonia

It was the compère's job to introduce me to the audience. To tell them what my story was while I stood silent, waiting in the wings with Barky at my side. He started with how I'd been found in the jungles of Africa, captured by an intrepid English explorer. Crillick said it was an essential part of making me seem like a real savage, and the crowd fell for it every time.

"She was brought to London for your delight," the compère said. As if anyone had ever thought about what a collection of clerks and shopgirls might want.

What did the African make of it all? I wished I could still see him but the lights were down. He was dressed up like a gent, but did he recognise these tales of the jungle? As the compère jabbered on, nerves started to harden like a rock in my stomach. It was the last thing I needed, especially tonight when it was so important to me to be at my best.

The drumbeat that signaled the start of my performance began. I felt it at the back of my throat, the steady thump, thump, thump. The pace increased and a feeling of fullness worked its way to my chest. Every beat was a blow and I cringed as they landed. The rhythm grew faster and entered my mind. It crowded out all other thoughts, and the memory of my dance steps fled. The audience had paid handsomely to see my performance. I must show them something. The African, sitting three rows back—I wanted him to be impressed. The panic built and the drums beat faster still. I covered my ears with my hands like a child, but the beats had gotten into my soul. Now they throbbed inside me.

"Go on, girl, let it out," Barky whispered at my side and I screamed in response, the sound high and wild and frightened.

Barky slapped my behind and jolted me forward onto center stage. Stunned silence and a moment of blinding light as the spot lamps picked me out. I cast off my cloak and the audience gasped. This is what they saw: a Black woman, tall and fearsome. Tribal marks on her cheeks and a string of beads and feathers at her throat. Barefoot, her limbs slick with grease. The scandalous shapes of her body barely hidden beneath a close-fitting leopard skin. I couldn't see the audience but I felt their reaction: the surprise and wonder, a little fear. A low murmur built as the punters whispered to one another. Looking out over their upturned faces, my nerves melted away. I felt powerful, until one man, bolder than the rest, shouted out, "Turn around then, let's see the goods."

Excerpted from Theatre Of Marvels by Lianne Dillsworth. Copyright © 2022 by Lianne Dillsworth. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.