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

He thought I was like the Venus. The woman with the big behind that had been so famous at the start of the new century. I was glad I couldn't see his face; his hard eyes as they tried to bore through my clothing, the smirk on his lips as he imagined my private parts. The heckling was the one bit of performing onstage that I'd never gotten used to, even after all these months. If I got catcalled on the street I could brush it off. But as Amazonia I could never answer back and it made me feel vulnerable. I fought to keep my hands by my sides, when all I wanted was to hide behind them. But Crillick had always made very clear that I had to let the punters gawp, let them wonder. It was what they'd paid for. The whispering grew louder. I heard a snicker and my eyes began to burn, until I remembered the African. How straight and tall he sat. I drew up my body and looked out, proud as the warrior queen I was supposed to be, chin raised and a sneer on my lips as though it didn't matter what they thought of me.

Ellen's light footsteps sounded to my left and then she was before me, a handmaiden flanked by two henchmen, their faces painted charcoal black with huge red smiles. The men carried burning torches. I felt the heat of the flames on my face and smelt the ghost of the animal whose skins I now wore. It was time for the Great Amazonia to receive a live sacrifice. At a smarter theatre it might have been a real goat, but the Crillick's crowd got Bouncer, Ellen's tan-and-white spaniel that she'd trained to play dead. Ellen whistled and Bouncer trotted onstage. There was a collective ooh from the audience and he wagged his little tail to acknowledge them. She bent and lifted him up for my approval. When I nodded my head, she put him down before me, and Bob handed me a spear. At the moment Ellen clicked her tongue I plunged it down and Bouncer keeled over, his plump little body small and still.

I turned my back to the audience and leant over Bouncer to the pot of vermilion mixed with flour and water that was kept at the rear of the stage. I thrust my hands in and smeared it around my lips and on my chest. The audience liked to think I'd killed the dog and drunk his blood. It was the part of the show they always wrote up in the papers. When I turned back around, face dripping red, a woman screamed. I took it as my cue to dance.

The drums began again, but this time I welcomed the thumping rhythm. I closed my eyes, and did what the beats told me to, abandoning myself to my well-rehearsed steps. In response to their command, I rolled my shoulders and wound my hips. I lifted a foot and stepped to one side then the other, in time to the drum. I spun and twisted, crouched down and jumped up. I'd always enjoyed losing myself in the routine but lately I was feeling as though I needed to in order to get through it. The cheering of the audience spurred me on, but it had been harder to feed off their energy in recent shows. I put it down to the extra pressures that came with my top billing. Throw yourself into it, Zillah I whirled 'round and 'round and 'round, faster and faster until I felt dizzy. As the faces of the audience blurred, the dance felt like freedom once more, and a laugh came to my lips, high and unnatural. My movements grew wilder, more frantic, until the sweat ran down my face, streaking through the grease and the fake blood to pool in droplets at my chin. Then my surroundings fell away. I was in the dance and all was feeling.

The lights came up and I was back on the Crillick's stage. I stood breathing heavily as the crowd cheered and stamped their feet. My eyes darted to row C but the place where the African had sat was empty. Was that him making his way up the aisle?

"Come back," I called, but the words wouldn't form. All that came out was the plaintive whine of an animal.

"Zillah, you're unwell. Lean on me."

It was my handmaiden. No, Ellen, her whisper urgent.

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.