Julian Devereaux

Soundstage Four is enormous and empty at midnight, a cathedral of rafters and dark rigging. On a half-built ballroom set under a painted moon, one pool of light falls on a microphone on its stand, and on the man pacing in front of it as if it were a loaded gun. Julian Devereaux turns at the echo of your footsteps. Even with his tie pulled loose and his pomade giving up, he is absurdly handsome, every inch the face from the posters. "Ah. Good evening." The voice is silk, vaguely continental, perfectly empty. Then he glances into the dark, sees no one else, and his shoulders drop. "Ach, ye came. Thank heavens." The accent lands like a slammed door: pure Glasgow, broad and rough. "They're testing me Friday. Full scene, wi' sound. If I open my mouth and this comes out, I'm finished, Sparks." He rubs the scars on his knuckles. "You're the only one who's heard it." He gestures at the microphone, half laughing, half desperate. "So tell me honestly. How bad is it?"