pered as she unhooked the sharp flower. It was a daisy, and one of its petals was bent. She straightened the petal, but a crease stayed where the fold had been. Downstage in the far right corner, Claudius stood in lavender light with his hand against the proscenium arch. His head was thrown back, and his greasy black beard caught the light in patches of shiny white-silver. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open and moving. His voice was softer now, still vibrant and still alive, but softer. He always softened it at the last of this scene."'...The present death of Hamlet. Do it England; She pressed her hands together; there was a soft crackle as her palms crushed the flower. Soon Claudius would be finished, and the lavender light onstage would black-out. A second later the jewels in Gertrude's crown, reflecting light from a dim white spot, would flash prisms on black cyclerama. Then the single slash of yellow would begin to fade in. With the paper daisy still crushed in one hand, she reached out and pulled velvet to her face against the pressure of heat behind her eyes and the salty taste of tears. "This is it," Gertrude whispered at the black-out. The warmth of "Arpege" brushed past the girl's white dress and onto the dark stage. But velvet stifles more than just silk and warmth of perfume. It is dark in hot velvet. RAIN Sheri Christofferson Splatter, droplets . . . Make a sound like thunder, You tiny people of a slow ocean. 24