“Shake. I’m Poppy Mandrill. And who, pray tell, are you?” “Titania Bottom,” I replied, as I sometimes do when I’m annoyed. The woman threw back her head and laughed—a surprisingly rich, warm, throaty laugh that flew up and joined the flitting notes of the organ. “Come off it,” she said. “I’ve directed enough Shakespeare in my time to know when my leg’s being pulled.”
