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The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf

Author Isa Arsén On Tour
Read by Saskia Maarleveld, Isa Arsén On Tour
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Two Shakespearean actors in an unconventional marriage get caught up in a renowned director’s scheme that will bring them closer than ever or rip them apart for good.

Up-and-coming stage actress Margaret Shoard has just taken a bow as Lady Macbeth, the role she has always believed was destined for her. At home, she plays wife to her best friend Wesley, even if she doesn’t hold his sole attention romantically. After a public breakdown threatens all she holds dear, Margaret’s doctor prescribes her uppers—just a little help to get through the days.

When Wesley is invited by eccentric director Vaughn Kline to join the cast for an inaugural Shakespeare performance in the New Mexico desert, Margaret decides to accompany him in hopes the time away will set her back to rights . . . but the world she finds in Vaughn’s company is filled with duplicity and betrayal. Margaret and Wesley, embroiled in an affair with a man who may not be all he seems, must find a way forward together before their story becomes the real tragedy.
1

The Edison

Ezra Pierce was of the same generation as Edie Bishop, eccentric and stubborn and in possession of very specific tastes. Edie preferred ballerinas, and Ezra was fond of fawnish little bastards.

We had been rehearsing Twelfth Night for the last eleven weeks, and Ezra was lining his pockets with good karma and the assurance he knew exactly what his leads were up to the night before opening by treating Wesley and me to dinner. We met at the Edison. Ezra was accompanied tonight by an insufferable student called Benjamin-Full name, my dear. Not Ben. Never Ben. Too gauche. A-haw!

Wesley insisted on covering the bill. "It's the least I could do, maestro," he teased as he reached into his sport coat for his wallet after we finished sipping our coffees and dessert liqueurs. Another braying laugh leapt from Benjamin-Not-Ben-A-haw!-who had been mooning over Wesley since the moment we sat down.

Who could blame him? Wesley was a vision. He carried his trim, elegant figure with the springy surety of an athlete as he moved through the world with an attentive kindness that made it painfully clear he didn't understand how attractive he was. He had thick, wavy hair the color of crow feathers that shone near-blue in stage lights and sunshine alike. Those bright eyes of his, so gray they must have been a devil to capture on film, always seemed to be laughing with you, and when he smiled a single dimple came to life on his left cheek.

Late into the afternoon of our first drink together, Wesley and I gave each other the rundown of our rambling histories. He'd grown up in Maine, taken to sailing, and stayed in California after completing his naval service on the Pacific front. I'd carefully dowsed from there for the story of what brought him to the city and discovered that the one who ruined it all for him-to land one in Ezra's employ, there was always someone who ruined it all-was called Andrew: a magnetic casting director with Hollywood in the palm of his hand. He folded Wesley so smoothly into a vertiginous lifestyle of drug-addled parties that by the time Wesley realized the art-films Andrew secured for him were only ever screened at adult theaters, it was too late to get out with his reputation intact. He'd become nothing but a pretty pet trapped in a four-year cloud of vices.

It was the cold slap of reality that woke him one morning, and Wesley's nasal mimic of the incident over his third gin sling had made me laugh despite the distant pain settled like silt at the back of his gaze-Collect your things and get out, Shoardie. The valet will put whatever you can't carry in the driveway for you. Twenty minutes, or faster if you can swing it; there's a breakfast meeting that I'll absolutely shit to be late for.

And from that morning forward, Wesley's name was mud in all the places Andrew could reach to sully it. No studio would let him so much as darken the doorway of their soundstages, not even the least reputable. With nowhere else to go, he sought the theater again. The part of him that lived for Shakespeare had long been dormant, but it was to Shakespeare and the boards that he returned.

There was much of my own story in his. An instinctive resonance ran between us as I shared mine in turn: Lexington, then Richmond, then here; the private hell in those early places, and the scrappy life of my own making.

We got along like a house on fire, a cracking good match both onstage and off. It really was unfortunate our proclivities weren't more in line.

"Shall we?" Wesley chirped, tucking the cash under the ashtray at the center of the table, and stood to pull my chair out for me.

In the lobby, we fetched our jackets from the coat check. Wesley gently shook mine out and offered it.

"Is that the one you found on sale last fall?" Ezra asked at the end of a fresh cigar as he lit it, nodding at my silk bolero. He was a tall, narrow man with an imperious nose, on which he wore brass pince-nez. His wisping white hair and well-groomed beard were in tame order, which was rare to see-I was used to him brooding through the empty house of the theater during rehearsals or the wings on performance nights, twisting his fingers into his goatee as he stewed on new ways to eviscerate his cast for failing to read his mind.

He was a phenomenal director, a genius eye for staging and a savant-like ear for the text, cursed with the shortest fuse I'd ever seen. Edie attributed it to the exhausting company he chose to keep, the simpering Benjamin-Not-Bens of the world. It makes him feel young, I think, the exasperation.

I turned in place as Wesley put on his hat. "You'd know better than I would," I said to Ezra. "It all blurs in the closet."

"Heard that at a party last week," Wesley said briskly, grinning. He held out a hand to Ezra and ignored another laugh from Benjamin-A-haw! "Thanks for having us, Ez."

"Ez?" Benjamin raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He was a soft-edged cellist from the Juilliard School. All the boys who let Ezra stop over in their love lives liked to fancy themselves seasoned but were usually so doe-eyed I just ended up feeling sorry instead of truly disliking them. I truly disliked Benjamin. "You hate nicknames."

Ezra shook Wesley's hand, blew a purple-tinged cloud of smoke from his nostrils, and leaned in to air-kiss both my cheeks goodbye. "He's the only one who makes them sound dignified," Ezra said. "Somehow. Nothing to it, darling, just don't muck up the show."

The tips of Benjamin's ears turned pink. I dug my gloves out of my purse and realized with a quick tightening in my chest that I had scored my arms with roving pink threads in repetitive passes under the table as we'd eaten. Shit. I tugged on each one swiftly before holding out a hand to Benjamin.

"Lovely to meet you, Ben."

Wesley and I walked out together. I took his elbow when he offered it, and he shot me a small, secretive smile. "That was cold," he muttered.

Wesley lived a few blocks away from me in a third-floor walk-up that smelled of singed black tea. His apartment was spartan and tidy, kept with the efficient hand of an ex-officer. He had no roommates, no art on his walls, and an impressive bar cart.

"So is trying to flirt with his date's employee the whole time," I said. Wesley snorted.

"I'm a grown lad." He patted my hand on his arm. We stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. "But I do appreciate a knight in shining armor."

I smiled at him, his profile cut cleanly against the dark in the mottled wash of neon signs and halogen bulbs glowing. He noticed me watching and grinned. "What?"

"Nothing." I rubbed at his arm through the linen of his sleeve and tugged us across the street when the light went green. "I'm just happy. I'm looking forward to opening."

"I like happy Jack," Wesley said as he fell into step, letting me lead the way. "You're fun when you're happy."

He'd been calling me Jack since he first saw me in my Cesario costume, claiming I wore trousers better than half the men he knew, and had I ever considered doing drag? The name stuck, and every time he said it, a warm sense of belonging came in to fill the small, empty places left wanting inside of me. He was my friend. It made me feel as precious as a creature of Eden given its proper title for the very first time.

The air was calm and perfectly temperate, the deep clutch of spring settled down over the city, and the bustle of the street had begun to turn over from evening to night.

I had once believed Lexington and Richmond were the biggest cities I would ever know, the places most full of life in the entire world. A fond scrap of memory wagged through me when we passed a gentleman with a velveteen coat and matching hat-I recalled my old director at the Richmond Revue, Ansel Jensen, sitting in the empty house between shows and teaching me how to recite iambic pentameter as I swept the aisles.

We stopped in front of my building at the top of the basement stairs. Next door, the pharmacy threw its sterile fluorescent shout onto the sidewalk. Wesley removed his hat.

"I'm for a nightcap," Wesley said. "There's a party on the pier. Care to join?"

I knew exactly what a party on the pier entailed, and ordinarily I would have jumped at the chance. Those parties were riotous islands of secret, shuddered joy, filled with men in dresses and wigs, women in suits more handsome than any heartbreaker in the city, and everyone in between with their arms slung over one another's shoulders and sipping from the same glass.

A party on the pier was where I first saw Edie's social prowess at work, invited into the sacred space of the city's underbelly to meet her there. She had asserted herself as my ambassador on the upper level of a building tucked into the narrow shrug of Charles Lane, where I'd looked down and gone dizzy to see the packed milling-about of every colorful someone below.

Over the wail of the band, Edie had told me of Ezra-and from Ezra came regular work and this rare, fine friendship with Wesley. I could pinpoint every good thing that had happened to me since arriving in Manhattan on that single party. The magic of the city was fickle, but kinder to me than any other place I had called my own.

Wesley was watching me expectantly for an answer. I gave him an apologetic smile. "I can't," I said. "It's too close to opening. I'm antsy."

"Aren't we all?"

"I know. I'm wound up. It's better if I just try to get some sleep."

Wesley looked amused as he leaned in and kissed my cheek. "You sure? I'm going to run myself down."

I reached up and put a hand to his cheek in farewell. "I know, I'd just get in your way. Have fun. Thank you for dinner. Don't stay out too late, remember call is five-thirty tomorrow."

"Should I phone if I'm going to be past curfew?" he teased.

"Only if you end up in the drunk tank."

He turned his face, grinning, and kissed the tips of my fingers. As Wesley stepped back onto the sidewalk, he replaced his hat on his head with a flourish.

"Sir," he announced into the dark, the light from the streetlamp pouring over him like a spotlight, with his voice pitched in the higher register he took on when he parroted my own lines at me as Viola, "shall I to this lady?"

"Ay, that's the theme," I sallied back, digging for my key in my purse. "To her in haste."

The deadbolt always took some wrestling to get open. There were four units along the narrow hall, and a shared bathroom at the end of it, which was only ever clean when I set to it with a scouring brush and the end of my patience.

Home.

I undressed to my slip and stood at my vanity with its uneven legs to rub a pasty dittany along the insides of my arms. The cooling soothe of it was familiar, faraway, and I stared at the fine pink furrows before going to the kitchen.

I wasn't nervous. I wasn't. It was going to be a good show. It was a comedy-everyone loved the comedies. I trusted Wesley, and I trusted myself. We would be great together.

So why now, why the old habit rising like a portent?

I picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey and peered at the contents. After nine years, the bottle was still one-third full. If Twelfth Night opened well, I would toast to myself with a small sip after making my way home in the wee hours after the cast party. I put it back in the cabinet and made myself a slapdash martini. I was out of olives.

My script sat on top of the pile on my table. I flipped to the beginning, sat down in front of the mirror, and began to run my lines aloud.

I put myself back in the space Jensen once taught me to access-Get in their heads, Margot, feel yourself step into their lives. You can become anyone with enough imagination. That's the power of the theater: transformation.

It used to frighten me how deeply I could feel. My mother had insisted it was a blessing, a light from the good Lord to allow me the full glories of His gifts, but for the longest time I could only see it as a curse on my small, useless body. I saw no point to the miserable ability, no reason for my highs or the sweet agonies that came with them, until I found the stage.

To bend an audience to my will was my sole sense of control in this life, the only one I truly owned. I could make people laugh, cry, gasp, fear, desire; in thrall to artifice in their seats, they had to behold me, to see me for all that I was: an unstoppable force. On the boards, I was more than a woman. I was a conduit. The stage was the only place fit to tame these strange passions.

I reached the end of the fifth act. I poured another drink, ran my thumb very gently along the inside of one wrist, and started again from the top.


Wesley and I became inseparable during Twelfth Night. I’d marked a tangible change in myself for the better since we had become friends, and Edie agreed-no matter how much she teased me for such a girlish attachment to a man like Wesley, she was right. I adored being around him. He carried a certain lightness, a sense of unshakable humor I longed to embody. It was a joy to bask in the warmth of his ease.

◆ ◆ ◆

Rumors flew, of course. The rest of the company made bets and gossiped in poorly covered whispers about whether or not Wesley and I were fucking. We hadn't, nothing near it-but we spent lots of time together outside work, and where there was the smoke of actors being friendly offstage burned the fire of sharp-tongued conjecture.
One of Lit Hub's Most Anticipated Books of 2025
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One of LGBTQ Reads's Most Anticipated LGBTQ+ Fiction 2025
One of Electric Lit's Most Anticipated Queer Books of Spring 2025

One of Crime Reads's Most Anticipated Books of 2025
One of BookBub's Best New Historical Fiction of January


"Arsén’s sophomore effort is equal parts sultry and cultured, featuring two Shakespearian actors in a unusual but emotionally fulfilling marriage of convenience who find themselves in a sticky situation." —Crime Reads

"Equal parts sultry and cultured." —Lit Hub

"A compelling historical fiction centered on a lavender marriage—and Shakespearean drama." —Town & Country

"A sexy, dark Ripley-esque novel about a couple of Shakespearian actors enjoying the stage and an unconventional marriage." —Montecito Journal

"A compelling story of identity, performance, and unexpected connection." —World News Today

"Arsén beautifully captures the strange kind of love of Margaret’s mar­riage with Wesley, showing the challenge of caring for someone while letting them be who they are. Though the actor’s life is a risky one, Arsén shows us how richly rewarding the world of theater can be for those who brave it." —BookPage

"In this engaging historical novel, Arsén brings to life a captivating protagonist, Margaret Wolf, a passionate Shakespearean stage actress wrestling with inner demons . . . As in her debut, Shoot the Moon, Arsén injects light magical Realism . . . When Margaret and Wesley—richly dimensional, sympathetic, and invariably thirsty players with plenty to lose—are thrust into dangerous territory, they are forced to perform the best dramatic performance of their lives." —Booklist (starred review)

"This historical novel may be of interest to readers who enjoy fiction about theater and the United States at midcentury . . . A good pick for fans of Patti Callahan Henry and Marie Benedict." —Orange County Register

"Arsén’s sophomore effort is equal parts sultry and cultured, featuring two Shakespearian actors in a unusual but emotionally fulfilling marriage of convenience who find themselves in a sticky situation." —CrimeReads

"With sensitivity to a range of queer relationships as well as to Margaret’s unraveling psyche, Arsén paints a vivid portrait of 1950s backstage culture. The demands and compulsions of theater life create a satisfying backdrop for historical fiction that works as a page-turner. The play’s not the only thing here; Arsén’s players intrigue as well." —Kirkus Reviews

"Isa Arsén’s The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is one of the smartest books I've read this year. Arsén’s deft portrayal of Margaret and Wesley's unconventional relationship, set against a fascinating theatrical backdrop and laced with Shakespearean drama, makes for a gripping, heartfelt and poignant read." —Kelly Rimmer, author of The Things We Cannot Say

"With exquisite writing and vivid emotion, Arsén pulls you into the 50s in a way that is both atmospheric and thrilling, setting you right on stage alongside Margaret through not only her performances, but also her life. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page." —Madeline Martin, author of The Last Bookshop in London

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a juicy portrait of a troubled artist and her unconventional life. Isa Arsén's novel is a window into the mind of a talented actress who is thwarted by the limitations and expectations of her era. Arsén writes with so much sympathy and precision. I've never read anything quite like it. Every chapter is a jewel." —Lauren Fox, author of Send for Me

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf got under my skin in the best kind of way. A captivating, bewitching and utterly original read." —Tova Mirvis, author of The Ladies of Auxilliary

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is an easy-to-devour page-turner that spins themes of an unconventional marriage, Shakespearean theatre, and the unraveling of a woman not made for her time into a deeply moving, gripping story." —Juliet McDaniel, author of Mr. And Mrs. American Pie

"Arsén writes with ferocious intensity about identity, desire, and what it meant to a woman in mid-century America. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a dark, fascinating character study that will stay with you long after its final page." —Rowan Beaird, author of The Divorcées

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a triumph of genre-melding: a Shakespearean revenge plot by way of a flinty-eyed Western standoff with noir-inflected stakes (and crackling dialogue to match). An absorbing page-turner about a woman always determined to obliterate herself in the performance of her next role, and the people who refuse to let her." —Olivia Wolfgang-Smith, author of Mutual Interest and Glassworks

"Arsén writes with tender attention to her characters' moods and follies. An intimate rendition of one woman on the edge, and an indelible portrait of mid-century theatre, of performance and artifice alike. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is an incandescent work of drama." —C. Michelle Lindley, author of The Nude

"Margaret Wolf is an astonishing character; the narrator's wry observations and Arsén's lush prose lull you into a false sense of security as Margaret spends a summer exploring suppressed desires and struggling to define herself against midcentury American expectations of women . . . just up until the shocking conclusion." —Emily Dunlay, author of Teddy
© Luke Hill
Isa Arsén is a certified bleeding heart and audio engineer based in South Texas, where she lives with her spouse and a comically small dog. She’s published several shorts and pieces of experimental interactive media. Inspired by her own childhood summers in New Mexico, Shoot the Moon is her debut novel. View titles by Isa Arsén

About

Two Shakespearean actors in an unconventional marriage get caught up in a renowned director’s scheme that will bring them closer than ever or rip them apart for good.

Up-and-coming stage actress Margaret Shoard has just taken a bow as Lady Macbeth, the role she has always believed was destined for her. At home, she plays wife to her best friend Wesley, even if she doesn’t hold his sole attention romantically. After a public breakdown threatens all she holds dear, Margaret’s doctor prescribes her uppers—just a little help to get through the days.

When Wesley is invited by eccentric director Vaughn Kline to join the cast for an inaugural Shakespeare performance in the New Mexico desert, Margaret decides to accompany him in hopes the time away will set her back to rights . . . but the world she finds in Vaughn’s company is filled with duplicity and betrayal. Margaret and Wesley, embroiled in an affair with a man who may not be all he seems, must find a way forward together before their story becomes the real tragedy.

Excerpt

1

The Edison

Ezra Pierce was of the same generation as Edie Bishop, eccentric and stubborn and in possession of very specific tastes. Edie preferred ballerinas, and Ezra was fond of fawnish little bastards.

We had been rehearsing Twelfth Night for the last eleven weeks, and Ezra was lining his pockets with good karma and the assurance he knew exactly what his leads were up to the night before opening by treating Wesley and me to dinner. We met at the Edison. Ezra was accompanied tonight by an insufferable student called Benjamin-Full name, my dear. Not Ben. Never Ben. Too gauche. A-haw!

Wesley insisted on covering the bill. "It's the least I could do, maestro," he teased as he reached into his sport coat for his wallet after we finished sipping our coffees and dessert liqueurs. Another braying laugh leapt from Benjamin-Not-Ben-A-haw!-who had been mooning over Wesley since the moment we sat down.

Who could blame him? Wesley was a vision. He carried his trim, elegant figure with the springy surety of an athlete as he moved through the world with an attentive kindness that made it painfully clear he didn't understand how attractive he was. He had thick, wavy hair the color of crow feathers that shone near-blue in stage lights and sunshine alike. Those bright eyes of his, so gray they must have been a devil to capture on film, always seemed to be laughing with you, and when he smiled a single dimple came to life on his left cheek.

Late into the afternoon of our first drink together, Wesley and I gave each other the rundown of our rambling histories. He'd grown up in Maine, taken to sailing, and stayed in California after completing his naval service on the Pacific front. I'd carefully dowsed from there for the story of what brought him to the city and discovered that the one who ruined it all for him-to land one in Ezra's employ, there was always someone who ruined it all-was called Andrew: a magnetic casting director with Hollywood in the palm of his hand. He folded Wesley so smoothly into a vertiginous lifestyle of drug-addled parties that by the time Wesley realized the art-films Andrew secured for him were only ever screened at adult theaters, it was too late to get out with his reputation intact. He'd become nothing but a pretty pet trapped in a four-year cloud of vices.

It was the cold slap of reality that woke him one morning, and Wesley's nasal mimic of the incident over his third gin sling had made me laugh despite the distant pain settled like silt at the back of his gaze-Collect your things and get out, Shoardie. The valet will put whatever you can't carry in the driveway for you. Twenty minutes, or faster if you can swing it; there's a breakfast meeting that I'll absolutely shit to be late for.

And from that morning forward, Wesley's name was mud in all the places Andrew could reach to sully it. No studio would let him so much as darken the doorway of their soundstages, not even the least reputable. With nowhere else to go, he sought the theater again. The part of him that lived for Shakespeare had long been dormant, but it was to Shakespeare and the boards that he returned.

There was much of my own story in his. An instinctive resonance ran between us as I shared mine in turn: Lexington, then Richmond, then here; the private hell in those early places, and the scrappy life of my own making.

We got along like a house on fire, a cracking good match both onstage and off. It really was unfortunate our proclivities weren't more in line.

"Shall we?" Wesley chirped, tucking the cash under the ashtray at the center of the table, and stood to pull my chair out for me.

In the lobby, we fetched our jackets from the coat check. Wesley gently shook mine out and offered it.

"Is that the one you found on sale last fall?" Ezra asked at the end of a fresh cigar as he lit it, nodding at my silk bolero. He was a tall, narrow man with an imperious nose, on which he wore brass pince-nez. His wisping white hair and well-groomed beard were in tame order, which was rare to see-I was used to him brooding through the empty house of the theater during rehearsals or the wings on performance nights, twisting his fingers into his goatee as he stewed on new ways to eviscerate his cast for failing to read his mind.

He was a phenomenal director, a genius eye for staging and a savant-like ear for the text, cursed with the shortest fuse I'd ever seen. Edie attributed it to the exhausting company he chose to keep, the simpering Benjamin-Not-Bens of the world. It makes him feel young, I think, the exasperation.

I turned in place as Wesley put on his hat. "You'd know better than I would," I said to Ezra. "It all blurs in the closet."

"Heard that at a party last week," Wesley said briskly, grinning. He held out a hand to Ezra and ignored another laugh from Benjamin-A-haw! "Thanks for having us, Ez."

"Ez?" Benjamin raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He was a soft-edged cellist from the Juilliard School. All the boys who let Ezra stop over in their love lives liked to fancy themselves seasoned but were usually so doe-eyed I just ended up feeling sorry instead of truly disliking them. I truly disliked Benjamin. "You hate nicknames."

Ezra shook Wesley's hand, blew a purple-tinged cloud of smoke from his nostrils, and leaned in to air-kiss both my cheeks goodbye. "He's the only one who makes them sound dignified," Ezra said. "Somehow. Nothing to it, darling, just don't muck up the show."

The tips of Benjamin's ears turned pink. I dug my gloves out of my purse and realized with a quick tightening in my chest that I had scored my arms with roving pink threads in repetitive passes under the table as we'd eaten. Shit. I tugged on each one swiftly before holding out a hand to Benjamin.

"Lovely to meet you, Ben."

Wesley and I walked out together. I took his elbow when he offered it, and he shot me a small, secretive smile. "That was cold," he muttered.

Wesley lived a few blocks away from me in a third-floor walk-up that smelled of singed black tea. His apartment was spartan and tidy, kept with the efficient hand of an ex-officer. He had no roommates, no art on his walls, and an impressive bar cart.

"So is trying to flirt with his date's employee the whole time," I said. Wesley snorted.

"I'm a grown lad." He patted my hand on his arm. We stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. "But I do appreciate a knight in shining armor."

I smiled at him, his profile cut cleanly against the dark in the mottled wash of neon signs and halogen bulbs glowing. He noticed me watching and grinned. "What?"

"Nothing." I rubbed at his arm through the linen of his sleeve and tugged us across the street when the light went green. "I'm just happy. I'm looking forward to opening."

"I like happy Jack," Wesley said as he fell into step, letting me lead the way. "You're fun when you're happy."

He'd been calling me Jack since he first saw me in my Cesario costume, claiming I wore trousers better than half the men he knew, and had I ever considered doing drag? The name stuck, and every time he said it, a warm sense of belonging came in to fill the small, empty places left wanting inside of me. He was my friend. It made me feel as precious as a creature of Eden given its proper title for the very first time.

The air was calm and perfectly temperate, the deep clutch of spring settled down over the city, and the bustle of the street had begun to turn over from evening to night.

I had once believed Lexington and Richmond were the biggest cities I would ever know, the places most full of life in the entire world. A fond scrap of memory wagged through me when we passed a gentleman with a velveteen coat and matching hat-I recalled my old director at the Richmond Revue, Ansel Jensen, sitting in the empty house between shows and teaching me how to recite iambic pentameter as I swept the aisles.

We stopped in front of my building at the top of the basement stairs. Next door, the pharmacy threw its sterile fluorescent shout onto the sidewalk. Wesley removed his hat.

"I'm for a nightcap," Wesley said. "There's a party on the pier. Care to join?"

I knew exactly what a party on the pier entailed, and ordinarily I would have jumped at the chance. Those parties were riotous islands of secret, shuddered joy, filled with men in dresses and wigs, women in suits more handsome than any heartbreaker in the city, and everyone in between with their arms slung over one another's shoulders and sipping from the same glass.

A party on the pier was where I first saw Edie's social prowess at work, invited into the sacred space of the city's underbelly to meet her there. She had asserted herself as my ambassador on the upper level of a building tucked into the narrow shrug of Charles Lane, where I'd looked down and gone dizzy to see the packed milling-about of every colorful someone below.

Over the wail of the band, Edie had told me of Ezra-and from Ezra came regular work and this rare, fine friendship with Wesley. I could pinpoint every good thing that had happened to me since arriving in Manhattan on that single party. The magic of the city was fickle, but kinder to me than any other place I had called my own.

Wesley was watching me expectantly for an answer. I gave him an apologetic smile. "I can't," I said. "It's too close to opening. I'm antsy."

"Aren't we all?"

"I know. I'm wound up. It's better if I just try to get some sleep."

Wesley looked amused as he leaned in and kissed my cheek. "You sure? I'm going to run myself down."

I reached up and put a hand to his cheek in farewell. "I know, I'd just get in your way. Have fun. Thank you for dinner. Don't stay out too late, remember call is five-thirty tomorrow."

"Should I phone if I'm going to be past curfew?" he teased.

"Only if you end up in the drunk tank."

He turned his face, grinning, and kissed the tips of my fingers. As Wesley stepped back onto the sidewalk, he replaced his hat on his head with a flourish.

"Sir," he announced into the dark, the light from the streetlamp pouring over him like a spotlight, with his voice pitched in the higher register he took on when he parroted my own lines at me as Viola, "shall I to this lady?"

"Ay, that's the theme," I sallied back, digging for my key in my purse. "To her in haste."

The deadbolt always took some wrestling to get open. There were four units along the narrow hall, and a shared bathroom at the end of it, which was only ever clean when I set to it with a scouring brush and the end of my patience.

Home.

I undressed to my slip and stood at my vanity with its uneven legs to rub a pasty dittany along the insides of my arms. The cooling soothe of it was familiar, faraway, and I stared at the fine pink furrows before going to the kitchen.

I wasn't nervous. I wasn't. It was going to be a good show. It was a comedy-everyone loved the comedies. I trusted Wesley, and I trusted myself. We would be great together.

So why now, why the old habit rising like a portent?

I picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey and peered at the contents. After nine years, the bottle was still one-third full. If Twelfth Night opened well, I would toast to myself with a small sip after making my way home in the wee hours after the cast party. I put it back in the cabinet and made myself a slapdash martini. I was out of olives.

My script sat on top of the pile on my table. I flipped to the beginning, sat down in front of the mirror, and began to run my lines aloud.

I put myself back in the space Jensen once taught me to access-Get in their heads, Margot, feel yourself step into their lives. You can become anyone with enough imagination. That's the power of the theater: transformation.

It used to frighten me how deeply I could feel. My mother had insisted it was a blessing, a light from the good Lord to allow me the full glories of His gifts, but for the longest time I could only see it as a curse on my small, useless body. I saw no point to the miserable ability, no reason for my highs or the sweet agonies that came with them, until I found the stage.

To bend an audience to my will was my sole sense of control in this life, the only one I truly owned. I could make people laugh, cry, gasp, fear, desire; in thrall to artifice in their seats, they had to behold me, to see me for all that I was: an unstoppable force. On the boards, I was more than a woman. I was a conduit. The stage was the only place fit to tame these strange passions.

I reached the end of the fifth act. I poured another drink, ran my thumb very gently along the inside of one wrist, and started again from the top.


Wesley and I became inseparable during Twelfth Night. I’d marked a tangible change in myself for the better since we had become friends, and Edie agreed-no matter how much she teased me for such a girlish attachment to a man like Wesley, she was right. I adored being around him. He carried a certain lightness, a sense of unshakable humor I longed to embody. It was a joy to bask in the warmth of his ease.

◆ ◆ ◆

Rumors flew, of course. The rest of the company made bets and gossiped in poorly covered whispers about whether or not Wesley and I were fucking. We hadn't, nothing near it-but we spent lots of time together outside work, and where there was the smoke of actors being friendly offstage burned the fire of sharp-tongued conjecture.

Reviews

One of Lit Hub's Most Anticipated Books of 2025
One of Brit & Co’s Most Anticipated Books for 2025
One of LGBTQ Reads's Most Anticipated LGBTQ+ Fiction 2025
One of Electric Lit's Most Anticipated Queer Books of Spring 2025

One of Crime Reads's Most Anticipated Books of 2025
One of BookBub's Best New Historical Fiction of January


"Arsén’s sophomore effort is equal parts sultry and cultured, featuring two Shakespearian actors in a unusual but emotionally fulfilling marriage of convenience who find themselves in a sticky situation." —Crime Reads

"Equal parts sultry and cultured." —Lit Hub

"A compelling historical fiction centered on a lavender marriage—and Shakespearean drama." —Town & Country

"A sexy, dark Ripley-esque novel about a couple of Shakespearian actors enjoying the stage and an unconventional marriage." —Montecito Journal

"A compelling story of identity, performance, and unexpected connection." —World News Today

"Arsén beautifully captures the strange kind of love of Margaret’s mar­riage with Wesley, showing the challenge of caring for someone while letting them be who they are. Though the actor’s life is a risky one, Arsén shows us how richly rewarding the world of theater can be for those who brave it." —BookPage

"In this engaging historical novel, Arsén brings to life a captivating protagonist, Margaret Wolf, a passionate Shakespearean stage actress wrestling with inner demons . . . As in her debut, Shoot the Moon, Arsén injects light magical Realism . . . When Margaret and Wesley—richly dimensional, sympathetic, and invariably thirsty players with plenty to lose—are thrust into dangerous territory, they are forced to perform the best dramatic performance of their lives." —Booklist (starred review)

"This historical novel may be of interest to readers who enjoy fiction about theater and the United States at midcentury . . . A good pick for fans of Patti Callahan Henry and Marie Benedict." —Orange County Register

"Arsén’s sophomore effort is equal parts sultry and cultured, featuring two Shakespearian actors in a unusual but emotionally fulfilling marriage of convenience who find themselves in a sticky situation." —CrimeReads

"With sensitivity to a range of queer relationships as well as to Margaret’s unraveling psyche, Arsén paints a vivid portrait of 1950s backstage culture. The demands and compulsions of theater life create a satisfying backdrop for historical fiction that works as a page-turner. The play’s not the only thing here; Arsén’s players intrigue as well." —Kirkus Reviews

"Isa Arsén’s The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is one of the smartest books I've read this year. Arsén’s deft portrayal of Margaret and Wesley's unconventional relationship, set against a fascinating theatrical backdrop and laced with Shakespearean drama, makes for a gripping, heartfelt and poignant read." —Kelly Rimmer, author of The Things We Cannot Say

"With exquisite writing and vivid emotion, Arsén pulls you into the 50s in a way that is both atmospheric and thrilling, setting you right on stage alongside Margaret through not only her performances, but also her life. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page." —Madeline Martin, author of The Last Bookshop in London

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a juicy portrait of a troubled artist and her unconventional life. Isa Arsén's novel is a window into the mind of a talented actress who is thwarted by the limitations and expectations of her era. Arsén writes with so much sympathy and precision. I've never read anything quite like it. Every chapter is a jewel." —Lauren Fox, author of Send for Me

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf got under my skin in the best kind of way. A captivating, bewitching and utterly original read." —Tova Mirvis, author of The Ladies of Auxilliary

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is an easy-to-devour page-turner that spins themes of an unconventional marriage, Shakespearean theatre, and the unraveling of a woman not made for her time into a deeply moving, gripping story." —Juliet McDaniel, author of Mr. And Mrs. American Pie

"Arsén writes with ferocious intensity about identity, desire, and what it meant to a woman in mid-century America. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a dark, fascinating character study that will stay with you long after its final page." —Rowan Beaird, author of The Divorcées

"The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is a triumph of genre-melding: a Shakespearean revenge plot by way of a flinty-eyed Western standoff with noir-inflected stakes (and crackling dialogue to match). An absorbing page-turner about a woman always determined to obliterate herself in the performance of her next role, and the people who refuse to let her." —Olivia Wolfgang-Smith, author of Mutual Interest and Glassworks

"Arsén writes with tender attention to her characters' moods and follies. An intimate rendition of one woman on the edge, and an indelible portrait of mid-century theatre, of performance and artifice alike. The Unbecoming of Margaret Wolf is an incandescent work of drama." —C. Michelle Lindley, author of The Nude

"Margaret Wolf is an astonishing character; the narrator's wry observations and Arsén's lush prose lull you into a false sense of security as Margaret spends a summer exploring suppressed desires and struggling to define herself against midcentury American expectations of women . . . just up until the shocking conclusion." —Emily Dunlay, author of Teddy

Author

© Luke Hill
Isa Arsén is a certified bleeding heart and audio engineer based in South Texas, where she lives with her spouse and a comically small dog. She’s published several shorts and pieces of experimental interactive media. Inspired by her own childhood summers in New Mexico, Shoot the Moon is her debut novel. View titles by Isa Arsén