Act I Scene VI
What lies beyond the Playhouse doors is a palace fit for the gods.
The moment I step through them and into a luxurious antechamber, I feel watched.
Like a curtain has been swept aside, an audience waiting just within.
Maybe because of the faces—a vast arch of them, soaked in gold and leering at me in agonized frowns and delirious grins that twist around the frame.
Comedy and Tragedy. The decorations meld into each other, like actors trapped in the walls, seeking a way out.
They seem to stare at the clock that looms on the opposite wall over the door, an enormous, cracked structure of marble, veins of gold painted over the damage.
The floor is just the same: sprawling and gilded to disguise the fractures.
Like the Playhouse itself has selected a costume for the evening, doing its best to conceal all the horrors that have played across its floors.
But when I peer up, I gasp.
It takes several blinks before my eyes start to adjust to the shocks of color sprawled across the ceiling—of brilliant blue and deep scarlet, of pops of emerald and touches of vibrant purple. It’s so overwhelming that my eyes sting, and I duck my chin before making out what the painting depicts.
I’ve never seen so much color—true, undiluted hues of it—in my life.
My heart thuds in my chest as I go for the golden curtain ahead, hanging beneath the arch of faces and leading out of this antechamber. My fingers brush the heavy velvet, and it parts like water at my touch.
And casts me into another world.
A ballroom awaits on the other side, stretching endlessly into a haze of flickering candlelight and flowery perfumes. In step with the swell of music, mortals float by, their faces blurring together in a dreamlike way that eerily reminds me of the arch.
They’re everywhere. Mortals from South of the Cut here to audition, draped in expensive gowns of chiffon and tunics of delicate silk they probably spent their last bit of coin on—all of it the same drained, drab gray cast over all of Theatron.
They glide by like silvery ghosts with shimmering eyelids, heels scraping the marble.
Their painted lips are a far cry from the shades of red boasted by the curtained-off arches in the corners.
The director is nowhere to be seen and, to my relief, neither are any of his five Players. Just Revelers desperate to catch their attention with varying degrees of absurd dancing, like their very lives depend on each exaggerated word and movement.
Script, I chant in my head. Somewhere between the doors and here, a plan took shape in my head. A really, really ill-advised one. Find the Script.
My eyes lock on a luxurious set of stairs on the other side that leads up to a dais. Before I can think better of it, I edge into the crowd, dodging between heels and elbows.
Surely, the director will be auditioning everyone separately. Maybe in a private room. If I find a place to hide, I can catch him off guard—
Someone brushes my sleeve, and I yelp. There are too many people, too close.
Suddenly, I am on the other side, breaking free and scurrying up the steps to the dais before diving through the shimmering curtain just beyond it.
I land on my knees on the other side and groan at the discomfort. The ache in my ribs seems to pulse louder than the music now; I clasp my side and count my breaths, taking in the empty corridor and shaking off the repulsive touch of strangers.
Right or left? Doubt shrouds my shoulders, unsure.
I toe the rich carpet like a scared cat, my path lined by elaborate paintings of Players, alive and dead.
For a short moment, I let myself study the scenes depicted in them, fascinated by the colors.
They must be from plays—I spot one of a wedding ceremony, another of a family at dinner, a third of a grotesque execution by hanging.
The Player who holds the rope has her head thrown back in laughter.
It’s hard not to stare. We don’t have records of any of the Playhouse’s stories. We don’t have stories in all of Theatron. They’re dangerous, banished, just like music. Stories are just one long lie, strung with deception.
A voice splits the silence, radiating with power and shaking the edges of the gilded frames.
It does not sound human.
TITUS: “Gods, they’re annoying!”
Horror grips me, my eyes sweeping around the corridor for a hiding place until I spot a large statue of a Player. That’ll do. I scamper across the hall, skirt behind the statue just in time to see a golden-eyed being round the corner.
My education instantly sets a name to the Player’s face: Titus.
He’s all brawn, with massive shoulders and warm brown skin.
A few strands of black hair fall loose across his proud expression as he saunters down the hall, the rest of it tied back at his neck with twists of silver.
When he smiles, he shows all his teeth. The image of a wolf nudges my mind.
MATTIA: “You’ve barely spoken to a single auditionee yet, Titus.”
A second Player, her voice sonorous, smooth and whispery like the hiss of a snake.
She moves like one, too, carried by the sway of her hips and gliding like she’s skating over water.
I take in her sharp gaze, steady shoulders, and dark-brown skin that glows like a harvest moon.
Elegant braids are styled over her head to reveal emerald earrings that dangle from her earlobes like tiny chandeliers.
Player Mattia. The oldest Player on record.
My heart hammers at the sheer size of them, towering at least a foot over me, with long, toned limbs and brilliant gold eyes. They file before the curtain I just came through, lingering at the entrance like beasts about to be released from their cage.
Gods, what am I thinking? This is their cage. I’ve just stepped into it.
My eyes sting from the soft halo that shivers around their skin, like they’re stars that have come loose from the night sky and fallen right into the Playhouse.
ARIUS: “They may surprise you yet, Titus. Casting calls bring in all kinds.”
My gaze shifts to a third Player rounding the corner.
He’s lithe and willowy by comparison to Titus’s brawn and most certainly the tallest of the bunch, with fair skin and deceptively soft eyes.
Arius works on tying back the golden-blond hair that flows nearly to his waist. While Titus’s tone crackles with the spit of fire and Mattia’s thrums low, like the rattle of the earth, Arius’s voice carries like a mild wind.
He seems too gentle. Too harmless, like a dove.
But I know a dove could not do what Player Arius has done. A dove did not make an entire city laugh until their vocal cords tore and split. Player Arius specializes in the comedic arts. He might actually be more violent than the other two.
I hold my breath, easing closer to the statue and peeking between the space of its marble waist and elbow.
The wolf hollers a laugh that makes me jump.
TITUS: “Why bother learning their names? Odds are whoever makes it through will be blood on the stage before this is over.”
I draw inward at the words, frightened on behalf of the fools who are actually auditioning for this. It’s taking all of the self-control I have not to make a panicked dash for the hall.
ARIUS: “You’re terrible. May Hades give you no rest.”
TITUS: “If he’s half so handsome as they say, may I give Hades no rest.”
ARIUS: “Fine. Then a long life in hell, I pray you.”
MATTIA: “Don’t bother. The gods do not listen to the eternally damned prayers of actors.”
I hold in a scoff. I’m pretty sure the gods have stopped answering prayers altogether.
SILENUS: “Ladies and gentlemen!” The director’s voice booms behind the curtain, resonant and overpowering the surplus of chatter. The crowd quiets into a restless standstill. “Welcome to the Playhouse. I hope you’ve all had a chance to get acquainted?”
There he is. My eyes lock on the curtain, imagining the director—and that Script—on the other side of it.
Nervous laughter burbles from the crowd in response. While I can’t see them, I imagine a sea of nervous expressions, each desperate to impress a Player or to catch the eye of their elusive director.
“So many lovely faces in our casting call tonight!” Silenus’s speech continues, slightly muffled behind the curtain.
“But I warn you, I do not choose my Players on beauty alone. It is rarely the most beautiful, the most talented, the loudest—though of course our casting calls bring all of these and more!”
Dizziness fizzles in my head. I squirm impatiently, willing the director to call his Players out, away from here. Then, when he retreats through this corridor alone, I’ll grab my knife and—
“But rather, it is whoever draws the eye,” Silenus explains. “Take it not personally, my friends—actors are born! Not made.”
I wrinkle my nose at that. It feels impossible to believe these creatures were ever born, mere mortals who won the casting call by killing the Players who came before them.
They don’t look like they were ever human.
PARRISH: “There you are!”
I perk up at the new voice—a girl’s. It sounds young, accompanied by the soft chime of bells.
Down the hall, she emerges. Player Parrish is smaller than the other three, with hair like raven feathers, deliberately messy and shorn in sharp, chocolate-brown layers around her neck. There’s a youthful bounce to her step that sends all of her many anklets and bracelets jingling.
Parrish’s statue in the District unsettles me the most, always laden with an array of odd objects, ranging from marriage bands to loved ones’ ashes, thanks to rumors that she hoards rare items. A mouse, I dub her. A greedy one.
PARRISH: “Say, where is Jude?”
The wolf, Titus, shrugs at her question. “Combing that pretty hair of his, probably.”
SILENUS: “Five of you will remain with us after tonight to compete for a role in my cast, and so we must be selective. But enough of this! Allow me to introduce you to our honored stars of this evening.”
The audience hollers a response, and relief washes over me. Once the last Player is out, I’ll wait by the curtain. My hand dips into my coat, curls around my Eleutheraen blade.
I can do this. Surely I can take an old man in a fight.
SILENUS: “Please welcome our Comedians: Players Arius and Parrish!”
My ears ring as thunderous applause echoes, the dove and the mouse stepping through the curtain. I count two remaining Players awaiting their entrance.
Their Lead Player is missing. There should be five altogether—
Never mind it. Maybe their Lead Player is on the platform already. Once these two are gone, I’ll wait by the curtain. Silenus has to come back this way at some point—
SILENUS: “A warm welcome for our Tragedians: Players Titus and Mattia!”
The last two, the wolf and snake, step through the curtain, met by another round of earth-shattering applause that shakes the walls.
As soon as Mattia is out of sight, I bolt up to the curtain, hovering there, waiting. My heart has begun to pound in my ears, fear seizing the breath in my chest.
Come on. Come on out, Silenus.
SILENUS: “And a round of applause for our Lead Player and Mimic, Jude!”
A question mark forms in my mind as the audience applauds, my gaze darting around the empty corridor. I let out a shaky breath. No Lead Player in sight. He must be on his way through a different entrance.
Curiosity brings me closer to the curtain. I’ve seen so many posters that I can’t help but wonder what the infamous Lead Player looks like in the flesh. My fingers make the tiniest slit in the fabric to peek through.
I glimpse an applauding audience—and confused, expectant faces.
Where is he?
“Why are we hiding?” whispers a voice behind me.
I yelp and, before I can think better of it, jab my elbow backward as hard as I can. Then wince when it meets something solid.
Whoever I’ve hit does little more than grunt and mutter, “We’ll work on the greeting.”
Cursing and holding my elbow, which is radiating sharp darts of pain down my hand, I look over my shoulder.
And find myself face-to-face with a pair of violent golden eyes.