Act II Scene VIII
The stage door flies open, and the screaming from the Revelers begins.
Even from where I’m crouched on my balcony, peering between the marble balusters, I have to cover my ears.
Fine. Jude is right. I’m a snoop. But it’s better than being alone in my dressing room with Gene Hunt’s spooky portrait.
Sil’s head peeks out. Then the cast: Mattia and Titus first, with humble words of thanks that don’t seem very humble at all. Parrish and Arius next. Finally, Jude, with a dramatic bow. Each cast member is greeted with louder screams than the last.
I can’t help but cringe at the way spectators reach over the golden barrier, so many Revelers—so many hands grasping, touching. One succeeds in grabbing Mattia’s hair and is dealt a merciless fist in return. It only seems to egg the offender on, though.
Arius scribbles across playbills shoved into his arms, and someone kisses his hand, weeping loudly, when he tosses them back. Sil thanks the crowd for coming.
A particularly pretty-looking girl with a thick blond ponytail and the sort of nose that belongs exclusively on a porcelain doll has fought her way to the front of the barrier. And is batting her eyelashes at Jude.
Predictably, he’s enjoying the attention.
Arius must have tended to most of their stage wounds, but the cut on Jude’s head is still noticeable when he leans down for the girl to convey in his ear whatever she’s trying to shout over the crowd.
He nods, feigning humility behind a dazzling smile, a hand to his chest. Her hand has found its way to his arm.
Realizing my jaw is clenching, I force my attention to Titus, who is doing godsdamned nothing to console the man breaking into hysterical sobs at his knees, declaring eternal devotion.
Another Reveler tosses what must be her life’s savings in jewels at Parrish’s feet.
Parrish gleefully kicks them around on the floor and asks if the Reveler brought anything more interesting.
When Sil signals it’s time to go in, the crowd surges violently forward, jealous fans in the back pushing their way to the front. Obsessive moths to the Players’ golden light.
That girl Jude is talking to lets out a high-pitched squeal as someone shoves her back, hurling her into the barrier. Fine. Maybe she’ll go find another place to—
Jude decides the way to remedy the situation is to pick her up and set her on the other side of the barrier, beside him.
My mouth falls open. Not that I care. I don’t even notice the way he places a hand on her shoulder and seems to ask if she’s all right or the way she giggles and thanks him.
In fact, I care so little that I go inside and only half slam the door behind me.
They come for the next auditionee minutes before curfew; the lights in my room have already begun to dim, flickering and dying.
They’re coming for me this time. I hear the approach of Sil’s step, closer to my dressing room with each stride. He knew it was me who messed up onstage.
I whirl, search my room, and dive for the Eleutheraen arrowhead I stashed behind the old clock. I’m at least taking one of them down with me.
The steps freeze right outside my door, two polished black shoes. Sil’s familiar old sigh.
The dead bolt slides into place.
The shoes leave.
They take Linos instead.