Act II Scene XI
“Let’s have a flood, right here in this room.” Sil paces around me, but I’m still panting from the last ridiculous illusion he made me cast, which involved setting all the curtains on the windows ablaze. Sweat beads on my forehead.
It’s been one day since the Playhouse crossed the Cut into Paraskenia, and the city outside has been silent as death.
Hiding. Waiting. For me. To do what I promised.
I have to get Jude to Syrene, where the Playhouse was supposed to be. And I have to do it today.
RIVEN: “No.” Casting illusions has become second nature. I’ve endured learning Reality Suspension. And Compulsion—the art of embedding a thought in someone’s mind—comes easily to me, as it turns out. Though I’ve learned it either cannot be used on Sil or it’s forbidden.
But there’s still one skill I need to get out of here. “I said Mimicry. I want to learn Mimicry.”
The director raises an eyebrow at me.
Today marks yet another day Sil has dismissed my attendance from rehearsal to observe me one-on-one.
Thankfully, he opted for a rehearsal room over the stage—a big, empty space with lattice gold wallpaper and oval windows overlooking a mountainous skyline.
I hope I never set foot on that stage again.
And I hope at some point, saying that won’t feel like a brazen lie.
SIL: “Mimicry is an advanced technique, but of course, we can give it a—”
Jude slips through the mirror behind him with a yawn and a stretch.
JUDE: “I move the Playhouse over their impossible wall, and you give me an early call time? Cruel even for you, Sil.”
SIL: “Jude! Just in time. Alistaire here would like to have a go at Mimicry. Show her the ropes, will you? Greenroom is probably easiest for it.” With a polite wave and a promise he’ll “keep an eye on us,” Sil vanishes through the door.
When he leaves, I ask, “What is the Greenroom?” The Players mention it often in passing, but I haven’t spotted any clear doors or signs that might lead to it.
Jude is already strolling back toward the mirror, summoning a portal through the glass, stopping only to raise a suspicious eyebrow at me. “You want to learn Mimicry?”
I search for an excuse. “I’d rather practice that than Reality Suspension.”
He shrugs as if to say, Fair enough, and steps through the mirror. The lights of the rehearsal room shut off as soon as he does; reluctantly, I follow.
And nearly jump out of my skin when I find what’s on the other side.
The Greenroom is hardly a room at all. It’s a funhouse of reflections, walls entirely made of mirrors. Red—not green—ceilings, oddly enough.
And no door.
“This is the safest spot in the Playhouse,” Jude says while I try to conjure what could be less safe than being trapped with a Player in a room that has no exit. “No one can get in or out of here without Craft.”
I search frantically for somewhere to rest my gaze that doesn’t contain myself. There are mirrors everywhere.
RIVEN: “Why…why do we have to practice here?” Out of places to cast my focus, I look to Jude. “We could go back to the stage.” I’d even prefer that over this.
“You can’t put a costume on onstage,” he taunts.
“Everyone would see!” Catching the barest glimpse of my reflection beyond his shoulder, I scrunch my eyes shut as he prattles on.
“Perception is the heart of Mimicry. We’re never who we appear to be.
” My eyes might be closed, but I can hear the smirk in his voice as his steps move behind me. “Even you, Alistaire. Now! Look up.”
My jaw tenses as I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, shaking my head. Anything to avoid looking at the glass.
Warmth flutters at my shoulders. Jude’s hands guide me forward, closer to the mirrored wall, no doubt. I dig my heels into the floor, let my back press to his chest. “I think maybe I’ve changed my mind,” I say, squirming.
There must be another way around my plan. A way to execute it without Mimicry—
There isn’t. I know that. If there was another way, I’d have found it.
Jude chuckles, the sound rolling through his chest. “You’ll run at Mattia with a dagger, but this frightens you?”
“I can learn Mimicry somewhere else,” I argue, letting my eyes fall open but keeping them trained on the floor. “In another room—”
“If you’re going to put on someone else’s face, you’ll have to get used to your own first.” The cool metal of Jude’s rings grazes my neck where his knuckle hooks under my chin, tugs it upward to face the glass. “And there isn’t a thing wrong with this one. Look up.”
My eyes dart away from my own in the mirror, focusing instead on the place where my head reaches Jude’s shoulder and then, cautiously, all the way up to his eyes.
I expect him to be shaking his head at me in the reflection, to snidely thank me for not biting him or something as he drops his hand away, settles it back on my shoulder.
Instead, he offers an encouraging smile in the mirror.
I blink a few times, unclenching my teeth.
Then, slowly, let my focus fall from Jude to me.
But only to my eyes, which don’t quite look like mine anymore.
The eyes in the mirror widen, larger than they ought to be.
A hundred shades of gold web around my irises, the dull brown forgotten somewhere beneath.
In the center, my pupils glow with a glittering, sinister light.
They look like Jude’s.
Fear coils around my spine at the image, at the evidence of the Craft binding gleaming back at me, undeniable proof of my disloyalty to everything I was raised to believe. How will it look to the council when I bring them Jude? One Player betraying and handing over another.
No. That’s not what I am. I’m not like Jude. I’m not like any of them.
It’s enough to send my eyes slamming shut again.
Jude exhales through his nose, probably annoyed and also probably late for rehearsal. When the weight of his palm lifts off my shoulder, I’m certain he’s frustrated and on his way out. I listen for the sound of his departing footsteps.
Fine. I don’t want to learn this stupid stage trick anyway—
I jump when Jude’s palm closes over my hand instead, guides it upward, toward my face.
It takes a second to remind myself I loathe it—touch. Ever since I can remember. But Jude’s is slow, featherlight; I’m not sure I haven’t imagined it altogether. And I’m not about to open my eyes to find out.
The pads of my fingers flutter across my brow under his hand.
“Did you know this eyebrow arches higher than the other when you’re angry?
” he says. I tamp down the urge to tell him he would know as his hand guides mine down.
“And this little line by your jaw, it tightens when you try to lie to me. You’re getting better at that, by the way.
” Something loosens in my chest, and I startle myself with the small laugh that escapes my throat.
“And here—this mouth.” His hand moves, thumb brushing across my lips.
The air in my lungs seems to go still. “Absolutely vicious. It’s rather lovely when you smile, though.
” Our hands glide up again, the movement easier, more familiar.
The muscles in my shoulders ease, and my mind wanders, curious about the distance between us, wondering what it might feel like to lean into the warmth.
“Your nose wrinkles when you’re trying to work out a problem in that frightfully clever mind of yours.
” His words are closer now, a murmur that tickles my ear.
“And then there are your eyes.” Our hands still at the crease below my lashes.
The hollows beneath don’t feel as deep as I thought they looked.
“They give you away. All your angry little layers, Alistaire, and none of them properly reach your eyes. You might try opening them, though.”
Slowly, carefully, I do.
My eyes flutter open and don’t dart helplessly to some corner of the room again.
They settle on me, on the hollows of my face that don’t look as gaunt as I thought they did before.
On the nose that seems to fit better now, long and curved.
There’s a pinkish hue to my lips that matches the color heating my cheeks, where our hands linger.
I tell myself it’s a trick of the mirror. Some devious Craft Jude has worked on me in the past moment. The face in the mirror is still mine—just different now. Better. Maybe a trick of the light.
“These, by the way”—he clasps my hand a little firmer—“I try to keep an eye on. They’re awfully resourceful. And destructive.”
I consider snatching my wrist away, tempted to interpret it as an insult. But to my own confusion, I don’t want to. I almost smile instead. For a moment, I don’t feel so out of place standing beside Jude.
Reality crashes through my mind at the thought. I am standing far too close to a Player, to arms that are capable of unspeakable violence. The very monster I’m supposed to bring to justice—tonight.
I wrench away from Jude, and he doesn’t try to hold on to me, probably expecting it. He just stares, waiting for me to speak.
“This is a trick,” I say under my breath. Jude is all mind games. This is to keep me on my toes, keep me confused, keep me fighting. I’m no use to him dead. That’s why he’s doing this.
“A trick.” He looks around, like he’s searching for the aforementioned trick. “Alistaire, are you frightened because you hate me or frightened because you don’t?”
That’s what this is about. He can’t stand not being admired by everyone he encounters. This is just a challenge to his ego—
Or, a voice offers in my head. It isn’t a familiar one. It comes from some deep, incomprehensible layer of my mind. Or—