Act II Scene XI #2
Before I can think through it, before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry a step forward, stopping right in front of him.
Jude watches me back, entirely still and relaxed as I reach up.
But my hand isn’t as steady as his. It shakes uneasily as the tips of my fingers graze over the curve of his cheekbones, along his brow, his dark lashes tickling the side of my hand.
I mimic all of his motions. His face seems more familiar now, in a nice way.
It isn’t hard to see why an audience of thousands would fall in love with him from their velvet seats. I imagine it’s hard not to fall for his charms; he’s crafted from the same stuff as the Playhouse—from beauty, from pride, from that obscure likeability some people seem to be born with.
My palm glides down the curve of his jaw, stays there, out of places to explore but not quite ready to let go.
Unsure why I don’t want to. My eyes flicker up to his, which are still watching me, softer than before.
A confusing twinge of something pinches in my chest when Jude catches my hand, lingering and frozen in place.
My heart downright begins stuttering over its own beats when he guides my open palm to his lips, presses it to his mouth.
Alarm bells ring in my head. Loudly. I jerk backward. I’m not falling for whatever ploy this is—whatever charms Jude unleashes on anyone who stumbles into his path.
“I—” It occurs to me I’m out of breath. I drop my arms to my sides, recovering my common sense. “I’m ready to learn Mimicry now.”
Jude blinks a few times, like he can’t remember what we were talking about. Then, nodding stiffly, gestures at the mirror. “Right, then.” He clears his throat. “First things first. Find your bridge.”
I throw him a funny look. “But I’m not onstage.”
He gestures around us. “You don’t have to be. The world is your stage.”
Gritting my teeth but remembering Marigold—and that chain shackled around her ankle—I relent. I need that chain. And I need this plan to work—tonight. “Methexis.”
A world of glass blooms beneath my feet, and tendrils of gold twist there, reaching for my heels. I tug on my anger, struggling still to banish that funny feeling from a moment ago. It takes a second before I can summon it to the surface, until the warmth of Craft floods through my veins.
JUDE: “Perfect. Now, I want you to picture a face—one deeply familiar, easy to Mimic.”
I riffle through my mind, searching for faces. Except, any familiar ones could endanger them.
Maybe sensing this, Jude nods. “Yes, mine is an option.” He leans over my shoulder and adds, “No one could blame you.” And I internally vow to Mimic him with a big fat nose and crooked teeth once I get the hang of it.
JUDE: “When you look in the mirror, do not see yourself. Imagine you’re looking at me.
My eyes. My mouth. Speak and hear my voice.
Mimicry is all about intention. Imagine you know me, inside and out.
Become me. Let Craft take over, envelop you.
” He stalls. “The Playhouse will want something in return, though.”
There it is. “Come again?”
JUDE: “Think of it as borrowing a costume. The Playhouse expects it to be returned. It will want something of you. A deposit—a promise that you’ll return what you’ve taken.”
RIVEN: “What sort of deposit?”
JUDE: “The longer you’re in the costume of someone else, the less you’ll remember what’s beneath it. You may begin to lose pieces of yourself—your memories, your thoughts—if you wear it for too long.”
I study the mirror, noticing the strange way the brunette of my hair has started to deepen, darker.
Redder.
“You mean me,” I say. “My memories are the deposit.”
“The fade won’t begin until you’ve been in costume awhile. The distant, older sort of memories go first. Then maybe…more important details.”
“Always a catch, isn’t there.”
“Do you know why there are so many mirrors, Alistaire?” he asks.
“Because theatre is, itself, a reflection. When an audience sits before us, we’re not here to tell them about us.
We are here to tell them about them. A conduit of catharsis, body and soul.
So long as you’re in the Playhouse, you will always give something. ”
I have to punch down the bile fighting its way up my throat, biting my tongue. A strange, freeing sensation wraps around my limbs. Then I can’t quite remember what I’m doing.
From the ground, Craft hums, pulses through me.
JUDE: “You are me.”
The words, sudden and spirited, fly from my lips. “You are me.”
I force the intention of it into the mirror, braving the face there.
Silence fills my world as I stare deep into my reflection and repeat Jude’s voice in my head: My eyes. My mouth. Speak and hear my voice.
Warmth washes over my skin and, as it does, my features mold and shift, sharpening.
The spitting image of Jude stares back at me from the glass. With it, though, I feel a strange sense of emptiness. An urgency to remember my own name.
I stare at my hands, at the forest-green sleeves that match the ones Jude wears now.
The floor is farther away than it was before when I peer down.
There’s a tickle at my neck from the brush of copper hair, the texture coarser than I’m used to.
My arms feel heavier at my sides, woven with muscle.
I reach one up to find the pinch in my nose—a golden ring.
I’m Jude. And the Jude beside me has lost all sense of dignity.
“Look at you!” he yells, clapping his hands and then waving them at the mirror. I’m about to tell him to pipe down, except he’s right. I did it. Even if he doesn’t know it, this is my ticket out. My mind lays out the pieces, every detail—each part of my plan until it hits me.
I’m leaving the Playhouse. Tonight. And so is Jude.
A peculiar shadow zips behind him in the reflection. What was that?
My eyes widen, and I turn to track the figure when Jude steps in the way, blocking my view.
JUDE: “Incredible, Alistaire! Oh—well, almost. There should be a single freckle right here.” He taps the left side of my face below my eye.
RIVEN: “Wait—” My voice has dropped an octave, fuller and glassy. “Something is…in here.”
JUDE: “A near-perfect imitation! Brilliant. Brilliant.”
Alistaire. The name drives a splintering confusion through my mind. My name is Jude—I think? No, that’s not right, either.
I catch sight of that odd shadow as it flutters by again, closer. “Something is—something is in here,” I try again, more urgent.
The shadow darts by once more, gathering in a single mirror at the center of the room, solidifying into something—into a figure—into—
Before Jude can react, the figure, sleek and quick, slips through one mirror and disappears into the next.
“Hesper,” hisses a voice. A voice I’m sure I’ve heard before. Feminine, soft, familiar.
It’s so out of place, even Jude momentarily forgets his insistence, venturing up to the glass. “That’s not right,” is all he says, suspicious.
A flash of white solidifies in the mirror again, no longer a shadow but—
A woman in the mirror, fashioned in layers of white, torn at the hems and sleeves.
She glimmers, her skin chipping like paint from her face to her fingertips, gold gleaming right beneath. Her eyes bleed like the sun.
Gene Hunt.
Alive, in the flesh—barely. There’s a curious, sad smile on her lips, unlike the mask of unceasing shock Jude wears.
Her hair runs longer than it does in her portrait, curled into shimmering, brandy-colored locks. Several clumps are missing, leaving bald patches on the side of her head. Like a child’s doll that’s been played with too rough.
I can’t move. I’ve never seen anything so maliciously beautiful.
Somewhere, Sil is yelling, but it sounds distant, muffled, as if through a window, like he’s trying to get into the room, but I can’t tell from where.
Jude has only the time to incredulously speak the name “Gene” before a vibrant and guttural scream erupts from her lips.
The splintering of mirrors runs in circles around us like broken ice as I clap my hands over my ears.
What the hell is happening?
Half the room shatters, and a sharp, angry storm rains down as we drop for cover on instinct. I shield my eyes, peeking through my fingers at the display of glitter blanketing the ground. Slowly, I look to Jude, then to the broken mirror, empty of any ghosts now as we struggle to our feet.
Then I feel it. A suffocating, visceral presence just behind us.
A searing silence lingers between Jude and me as we turn.
The woman in white is no longer bound by mirrors. She’s in the flesh, standing before us.
Gene Hunt. Her eyes are shiny, bobbing between Jude, then me, then Jude before settling on just one—the one who moves to put himself between the ghost and me.
With a final shriek that sends my ears ringing, she lunges for Jude.