Act II Scene XV
If I were to guess how long it takes me to get back upstairs for the second half of the show, based on Sil’s face when I reach the wings: too long.
SIL: “Where in the hells have you been?”
I decide not to tell him I was downstairs slaying his Prop Master or that I was nearly murdered by a dead Player who I assume is now extra dead. I also don’t tell him that I had to hide in silence for another ten minutes before Nyxene drifted back upstairs.
It took breaking Marigold’s ankle with a hammer to get that Eleutheraen chain off, which probably would have taken less time if I didn’t have to keep pausing to retch into the nearest corner. Even if Marigold was a monster, I can’t help but wonder at what point I became capable of this.
But I have it. I have the chain. I’m getting out of here tonight. It’s all I can do to hide the excited little skip in my step.
Instead of admitting any of this to Sil, I smile politely and say, “The Greenroom. Napping.” To be fair, I did go to the Greenroom to drop off the chain in a leather pack, along with a crossbow I snatched from the armory behind Marigold’s workbench.
Sil’s face says he doesn’t believe me. Then he shoves me onto the stage.
After the shadows in Marigold’s lair, the warmth of the stage is overwhelmingly welcome. Like crawling under your sheets and falling asleep after a long day. The ice in my lungs dislodges as I speak my lines.
Then they don’t feel like lines anymore.
Hours melt into days and then years. Or maybe it’s just been a few minutes by the time my world ends with the crash of a closing curtain and the storm of applause roaring outside it.
Reality hits like a hailstorm as I follow Titus offstage and the other Players exit in the opposite direction.
What looked like the set piece of a brick alley a moment ago suddenly looks more like the wings now.
And what looked like two strangers arguing in that alley are no longer strangers—they’re Sil and Jude, standing backstage.
Pity Jude couldn’t have stayed dead just a bit longer. That’s going to complicate things.
“Fantastic job, Alistaire!” congratulates Sil just as Jude interrupts with, “You need to take my face off. Now.”
“What? Jealous she wore it better?” Titus asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
Jude grits his teeth. “You’ve been in costume too long—Sil, tell her. It’s dangerous—”
“Our Alistaire looks just fine to me. Don’t forget, there’s still curtain call!”
The curtain flies open, and from the opposite side of the stage, Parrish and Arius approach the glaring spotlights, shattering the illusion of the show as they whirl into fond farewells.
Titus follows with gracious “Thank you”s before joining the others off to the side.
Mattia crosses the platform next, dropping into a graceful, low bow. The applause slows, confusion stirring at Jude’s—my—absence.
Sil takes the stage next, and the audience flies into hysterics as he bows.
SIL: “I’m proud to announce we had somewhat of a surprise this evening.”
I will the stage to open up and swallow me whole, already puzzling out what’s about to happen. Now that Jude’s back on his feet, Sil is going to spin it like this cast change was intentional.
“Alistaire,” says Jude softly and coughs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell. And that’s really saying something, considering you look like me at the moment.”
Instead of admitting that I had a little scuffle downstairs with the Prop Master, I take in the dark circles under his eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin, and mutter back, “And you look like you spent most of today being dead.”
SIL: “You’ll notice we are short one face on this stage. That of our Lead Player? You see, just earlier today, we found one of our casting call’s own was secretly harboring an affinity for Mimicry the Playhouse hasn’t seen since the likes of our most beloved Player Atlas.”
The audience shouts their approval. I pass over the archives of my mind, recalling Mattia slaughtered Atlas in the arena. I remember this mostly because it’s the only match so bloody that, at first, no one thought either survived.
SIL: “So! Just for you, tonight we invited this surprising new talent to share her discovery. A force to be reckoned with in this year’s casting call. Everyone, welcome Alistaire Hunt!”
The audience shatters into a storm of cheers and whistles as Jude and I cross center stage. The applause stills a little in confusion, unsure who is who until Sil calls, “A perfect imitation, no? Come this way, Alistaire!”
Reluctantly, I resume the long walk off the main platform and into its round center by myself, surrounded on all sides by faces and screams as I nervously descend into a bow.
My heart hammers in my ears as I come back up, the sea of eyes dizzying.
I have told fourteen lies today, and this is by far the biggest. But I’m almost done.
I’ll be gone in the next thirty minutes tops.
Jude joins me on the platform and takes his bow, gesturing to me again and then clapping himself. A strange feeling flutters, birdlike, near my heart.
This almost feels…good? No, that’s not the word.
Right. It feels right. For a moment, I feel like a puzzle piece, one that’s been sitting in the wrong box for years, too jagged for other pictures.
Until now.
Disgust surfaces at the thought, and I shove the feeling away just as quickly.
I turn my eyes coldly to Jude and hope he enjoys his final curtain call.
…
Sil orders everyone to change and be at the stage door in twenty minutes.
“Be ready to talk. Smiles, my Players, all of you! Paraskenia’s journalists will flood the media with smears by morning.” He turns to me. “And, Alistaire, let us see your face once more. Perhaps stop by the Greenroom first and take off this costume?”
Anticipating this, I nod. And shortly thereafter, burst into the Greenroom while the Players return to their dressing rooms to change.
It’s empty. The destruction from Jude teaching me Mimicry earlier today is nowhere to be seen. The mirrors are perfectly restored on all four walls.
I guess Jude was right. The set doesn’t like to be messed with.
It’s getting darker, which means I’m not supposed to be in here. I’m supposed to follow the lights back up to the dressing rooms and then to the stage door.
Of course, I will be doing neither of these things.
After extracting the pack and crossbow I stashed behind the costume rack, I stalk up to the mirror and stare into my—well, Jude’s—reflection.
I recall the sound of my own voice, the curve of my jaw, the slightly crooked raise of my left eyebrow.
The healing scars beneath my collar. The white birthmark across the right side of my neck.
An intense pressure releases from my skin, the air suddenly cooler. When I blink again, it’s my own set of gold-and-ochre eyes staring back, widening as I take in my reflection.
I’m almost me. Except new cords of muscle have begun to swell at my legs, my arms. My frame looks fuller, stronger. If my reflection is to be believed, my hair has grown, reaching my shoulders. Hesitantly, I touch a hand to my jaw, longer and sharper now.
Backing away from the mirror, I yank my collar, expecting the wound of my mark to be irritated from the pressure of the Jude costume I wore all day.
But there’s no damage there at all. It’s healing.
The lights flicker off, and I curse at the dark—
Only, it isn’t entirely dark. I spin, frantically searching for wherever that soft golden light pressing around me is coming from.
When I realize: It’s me. The light is coming from me, a flicker of gold radiating just above my skin. That same golden glow that hovers around the Players. It pulses painfully over the place where my Eleutheraen mark once was.
The Craft binding. This is Jude’s. His Craft has already sunk into my skin, my veins. My mark isn’t there to deter it anymore.
It’s time to get out of here. I tighten the strap of my pack back to my own form, but not before checking that my Eleutheraen knife and Marigold’s chain are secured inside.
Gripping the crossbow and my single Eleutheraen arrow, I conjure a gateway within the Playhouse like Jude taught me to and plunge through the mirror.
Right into Jude’s dressing room. I point my arrow high, right at his heart.
“Hello, Jude,” I say.