Act III Scene XXXIV
I don’t dare call for Jude as I hurry through the Playhouse antechamber. The last thing I need is for Nyxene to hear me shouting. We’re both so far off script, there’s no telling what the Stage Manager will do if she finds us.
But Jude won’t be able to hold Sil off by himself—not so long as Sil holds that Script.
A shudder racks my body as I pass by that gilded arch of ghastly faces I noticed the first night I stepped into the Playhouse. They don’t look like they did that night.
They’re melting, their bright smiles drooping into tragic expressions. Everywhere I look, rust flowers across the walls, mold eating away at the gilded edges.
The Playhouse groans beneath my feet like a sinking ship, welcoming its captains who have returned to sink with it. Each step forward sends tiny fractures skittering across the open, empty floor. There’s one relief. Thank the gods, the audience has fled.
My pulse races as I hurry through the melting arch.
Parting the torn curtain, I enter the lobby, discovering a rotting display of golden chandeliers and split railings leading up cracked stairs.
And Jude, striding halfway across the room, comes to a sharp halt at the sound of my step.
His shoulders shake with laughter, and I think he curses before turning to cast a glare my way.
“Of course,” he says. “Why would you stay put? My fault for expecting you to do something you have absolutely never done.” He’s trying to sound lighthearted, but the strain in his tone gives him away.
“Every finale.” I repeat his own words from last night back to him as I run across the lobby. “You said every finale.”
The ground rumbles again as the nearest column ruptures violently up the center and into the ceiling. The Playhouse is not a building. It’s an illusion, one crumbling quickly with all of its Players off script and abandoning their roles.
Something between mutual understanding and a grim sense of acceptance settles in the air between us. “We’d best not be late for the last one, then,” Jude says, offering his hand.
Overhead, one of the chandeliers droops lower, hanging precariously crooked.
This theatre is about to collapse on both of us.
Jude sighs. “I’m going to assume you have one of your charming little plans cooked up.”
“It’s definitely one of my worst, yes,” I agree as dust flutters down like snow.
“Riven,” he says, eyes following the damage. It’s falling apart about as fast as we are. “Whatever happens…” He searches for words.
“I know,” I say, nodding and catching my breath, picturing what I wrote across his mirror. “In the next, then.”
I take his hand as we run over shattered marble, past portraits whose shapes and colors have begun to sickeningly bleed into each other, their frames sagging toward the ground.
“I’ll admit, love,” he says, “I have never been so grateful to see your scheming face.”