Chapter 11
Eleven
“Again!” The Player’s clap cracks across the sand as she paces where the audience will sit come nightfall. “But this time, with passion.”
Declan exhales through his nose, while I clutch my script, if my frantic scribbles about Fourth Wing can be called a script.
We’re halfway through our retelling, or at least my very loose interpretation of it, and apparently we’re failing to convey the life-or-death yearning of dragon riders in love.
The Player sweeps up the ramp, crimson sleeves whispering against the planks.
“Story Witch,” she declares, “you speak of their love, yet it sounds as though young Xavier and Viola are merely trapped within the same verses. And Mr. Thorne”—her gaze flicks to him—“you must want her words, not merely endure them.”
“I’m trying,” Declan says flatly.
“Try harder.” Her bracelets clink as she gestures between us. “When the Story Witch breathes, your eyes should follow the air itself. When she speaks of suffering, you should ache for her. When she looks at you—”
“Burst into flames?” he mutters.
A delighted smile curls her painted mouth. “Now that would be a show worth watching.”
After another hour of acting notes and critique, the Player finally dismisses us with a regal flick of her wrist and an instruction to “find the thread between story and soul.”
As we move through the bustling backstage, Declan leans closer. “Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”
I inhale like I’m about to deliver something profound, then sigh. “Nope. Although I do feel like we just went through couples counseling.”
Declan murmurs his agreement as we push through the curtain and are immediately intercepted by Dav, sword at his hip, expression carved into its usual scowl. A dark bruise shadows the edge of his jaw right where Declan hit him last night.
“You can take your next meal in the market while tending one of the food stalls,” he barks.
Declan tilts his chin. “You volunteered us for another job, didn’t you?”
Dav’s mouth twitches. “Consider it an opportunity to make yourselves useful instead of ornamental.”
Declan smirks and motions toward the bruise. “How’s your jaw?”
“Move.” His nostrils flare as he jerks his head toward the path.
I yawn so hard my eyes water. “I am way too tired to run or fight anyone off today, so maybe try not to get us into more shit than we’re already in.”
“I didn’t sleep well either.” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, a slow drag that makes it hard to remember what breathing is. His gaze finds mine, dark and burning, and holds.
Heat flares beneath my skin, memory crashing over me in a rush of rough hands and cool water and what would’ve happened if he hadn’t slept on the floor.
“I kept thinking about—”
“Our performance tonight?” I cut in quickly. “Yes. Me too.”
“Sure,” he says softly. “Our performance.”
We brush against each other as we step into the market stall. Even through the fabric of my dress, the contact sends a shiver up my arm I pretend not to notice.
The stall’s table is stacked with honeyed fruits, smoked meats, and small loaves of crusty bread. Declan and I drop onto a narrow bench. Fennel spots us from across the market and rushes over, Cinder clinging to his back like a furry pirate captain.
Declan starts picking at the offerings, eating figs and slices of cured meat with his fingers, while I tear off bits of bread and assemble apple, pear, and meat finger sandwiches like it’s a spread for adult Lunchables.
Fennel collapses half under the table, half in the sun, snoring contentedly with his head on my foot. My toes go numb, but I don’t have the heart to move him.
Dav prowls a few paces away, scanning the market like everyone’s a potential assassin. A boy no older than ten wanders too close to a spice stall, fingers hovering over a pyramid of garlic bulbs. Dav barks a command harsh enough to make the kid flinch and nearly topple the whole display.
“My queen,” Declan murmurs and lifts Cinder onto his lap. Immediately, she starts purring and licking honey from his shirt. He strokes her head with a gentleness that makes me wish I could curl up in his lap too.
Cinder rubs her sticky head under his chin, and he laughs. It’s a low, rumbling sound that sends my pulse skittering.
I tear off another piece of bread, more forcefully than necessary. “We need to talk about what we’re doing,” I say under my breath, keeping my smile pasted on for anyone who might be watching. “We can’t just wait around for Fortune to reappear.”
Declan leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice pitched low enough to hide beneath the market chatter. “Maybe there’s a way to speak to the queens. They have influence, power. If anyone else knows how magick works here it’s them.”
He reaches for another fig, and a glob of honey plops onto Cinder’s head. She blinks up at him, offended, while he chuckles and wipes her fur clean.
A blur of silk skirts and jangling beads barrels toward the stall. Three girls no older than sixteen skid to a stop in front of me, breathless and wide-eyed.
“Oh, by the gods, it’s her! You are truly spectacular,” the one in the middle gasps, clasping her hands like I just descended from a cloud.
Her cheeks are flushed pink from running, her crystal-blue eyes glittering like chips of polished quartz.
Gold bangles slide down her wrists, clinking as she bounces on her toes.
“The Story Witch,” the girl on her left breathes, her round face framed by golden curls she immediately wraps nervously around her finger.
The cluster of freckles scattered across her nose crinkle with her wide grin.
“We saw you at rehearsal, but we couldn’t speak then.
As soon as we were released, we had to come find you—the brilliant storyteller! ”
Their adoration lands like glitter bombs, and suddenly I’m sparkly, dazzling. My chest fizzes and warms like I just chugged a bottle of champagne.
“Who, me?” I scoff, batting at the air with theatrical modesty. “No way!”
“Celine!” the girl in the middle shrieks, seizing the third one by the shoulders. “Celine! I have forgotten my question. What was my question?!”
Celine shrugs her off and smooths her sleek black braid over one shoulder. Her gaze slides past me to Declan, and she leans across the counter, lashes fluttering. “So, you’re the Mr. Thorne.”
Declan freezes. Color drains from his face. He looks at me, then at Cinder, who is shooting glowing yellow daggers at the young woman. “I—uh—” He clears his throat. “I should probably see if I can’t arrange an audience with the queens.”
“Wait, we haven’t—” I start, but he’s already charging across the market, waving down Dav with Cinder draped across his broad shoulders like a smoky cape.
“Oh, wait! I remember now.” The girl at the center claps her hands together. “The vanishing act. How did you do it? You were there, and then—poof—you were gone.”
“Nessa has not ceased speaking about it,” the one on the left says, still fiddling with her curls.
“Romy,” Nessa whines, jabbing her friend in the side with her elbow.
“Ow! What? It’s true. You’ve spoken of little else. I think it was wondrous too, but honestly, it’s all you’ve spoken about since last night.”
Celine, lips tilted in a pout at Declan’s escape, pushes off the counter and folds her arms over her chest. “It must have been some trick built into the stage. Not true magick. No one possess real magick anymore. It’s all misdirection and illusions.”
“And what of the storm of smoke that carried her onto the stage?” Nessa demands, one hand on her hip. By Celine’s exaggerated eye roll, I can tell this isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument. “Do you suppose she used great hidden fans?”
Celine purses her lips and blows out a sharp exhale through her nose.
Nessa spins back to me, her whole face brightening again. “Can you teach us? Please? We wish to learn your Story Witch ways.”
“Yes!” Romy blurts, nodding so hard her heavy gold earrings slap her cheeks. “It would make our performances that much better! Everyone would turn their heads from the same old fire tricks to watch us.”
Celine shrugs, inspecting her braid as if she’s only partially invested. “I suppose there is always room to improve. The queens do not look kindly on stale acts.”
I straighten and brush the crumbs from my lap. “You want me to…teach a class?”
“Yes!” Nessa squeals, clasping her hands like she might explode if I say no. “Please teach us.”
Heat swells in my chest, bright and buoyant.
After everything that’s happened, it’s a relief to have someone look at me like I’m actually in control.
Last night’s performance might have been built on a borrowed plot and magick that I had nothing to do with, but these girls don’t care.
To them, I’m powerful. I’m the Story Witch.
And maybe I’ve tripped and fallen directly into my calling.
“I can’t teach the disappearing act—”
“I thought as much.” Nessa nods gravely. “You’d want to keep that one and the smoke cyclone for yourself.”
“Yeah…” I clear my throat, trying to sound mysterious instead of panicked.
“But I can teach you about something else. A class I’ve been working on.
It’s about using manifestation and scripting to shape the energy around you,” I continue, slipping into my practiced cadence, “so you can move through the world protected by intention and what you choose to project.”
This is a chance for me to perfect my newest class offering.
More than that, it’ll truly help these girls stay positive and put the kind of armor in place that people like to see, that they expect.
Our worlds are different, but I know that the messy softness—the kind that’s real, the kind that hurts—is best kept hidden no matter where they are.