Chapter 1 #2
“What did you say your names were?” the man asks, and Mallory looks up, fully registering his presence.
He’s wearing a long dark coat with the collar pulled high, the edges skimming the hard lines of his jaw. Black pants. Black boots. The pale slices of his cheekbones gather shadows in the dim light, and Mallory’s mouth suddenly feels like cotton.
“Mallory Webb,” she answers. “And Arden Thatcher. We’re first-years.”
He nods, dark green eyes cutting toward the shelves. “Here.” He reaches for a bin of vintage scarves and handkerchiefs. “Use this. To wrap your hand, I mean.”
“What? Absolutely not.” Disgust blossoms on Arden’s face. “Mal, don’t listen to him. You’ll get sepsis or something.”
The dark-haired man gives Arden an amused smile as he pulls out a lace-trimmed white handkerchief embroidered with violet flowers. “I’m fairly certain the theater department is obligated to wash these. She’s got to stop the bleeding before she passes out.” He turns to Mallory. “May I?”
Too lightheaded to argue, Mallory nods. She extends her wounded palm to this stranger, trying not to notice how large his hands are, or the engraved silver rings on his long, bony fingers.
But her face flushes anyway as she anticipates what’s sure to be a firm grip, the meticulous way he’ll clean her up, the—
“I’ll do it,” Arden says suddenly, snatching Mallory’s hand before he can.
“Wait,” the man protests as Arden plucks the handkerchief, “that’s going to—”
Arden flattens the cloth into Mallory’s palm, and Mal cries out at the swift sting.
“Hurt,” he finishes with a sympathetic wince.
Breathless and dizzy, Mallory holds his gaze over Arden’s shoulder.
He’s far too old to be a first-year, but too young to be a professor.
She studies his face, trying to recall if she saw him at orientation, and something flips inside her at the inquisitive way he’s staring right back. As if he’s trying to place her, too.
Arden drops the bloodied handkerchief onto the counter. “I can take it from here,” she clips, snatching a second scarf from the basket. She softens her tone. “Thanks, though.”
“You seem like a good friend,” he says as Arden winds the cloth around Mallory’s hand. “If she starts to feel weak, or her temperature drops, take her to a hospital.” He returns his attention to Mallory. “No audition is worth hypovolemic shock.”
Mallory fiddles with her hair, unsure how to tell both this stranger and Arden that she’s been clawing her way toward this moment for years. Tonight isn’t just an audition—it’s the first crucial step in unraveling the knotted pieces of her past.
Because her mother went to this school.
Like her mother before. And before. And before.
If she spends the next four years at Shore College, perhaps she can find answers to the questions that have plagued her for her entire life. What was my mother like? What did she dream about? Who did she hope to become?
What, exactly, killed her?
Instead of saying any of that, though, Mallory forces her mouth into another smile.
“I’m a big girl,” she says, looking right at him. “I can handle a little blood.”
Inside the theater, Mallory shakily fills out her audition form with her left hand, trying to ignore the whispers around her. Do you know when the cast list is going up? I can’t believe Winston fucking Hendrix is directing this….
Somewhere along the line, students nicknamed Shore’s theater “the Crypt,” an apt moniker for a space perpetually bathed in darkness.
Endless tiers of metallic scaffolding loom like a space station, while red velvet curtains form the gaping mouth of a cave.
Rows of cushioned scarlet chairs flank the stage on three sides, each seat bearing a plaque in memory of a deceased professor or alum.
Mallory doesn’t have to look to know that the third seat in the thirteenth row holds a constant reminder of the way her past and present are all tangled up.
In memory of Jasmine Webb, Class of 1977
She’d first spotted her mother’s plaque during orientation and assumed Aunt Penelope was behind it.
Mallory has called Penelope “aunt” her entire life, even though she’s not a relative by blood—just a close family friend, and Mallory’s legal guardian since her mother’s passing.
Penelope has always been a human vault, containing countless stories about Mallory’s mother yet keeping most of them locked up.
When Mallory asked about the plaque, Penelope denied responsibility.
It must’ve been an anonymous donor, she reasoned. Your mother had many friends at school.
Mallory traces the edges of her locket now. The brass and ruby butterfly is the only item she has left of her mother, and touching it usually comforts her.
But tonight, there’s only a vague sense of dread, coupled with a question that’s been emerging since that rotten smell permeated her nostrils in the dressing room.
If something happened to my mother at this school, could it happen to me, too?
“Good evening, everyone!”