Chapter 45
When the Nomad first informed me that the Eldest Sister’s lair resided not in a cave or dungeon of some sort, but a theater, I had been surprised, to say the least.
Not even an abandoned theater? I’d written.
“She’s not exactly the hermit type,” was all the Nomad had said.
Now that we’re here, dressed for a night on the town, I realize that was not where my misconceptions had stopped.
“Is it not what you were expecting?” asks the Nomad, looking at me slyly.
I stare up at the beautiful theater, red as blood and highlighted by butterfly-shaped lights that flit in a dance across the facade. The trim of the theater is gilded, and the crowd outside, waiting to be let into the show, is humming with anticipation.
I just didn’t expect it to be so…popular.
The Nomad chuckles. “The Eldest Sister likes to be…” The Nomad pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Involved in the lives of mortals.”
This isn’t just involved in the lives of mortals, I think, as I listen to the chatter around me. There’s a couple nearby who have clearly already seen the show who are going on and on about the genius of the writing.
“It’s not enough for her to intertwine her life with those of mortals. She’s woven herself into the culture as well,” says the Nomad, with a glimmer in his eye.
We walk, my arm in his, up to the queue, and I try to ignore the flush burning at my cheeks. I try to ignore the pain in my gut as I shoo away the desire for this to be normal—the Nomad and me, arm in arm, going to see something as simple as a show. As if this could ever be ordinary for us.
I glimpse Phoenix and Acel several paces ahead of us in line, and the nerves creep up my spine. We are all ticketed, so it’s not getting in that concerns me. But I still have a bad feeling about Phoenix. Although I can’t tell if my bad feeling is more about her or the power I’ve yet to see unfold.
The Nomad, under Phoenix’s request, did not tell the rest of us what her role is in the heist. When I’d asked him about it, he said not to worry. That it was more a contingency than anything, and more likely not to be used than the other way around.
Either way, if Phoenix is afraid of her power, and if the Nomad is afraid of her power, I figure it would be unwise for me not to have at least a little bit of healthy fear of it as well.
We file inside. A man dressed in a gaudy red jacket rips the ends off our beautiful gilded tickets.
It seems a shame to defile such a beautiful piece of paper, and I find myself longing to tell the Nomad as much.
But we are being rushed inside, and I don’t have time to pull out my parchment and quill.
And I certainly don’t know the signs for it.
Probably for the best anyway. It’s sharing simple thoughts like these with the Nomad that gets my heart into trouble.
The interior of the theater is just as impressive as the outside.
Sconces in the shape of broken hearts light the interior.
Red velvet carpet directs the audience in the foyer to their seats.
There would have been a time when I would have longed to sit even in the back of the main audience hall to watch a show like this.
But the Nomad has reserved one of the boxes.
He claims it’s for the ease of hiding away from prying eyes—the boxes come with curtains—but I doubt the Nomad would deign to sit with the general public anyway, even if it were the more practical option for one of his schemes.
As we make our way up the steps, an usher dressed in a black tuxedo notes the number on our destroyed tickets and leads us to the corresponding box, explaining that he’ll be around during the intermission should we need refreshments.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” says the Nomad, then adds with a wink, “We’d rather not be disturbed.”
The usher’s degree of professionalism is impressive. I would have rolled my eyes. But the usher simply bows and says, “Very well, sir. Enjoy the evening,” before hurrying off.
We enter the box, and I try not to guffaw.
In my childhood, I would have thought this a spacious living room.
It’s fully decked with a couch that is not quite large enough given who I’ll be sharing it with, and a rolling cart topped with an appetizer tray and an assortment of drinks, all of which sparkle in the dim lighting.
“I would ask you to sit, but I would hate for you to feel as though you had to stand all night,” says the Nomad.
I can’t help my silent chuckle as I find my seat on the couch, but my attention is soon drawn to the stage.
These must be the best seats in the house.
Even with my fae vision, I can trace every detail of the grand drape, stitched with vibrant threads to look like a tapestry.
Even before the show begins, I watch the beginnings of a story unfold.
A fae prince, forced by his father the king to marry.
A celebration feast, during which a line of immaculately dressed women are paraded in front of the miserable prince.
A girl with a serving tray standing separately from the potential brides.
Anger on the king’s face, rebellion on the prince’s, when he declares that girl to be his future wife.
A bloody scene where, on the way back to their home kingdom, they are ambushed by a hooded figure, the king slain.
The prince returning home not only with a new bride, but a crown. The new king and his queen falling in love.
Or so he thinks.
Betrayal. The queen and her lover conspiring to kill the king.
A king who discovers the plot.
A decree that has his citizens horror-struck, though since there are no words woven into the tapestry, I can’t tell what it is.
“Don’t get too invested,” whispers the Nomad into my ear. “I wouldn’t want you to be too disappointed in our missing the second half. Though, I will say, the twist is quite shocking.”
You’ve seen it? I sign.
“Something like that,” says the Nomad.
Instead of pressing the Nomad for an explanation he’s clearly not going to give up, I look for Acel and Phoenix. I find them in the box directly across the theater from ours, Phoenix doing her best to look like Acel’s date, Acel probably also doing his best but failing drastically.
“You would think, by the way he’s tensed up,” says the Nomad, “that the princess herself was in attendance, watching them.”
I smile, contradicting the worry in my chest. Don’t poke too much fun at him. I think it’s honorable that he doesn’t even like to pretend with another woman, regardless of whether the princess is here to see him or not.
“Honorable, maybe,” says the Nomad. “But not clever. If he were clever, and the princess were here, he would lean into pretending.”
That’s not clever—it’s devious, I write. And unnecessary. The princess already knows she loves him. There’s no reason to make her jealous.
The Nomad’s mouth ticks upward, mischievously. “You don’t think there’s any fun in it? Watching the question in someone’s eyes as he stays near you, as he watches you with another man—wondering if every smile, every graze of the elbow, every laugh is a symptom of something deeper?”
My skin goes hot. Is he baiting me right now? Does he actually wonder if something is going on between me and Acel?
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been avoiding—” His words are cut off by the dimming of the lights, the orchestra sounding, and the curtains drawing open. I welcome the interruption, my spine going rigid.
An elderly man takes the stage. The decree that issues from his mouth is cruel. Crushed by his beloved wife’s betrayal, the king will enact his revenge on the women of the city. Once a month, he will take a human bride from among his people.
The next morning, he will slaughter her publicly.
He will continue to do so until a woman offers herself freely.
A shiver courses through me at the actor’s words.
“Love is a dangerous thing, don’t you think?” whispers the Nomad. “It makes people wild. Obsessive. Makes them forget. Makes them overlook the monsters they’re with.”
He turns his head toward me, his gaze a challenge. I swallow and go back to watching the play. To watching a hooded figure push through the crowd of actors. When she runs into a gang of men, one of them pulls off her hood, revealing a face mangled by burn wounds. An eye socket missing its contents.
The crowd gasps. Whispers dance through the audience, wondering if it’s stage cosmetics, or if the girl herself is injured (and did the Eldest do it, I wonder), but I’ve no time to watch the fate of the girl.
This is our signal to move. Across the playhouse, Acel and Phoenix draw the curtain of their box.
It’s time, I sign, and the Nomad makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a grumble, then grabs the rope hanging from the ceiling. One tug, and the curtains are drawn, bathing us in shadows.
Only the Nomad’s blue eyes glitter in the dark.
He moves swiftly, pulling me from the couch by the hand and out into the hallway. Out here, it’s empty, except for the attendant who saw to our needs earlier.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
“Show’s great, but my wife—” the Nomad says, pointing to me, although I have no idea what’s about to come out of his mouth next.
He hadn’t shared with me that we were playing a married couple, and now I’m wondering if I should have worn a ring.
“She’s with child, you see, and still not over her illness. ”
The attendant holds up both palms as if to say, say no more. “The ladies’ room is down the hall to the left,” he says.
“Thank you,” says the Nomad, then rushes me down the hall.
I wait for him to make some joke about me carrying his baby, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks straight ahead, sadness cut on the edge of his jaw.
Before I have a chance to examine that, he sweeps me into an alcove. There’s a window here, and he shoves it open with his palms. Thankfully, the building is nice enough that it doesn’t creak.
“See you on the other side?” says the Nomad.