CHAPTER ONE
Sev-eral weeks ear-lier
The spot-lights shone white-gold from the back of the the-ater, ren-der-ing the row of cast-ing di-rec-tors in front of them head-less.
I clutched a blank sheet of pa-per in my hands. A fake let-ter from Mac-beth.
“What thou art promised: yet do I fear thy na-ture; / It is too full o’th’ milk of hu-man kind-ness / To catch the near-est way. Thou wouldst be great, / Art not with-out am-bi-tion, but with-out / The ill-ness should at-tend it. What thou wouldst highly, / That wouldst thou ho-lily; wouldst not play false / And yet wouldst wrongly win.”
My voice was a stac-cato rat-tle, fraught but also re-strained, heated but con-trolled, like stok-ing a coal fur-nace. I im-bued the Lady’s scorn-ful lines with an un-der-cur-rent of jeal-ousy, hunger, let-ting her need for power burn through the words. Am-bi-tion was not too dif-fi-cult an emo-tion to ac-cess, given how much I wanted this lead.
And I knew in my bones I was go-ing to get it.
I’d spent my whole life play-ing the part of Penny Pax-ton, daugh-ter of an icon. Act-ing felt as nat-u-ral to me as breath-ing. So if the old adage was true—that it took ten thou-sand hours to mas-ter a craft—then no-body could come close to me.
But god, I was ner-vous. I was so ner-vous that my vi-sion black-ened and starred, and I had to blink fu-ri-ously to bring my-self back into the room. Fear coiled around my stom-ach like a python crush-ing its prey, and I couldn’t fight the feel-ing that I wanted to be some-where else. Any-where else.
It was the first week of a three-year un-der-grad-u-ate pro-gram at Do-rian Drama Acad-emy. The au-di-tions for the win-ter pro-duc-tion of Mac-beth were open, and my fel-low first years sat along the front few rows, watch-ing, en-rap-tured, some-thing like envy writ-ten on their faces. Ev-ery-one here was ex-cel-lent—you had to be, to get into Do-rian—but they could feel the pal-pa-ble ten-sion in the room. A crackle in the air, min-gled with the scent of hair-spray and dusty vel-vet chairs.
I just had to hope it was for my tal-ent, not my name.
When I fin-ished the au-di-tion piece, mur-murs rip-pled through the small crowd. The stern-faced cast-ing di-rec-tor puffed air through her lips. Fraser Li, the fa-vorite for Mac-beth, climbed to his feet and clapped rap-tur-ously. I fizzed with pride. None of the other au-di-tions had gar-nered such a re-sponse—it was very much the modus operandi to pre-tend not to be im-pressed by your ri-vals.
I left stage right, and a blonde girl with bright red glasses was wring-ing her hands in the wings. She was up next, and looked ex-actly how I felt in-side: small, ter-ri-fied. De-tached from her peers. Alone in some fun-da-men-tal way.
“You were amaz-ing,” she whis-pered, click-ing her knuck-les. Heavy red cur-tains fell around us in stiff waves. “How do I fol-low that? Shit. I should have cho-sen a dif-fer-ent so-lil-o-quy.”
Her self-con-scious-ness yanked me back to my first-ever au-di-tion. I was ten years old, vy-ing for the role of Mary in the pri-mary school na-tiv-ity play. By then I had started to un-der-stand my mother’s fame in a more real sense—the stares, the gasps, the way peo-ple lit-er-ally fainted in her pres-ence. I also un-der-stood the fact that she did not shower me with love the way the other par-ents did to their own kids. My young brain had drawn a wob-bly line be-tween the two re-al-i-ties, con-clud-ing that if I could fol-low in her foot-steps, maybe I would fi-nally earn her love.
Un-for-tu-nately, I could barely get the words out dur-ing the au-di-tion, and pure ter-ror caused quite a se-ri-ous ac-ci-dent in my daisy-print un-der-wear. Re-becca Mur-ray was cast in-stead. Mum didn’t even blink at the news. I’d thrown the un-der-wear in the tam-pon bin at school, so she wouldn’t have to see what I’d done.
I never wanted any-one to feel how I’d felt back then—even if they were my com-pe-ti-tion.
“You’re here for a rea-son, okay? You’ve got this.” I reached out and squeezed the ner-vous girl’s shoul-der, even though phys-i-cal af-fec-tion didn’t come nat-u-rally to me.
She was white as a sheet. “The words have to-tally left my brain. I’m go-ing to for-get my lines, and ev-ery-one’s go-ing to think I’m a mo-ron. Youth the-ater was one thing, but this … maybe I’m not cut out for…”
Sym-pa-thy twisted through me as she trailed off. Do-rian was no am-a-teur dra-mat-ics. The stakes were so much higher, the au-di-ences so much more dis-cern-ing, the pres-sure of be-ing per-ceived so much more de-bil-i-tat-ing.
“Do you want me to wait in the wings?” I sug-gested qui-etly. “I’ll mouth the words along with you. If you get stuck, just cast a dra-matic look over at me, okay? Pre-tend it’s a char-ac-ter choice to have her stare off into the mid-dle dis-tance ev-ery now and then.”
She blinked sev-eral times. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.” Per-haps it was fool-ish, but I couldn’t fight the feel-ing that we were both just in-se-cure lit-tle kids. And I had spent so long wish-ing that some-one would do the same for me. A re-as-sur-ing hand on the shoul-der. Kind-ness and af-fec-tion with-out ul-te-rior mo-tive.
“Thank you, Penny.”
She smiled grate-fully, but I felt that fa-mil-iar burst of heat, the in-tense prick-ling sen-sa-tion that came from strangers know-ing your name when you did not know theirs. A fun-da-men-tal power im-bal-ance. A scale tipped too far in one di-rec-tion. The gen-er-a-tional curse most would con-sider a gift.
Play the part. Pre-tend to be your mother. No-body needs to know the real you.
“You’re wel-come,” I said, paint-ing the san-guine mask onto my face the same way I’d been do-ing for eigh-teen years. Smear-ing the per-sona over my-self like red lip-stick. “What’s your name?”
Some-thing shone in her eyes, as though she were daz-zled by my mere pres-ence. “Nairne.”
I nod-ded. “I’ll be right here.”
As it hap-pened, Nairne only needed one cue, and while her per-for-mance was good, it was too timid, too apolo-getic. We both ex-ited the stage and took our seats in the front row. Even in the un-for-giv-ing leather of my Louboutins, I felt like I was walk-ing on air.
The part was mine. It had to be. Be-cause there was only one ac-tor left to au-di-tion for Lady Mac-beth, and she was hor-ri-bly late.
Hadiya Lazar, the cast-ing di-rec-tor, rose to her feet. A high-necked pur-ple pon-cho draped over her arms in folds of ex-pen-sive cash-mere. “Well, if Ms Burns does not deign to join us, per-haps we should wrap things up here.”
Pro-fes-sor Dr-ever, the show’s di-rec-tor, grit-ted his teeth. “Let’s give her five more min-utes.”
Lazar scoffed. “If she does not re-spect our time, we do not re-spect—”
“Five. Min-utes.” Dr-ever’s jaw was clenched, and he stared rigidly down at his notes.
Shoot-ing him a filthy look, Lazar cast her gaze around the rest of the stu-dents. “By all means, you’re free to go.”
But no-body moved. We all wanted to see how this would play out. Would the fi-nal ac-tor show up—and re-ceive the tongue-lash-ing of the cen-tury? Or had she dis-ap-peared off the face of the earth, the pres-sure of Do-rian al-ready too much to han-dle?
I looked rev-er-ently around. This the-ater was what most peo-ple thought of when they heard the words Do-rian Drama Acad-emy. Fronted by a fa-cade of tow-er-ing stone col-umns, the neo-clas-si-cal au-di-to-rium in-side was all grand prosce-nium arches, gold-leaf boxes and tiers, and an or-nate ceil-ing fresco de-pict-ing the wed-ding night from A Mid-sum-mer Night’s Dream. It was one of the few stu-dent the-aters in the world that reg-u-larly at-tracted flocks of pa-trons, all ea-ger to watch the bud-ding tal-ent of the fu-ture—and earn the brag-ging rights of I saw them be-fore they were fa-mous.
While we were wait-ing in tense si-lence for the fi-nal ac-tor, my phone vi-brated with a call in my pocket. Mum flashed on the screen, and with it came a pulse of con-flict-ing emo-tion. I slipped up the aisle into the atrium of the the-ater to an-swer.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Dar-ling, lis-ten, can you send me the names of your new room-mates? I’m go-ing to have Bal-lan-tyne look into them. We must make sure they’re not moles.”
I took a deep, steady-ing breath. Bal-lan-tyne was the pri-vate in-ves-ti-ga-tor my para-noid mother kept on re-tainer. She wouldn’t let any-one new into my life with-out a thor-ough back-ground check, though it was not com-pletely clear what she was afraid of leak-ing. Hers was more of a vague, di-rec-tion-less para-noia, a fine mist rather than a sharp point.
“Okay.” A taut beat. I waited for her to ask, but of course she didn’t. “I just had my au-di-tion.”
“Oh, of course, dar-ling!” The words were fond, but the tone was not. A com-mon af-fec-ta-tion of the up-per class—the abil-ity to sound emo-tive while re-main-ing ut-terly de-tached. “How did it go?”
“Re-ally well. Re-ally, re-ally well.” I couldn’t stop the beam spread-ing across my face. “I think I nailed it, Mum.”
“How won-der-ful! I’m so proud of you, dar-ling.”
I stilled, those words I’d chased for so long ca-su-ally tossed in my di-rec-tion, but there was no warmth be-hind them. A sim-ple stock phrase, prof-fered in the cor-rect so-cial sit-u-a-tion.
“You are? Proud of me, I mean.” Maybe I could jos-tle loose some gen-uine emo-tion by forc-ing her to elab-o-rate.
“Of course,” Mum said. “You know, I was cast as Lady Mac-beth in first year my-self.”
“Re-ally?” The rev-e-la-tion was at once mov-ing and anx-i-ety-in-duc-ing—yet an-other bench-mark for di-rect com-par-i-son.
A cu-ri-ous pause. “It’s a won-der-ful achieve-ment, Penny.”
I swal-lowed hard. “Thanks. You know, I wasn’t sure whether you re-mem—”
“Lis-ten, dar-ling, I’ve got to dash. But con-grat-u-la-tions! I can’t wait to come and watch.” The thought of my ul-tra-fa-mous mother stalk-ing back into these hal-lowed halls filled me with a dread I didn’t quite un-der-stand. “Send me those names, won’t you? Soon as you can.”
As we hung up, I tried to con-vince my-self that the words I’d chased for so long were worth the ef-fort. Worth crap-ping my pants in pri-mary school, worth the de-bil-i-tat-ing stage fright, worth mim-ick-ing her ev-ery move since I was a child. And yet I felt more hol-low than ever, as though the fig-ure on the hori-zon I’d been chas-ing for a decade were noth-ing but a shadow.
Maybe it would’ve felt bet-ter to re-ceive them over text, I rea-soned. Then I wouldn’t have to ex-am-ine the por-ous words for tone and tenor. I could read them in my own voice. Stare at the screen un-til they sank in. I’m so proud of you, dar-ling.
Just as I was pre-par-ing to go back into the au-di-to-rium, the ro-tat-ing gold doors lead-ing from the quad into the lobby swiveled and squeaked, spit-ting out one of the most beau-ti-ful girls I’d ever seen.
She was ghost-pale, with black pixie hair that stuck up in tufts. Her makeup was Parisian-bare, with just a slick of rose-pink lip-stick and soft black mas-cara. Thin-ner than me, I noted—a score the de-mon in my mind al-ways kept—and dressed en-tirely in black, but it was more biker chic than gothic. Leather jacket, tight jeans, cropped tank top ex-pos-ing a strip of toned white stom-ach.
At-trac-tion flut-tered low in my belly, like the wings of a moth around a can-dle.
Sec-onds later, un-der-stand-ing clicked into place. She was the last stu-dent to au-di-tion for Lady Mac-beth.
My ri-val.
And yet she was not rush-ing at all.
She drew closer, car-ry-ing with her the scent of fresh cig-a-rette smoke and musky per-fume. I couldn’t tear my eyes away; it was as though she had her own mag-netic field.
I was no stranger to raw charisma—my mother bled the stuff—but it was rare in peo-ple my age. I’d al-ways be-lieved it was some-thing you grew into, some-thing that be-came more pow-er-ful with time, like the dark mat-ter of the uni-verse ex-pand-ing.
I waited for the girl to no-tice me, but she never did. The ex-pe-ri-ence was en-tirely for-eign. I was used to stares, to whis-pers, to feel-ing like a rare species in a city zoo, but the girl in the leather jacket didn’t even look at me as she strolled calmly past, her foot-steps un-hur-ried, as though she weren’t dan-ger-ously late to an au-di-tion that would de-fine the next three years of her per-form-ing ca-reer.
I fol-lowed her back into the the-ater, hyp-no-tized, and slid into the sec-ond row back from the stage. The late girl was hav-ing a terse, low-toned con-ver-sa-tion with the cast-ing panel, and ev-ery-one had turned to watch.
“That’s Davina Burns,” mut-tered Nairne be-side me. “I heard her en-try au-di-tion brought grown men to tears.”
Af-ter a few mo-ments of chastis-ing from the di-rec-tor—which seemed to roll off Davina like rain off an um-brella—she walked down the aisle to-ward the stage with the el-e-gance of a bal-le-rina, her feet barely graz-ing the red car-pet. Climb-ing up the nar-row stage steps, she shrugged her leather jacket off and tossed it into the wings.
And then she be-gan.
The trans-for-ma-tion into Lady Mac-beth was im-me-di-ate—and silent.
Her whole body snapped with ten-sion. Her face was at once blank and haunted.
She cupped her empty hands to-gether, as though clasp-ing the bot-tom of a can-dle. I felt im-me-di-ately silly for bring-ing a blank sheet of pa-per to use as a prop. A ridicu-lous am-a-teur. A pan-tomime of a per-son.
Then she started to walk fear-fully around the stage.
The sleep-walk-ing scene right be-fore Lady Mac-beth’s death.
Ghosts we could not see slipped over her face like swathes of silk. Her foot-steps grew in-creas-in-gly fran-tic.
The the-ater was crypt-quiet, the air taut with ten-sion.
No-body moved. No-body breathed.
I waited for Davina to speak, but she never did. My mind filled in the lines—Out, damned spot! Out, I say!—but it was al-most like she didn’t need to ut-ter them. The emo-tions of the scene writhed through her en-tire body. Fear and shame and fran-tic re-morse.
She pulled one hand off the in-vis-i-ble can-dle, star-ing blankly into her palm. Her breath hitched in her chest, hor-ror dawn-ing over her pixie fea-tures.
Here’s the scent of blood still: all the / per-fumes of Ara-bia will not sweeten this lit-tle / hand.
Goose-bumps cov-ered me from head to toe. The scene played out not in words but in her. I had never seen any-thing like it.
The si-lence in the au-di-to-rium swelled; metas-ta-sized. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood to at-ten-tion.
Davina’s ears pal-pa-bly pricked up, as though sud-denly hear-ing a knock-ing at the gate.
What’s done can-not be un-done.
And then the scene was over. She broke char-ac-ter im-me-di-ately, jar-ringly, and it was dis-ori-ent-ing, the way she slipped from one per-son back into her-self, as though the char-ac-ter had been her true per-sona all along.
No-body clapped. She did not bow.
In-stead she aimed a sar-cas-tic lit-tle thumbs-up to-ward the cast-ing panel, scooped up her leather jacket and stalked out of the au-di-to-rium as sound-lessly as she’d ar-rived.
A few mo-ments af-ter the door to the lobby closed, the spell was shat-tered. Mur-murs rose like a tide, and the air dropped sev-eral de-grees. The cast-ing panel stared at the spot on the stage where Davina had stood, as though see-ing her ghost, her af-ter-im-age.
And I knew in my heart that I had just lost the lead.