CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
All I wanted to do was run into the Cross-woods and hide for-ever.
I wanted to quit Do-rian on the spot. I wanted to pack my bags and go home, ex-cept was home re-ally a home at all? What else would I even do? The last half decade of my life had been pointed to-ward Do-rian—a con-stant com-pass guid-ing me north.
And be-sides, my por-trait would be left be-hind. An open wound that could be probed when-ever a cer-tain twisted hand so chose. A per-ma-nent ex-e-cu-tioner’s axe hang-ing above it by a sin-gle thread.
I was trapped in ev-ery way.
That’s where all bad de-ci-sions laid their seed, I re-al-ized. When the walls were clos-ing in, and there were no bet-ter op-tions, and sur-vi-val in-stinct man-aged to con-vince you to save your-self first.
And so I don’t know what I was think-ing when I de-cided to con-front Davina once more. I don’t think I was think-ing at all. It was a pri-mal de-ci-sion, not a cog-ni-tive one. A des-per-ate an-i-mal-is-tic urge to make sure she never dom-i-nated me again.
My mother’s words echoed in my head un-bid-den.
You could take care of this Davina char-ac-ter your-self.
I hated that maybe she was right. That maybe this was my only op-tion.
Af-ter the bell sounded for the end of the les-son, I stormed out of the bath-room stall I was hid-ing in and snuck back to the cor-ri-dor in Drum-mond. I waited around the cor-ner by a trick-ling sil-ver wa-ter foun-tain, watch-ing as the rest of the stu-dents filed out into the cor-ri-dor and down to the atrium.
But Davina never came out.
Had she stayed be-hind to talk to Dr-ever?
Be-fore I could talk my-self out of it, I crept down the now-de-serted cor-ri-dor and po-si-tioned my-self just be-yond the door, which stood ajar.
Their voices were clear as crys-tal.
“You took it too far, Davina. I asked you to go easy on her be-fore I part-nered you up. What the hell were you think-ing?” Anger gave his voice a coarse qual-ity. I rec-og-nized the tim-bre from one of his fa-mous per-for-mances as King Lear. “In what world was that go-ing easy? She’s al-ready a flight risk. I can’t lose an-other fe-male lead.”
The words were a ridicu-lous sting of em-bar-rass-ment.
“Penny doesn’t need your pro-tec-tion,” Davina snapped. A long, loaded pause. “She’s the one who black-mailed you.”
Well, there it was. An ace card played at the per-fect mo-ment.
Give Davina her dues, she was a great poker player.
“She was?” Dr-ever sounded stunned by the rev-e-la-tion. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Com-pelling ev-i-dence.”
“Go to the li-brary and see what she’s printed out with her stu-dent ID if you don’t be-lieve me.”
A livid sigh. “So that’s what your lit-tle stunt was about. Re-venge.”
“Sur-pris-in-gly, no, de-spite the fact I eat re-venge for break-fast.” A taut beat. “You know those lit-tle cuts that keep ap-pear-ing on my body? I wanted to see if she had them too.”
The rev-e-la-tion was a lurch.
She had the cuts as well?
But how…? Why?
“Okay,” replied Dr-ever slowly. “And ask-ing her to re-move her un-der-wear…?”
A bit-ter laugh. “Maybe that was for re-venge. I knew she wouldn’t do it. She’s too up-tight.”
An-other whip of shame. I was be-gin-ning to re-gret lis-ten-ing in. And yet I needed to know more about what she meant—more about these sup-posed match-ing marks on her own body.
“So, hang on,” said Dr-ever. “Why did you think Penny would have the same mys-te-ri-ous mark-ings as you?”
“A hunch.”
My mind jud-dered over the con-ver-sa-tion.
If this was true, and she was also be-ing maimed …
It would surely mean she was not the per-pe-tra-tor.
But then again, maybe she was treat-ing this all like a gi-ant game of poker. Care-ful lies and sleight of hand, try-ing to coax cer-tain in-for-ma-tion out of cer-tain peo-ple. And some-how I didn’t think she was above giv-ing her-self some tame lit-tle scratches to cover her own back.
Look, it couldn’t have been me. I’m hurt too.
Did the logic work? I could no longer tell.
One thing I couldn’t quite fig-ure out was how much Dr-ever knew, if any-thing, about the Gallery of the Ex-quis-ite. He’d seemed gen-uinely as-ton-ished by the state of Cam-ran’s corpse all those weeks ago. A to-tal lack of un-der-stand-ing at how some-one could look so much older in death. The dis-be-lief that it was even her at all. But there was a chance Davina had since told him the truth about the twisted se-cret con-nect-ing us.
Would she have played that card yet?
“I’m wor-ried about you,” Dr-ever said softly, and the ten-der-ness in his voice gave me whiplash.
“I know,” Davina replied, but her tone was cooler.
The ro-man-tic un-der-tones raised an-other ques-tion: How did Dr-ever know about the marks on her body? Were they now sleep-ing to-gether—had she won him over at last? Or had she con-fided in him about the wounds in a mo-ment of fear? Or a com-bi-na-tion of the two—she was us-ing her pain to ma-nip-u-late his male in-stincts into pro-tect-ing her?
“I should go,” Davina said. “But I’ll come over when you’re done with re-hearsals? There’s some-thing I need to talk to you about.”
Har-ing down the cor-ri-dor be-fore she found me lurk-ing, I tried to process all of this, but there was too much ma-te-rial. Ev-ery pass-ing day raised more ques-tions, and my brain was burn-ing on fumes.
Af-ter skip-ping lunch to re-group in the li-brary—in which I re-ceived ap-prox-i-mately eight thou-sand mes-sages from Catalina ask-ing if I was okay—I walked into the re-hearsal space sev-eral min-utes late. All eyes snapped to me. There was a rip-ple of whis-per-ing, like wind through river rushes. I fixed my gaze on the floor and hur-ried over to a row of seats to dump my bag. I tried des-per-ately hard not to think about the fact they’d all seen me mostly naked.
The sav-ing grace was Davina’s ab-sence from re-hearsals. At least I wouldn’t have to face her vic-to-ri-ous smirk.
“Just when you’re ready, Ms. Pax-ton,” said Dr-ever coolly. Dis-dain was plain on his face.
He knows, I thought mis-er-ably. It fi-nally came back to bite me. And I de-serve it.
Do-minic and Nairne—Ban-quo and Fleance—launched into Act II, Scene 1, and be-fore long Fraser took the stage as Mac-beth. I used the ex-tra few min-utes to skim over my lines for the next scene. We were sup-posed to be off-book by now, and yet the high-lighted words swooped and dived on the page like moths I couldn’t catch. Con-cen-tra-tion was im-pos-si-ble when all I could think about was the con-ver-sa-tion I’d just over-heard.
Soon it was my turn to take the stage—in this case a se-ries of elec-tri-cal tape mark-ings on the wooden floor, with lines and crosses map-ping out where the var-i-ous sets and scener-ies would stand come show-time.
I forced my pos-ture into some-thing re-sem-bling dig-nity. “That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; / What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark—”
Dr-ever held up an ir-ri-ta-ble hand. “I don’t think there could be any less fire in that per-for-mance if you tried. We need emo-tional in-ten-sity, but you’re stiff as a grand-fa-ther clock.”
Ap-par-ently there was no dis-cernible dif-fer-ence be-tween dig-nity and rigid-ity.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t care about sorry. I just need more from you.” His jaw was grind-ing, like a cow chew-ing cud. “This is a piv-otal scene in which we be-gin to un-der-stand the Lady’s bru-tal-ity and lack of con-sci-ence. She should be al-most giddy from vi-o-lence, with fleet-ing flick-ers of para-noia to fore-shadow her even-tual mad-ness. It’s the be-gin-ning of her un-moor-ing.” He ges-tic-u-lated wildly. “As the scene goes on, she should scorn her hus-band’s per-ceived cow-ardice, but there are lay-ers of irony there too—for he has done some-thing she could never do her-self, and deep down she knows this. It re-quires a nu-an-ced per-for-mance within a per-for-mance.” His hands fell to his sides. “Are you sure you’re up to the task?”
No.
“Yes.”
“Keep go-ing.”
Fraser’s Mac-beth was ro-bust, mas-cu-line, but with some-thing vul-ner-a-ble be-neath it. “And one cried ‘mur-der’ that they did wake each other. / I stood and heard them, but they did say their prayers / and ad-dress them again to sleep.”
I tilted my head to the side ever so slightly while wring-ing my hands, aim-ing for that nu-ance, re-mem-ber-ing how Davina had em-bod-ied the Lady in her au-di-tion with-out ut-ter-ing a word. “There are two lodged to-gether?”
“One cried—”
“Stop.” Dr-ever’s com-mand was an ex-e-cu-tioner’s axe come down. “It’s like a moun-tain and a mole-hill up there. Penny, you’re be-ing com-pletely washed away by Fraser.” Fraser had the good grace not to look too pleased with him-self. In-stead he lis-tened too in-tently to Dr-ever’s lec-ture, as though it were for both our ben-e-fits, and I felt enor-mously grate-ful to him for it. “We should be be-gin-ning to un-der-stood that the Lady is for-mi-da-ble, a tour de force in her own right, some-one to fear and re-spect as much as her male coun-ter-part. And yet you play her as a shrink-ing vi-o-let. Where is the rough in-ten-sity you found in your au-di-tion? It’s like watch-ing an-other ac-tor en-tirely.”
Forc-ing more acid into my per-for-mance, I pro-claimed, “These deeds must not be thought / Af-ter these ways so, it will make us mad.”
Dr-ever pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re over-act-ing. If I wanted am-a-teur dra-mat-ics, I’d go down to the com-mu-nity the-ater.” My cheeks burned. “Nu-ance, re-mem-ber? Make it di-men-sional. Use all the col-ors in your pal-ette.”
I knew, with-out him ar-tic-u-lat-ing it as such, that he was com-par-ing me to Davina. This should have been her—the girl whose per-for-mance brought grown men to tears. Not some overblown am-a-teur with a pretty face and no depth. An overblown am-a-teur who’d snaked her way into a lead she didn’t de-serve.
Hunger grabbed my stom-ach in its fist, and naked shame rat-tled at my ribs, and I wanted to col-lapse to the ground and sob. But I needed to re-deem some of the pride I’d lost to-day—to gather at least a few scraps of re-spect.
Fo-cus. You can do this.
I tried to re-lin-quish my ob-ses-sion with nail-ing the iambic pen-tame-ter and just fo-cus on the emo-tions of the scene. The ve-neer of su-pe-ri-or-ity Lady Mac-beth was try-ing des-per-ately to con-vey, de-spite feel-ing like a scared lit-tle girl in-side. That wasn’t ex-actly hard to re-late to.
“Give me the dag-gers: the sleep-ing and the dead / Are but as pic-tures. ’Tis the eye of child-hood that fears a painted devil.” At the words, my con-cen-tra-tion lapsed. The im-agery chimed in my mind; there was an ob-vi-ous sim-i-lar-ity to cur-rent events. I dis-missed it as co-in-ci-dence, and tried to con-tinue. “If he do bleed, I’ll…”
I trailed off, all mem-ory of the next line van-ished from my brain. Dr-ever, who had his thumb pressed to his lips in in-tense con-cen-tra-tion, looked up, ex-pec-tant. When I didn’t con-tinue, he made a ro-tat-ing ges-ture with his hand: Get on with it.
“I need a cue,” I mut-tered, loathing the meek-ness in my own voice.
Dr-ever tossed his own script to the ground, then kicked over an empty pa-per cof-fee cup. “This is be-yond help. Take a break.” He stormed to-ward the exit. “Take the fuck-ing day. It won’t make a dif-fer-ence.”
My ears rang with shame, the fail-ures of the day clang-ing like bells.
I shouldn’t be here, said the over-rid-ing voice in my head.
The stares from my class-mates were, if pos-si-ble, even more dogged than they had been at my half-naked body. What were they think-ing? Did they pity me? Did they re-sent me, for bag-ging the lead when I so clearly didn’t have the chops? Did they hate me, for spoil-ing a whole re-hearsal? Which would be worse?
Slowly, like dazed fawns, the other stu-dents packed up their bags and fil-tered out—Maisie shot me a glee-ful look as she passed, her plea-sure at my down-fall im-pos-si-ble to con-tain—un-til the only per-son left was Catalina. She’d taken Dr-ever’s seat in the di-rec-tor’s chair, and was fold-ing a page of her script into what looked like a lo-tus flower.
I felt im-mense re-lief at the sight of her, like I was a ship that had been thrashed by a storm and fi-nally found a light-house. She was a re-min-der that not ev-ery-thing was cruel and bleak. I wanted to be around her all the time—and that in it-self was ter-ri-fy-ing. Be-ing too hun-gry for love only ever pushed peo-ple away.
“Well, that could have gone bet-ter,” I said as I ap-proached, try-ing to im-bue some self-dep-re-cat-ing lev-ity into the joke. In ac-tu-al-ity, it just came out stran-gled. “Some-one could’ve drowned me in pig blood, for ex-am-ple.”
“Oh, Pen.” She stood up and gave me a sym-pa-thetic smile. “Firstly, Dr-ever is an ab-so-lute moth-er-fucker, so there’s that.”
I laughed from the sheer shock of hear-ing her curse. She rarely did. “The moth-er-fucker to end all moth-er-fuck-ers.”
She nod-ded sagely. “Lord of the Moth-er-fuck-ers. The lesser-known Tolkien mas-ter-piece.” She took a step closer to me. “Are you okay? Does your face hurt?”
I shook my head. It was the truth. Other than the ini-tial bru-tal sting of the wound, it had faded quickly to noth-ing. It be-haved dif-fer-ently from nor-mal cuts, some-how.
“You’ve done a good job of cov-er-ing it. Al-though now I know it’s there…”
She lifted a fin-ger to my cheek, run-ning it softly down the length of the gash. I shiv-ered in-vol-un-tar-ily, and for a mo-ment I for-got to breathe.
“I’m scared for you,” she whis-pered.
Tears pricked at my eyes, warm and sharp. “I’m scared for me too.”
In more ways than one.