No one appears to be in any rush. Two men play a game of dice. A girl and her mother fly a kite. Yet another group of women perch on the lip of the fountain, listening to a snub-nosed lady snap, “Of course not, Darla. I asked for rubies. Not that my husband remembers my preference for jewelry.”
A brunette in a lavender gown says, “He bought you sapphires, didn’t he?”
She shakes her head. “Emeralds. As if I’d bear that humiliation.”
“How odious!” a ginger-haired woman squawks.
“Gerard didn’t understand when I explained to him that emeralds wash out my coloring—”
I’m smiling as I drift past their huddle. It’s a relief to know I can have this day. I can return whenever I wish to experience it again.
On the other side of the square, people gather around a small, nondescript cart laden with miniature pies: apple, lemon, blueberry. The perfume of warm sugar teases me, and my stomach grumbles. How long have I been wandering?
“Hello,” I say to the baker, an elderly man wearing an apron. “How much for the pies?” Not that I have coin, but…
The baker sets aside two lemon pies and one blueberry, then wraps them in brown paper and ties them off with twine.
“Hello?” I wave a hand in front of his face. “Sir?”
He pulls a handful of coins from a pocket in his apron, drops them into a bowl with other gold and copper pieces. That’s when I notice my hand, the one reaching toward him. It’s transparent.
The man can’t see me. No one, I realize, can see me, hear me. It is as though I’ve become a ghost.
The excitement I felt at believing I might be able to socialize with others sours into disappointment. The doors may offer me a glimpse into these peoples’ lives, but that’s all it will ever be—a glimpse.
My eyes lift to the bell tower as a low, sonorous pitch reverberates through the square. Those loitering in the vicinity hurry toward a set of doors to my right. Out of curiosity, I follow them inside.
A vaulted ceiling sits flush atop filigreed columns. The crowd’s footsteps echo as I descend the sloped walkway intersecting rows upon rows of seating, all constructed in a gradual decline that eventually hits the curved front wall of a stage.
It’s a theater.
Halting in the middle of the walkway, a hand resting on the scarlet-cushioned back of a chair, I study the room in greater detail. Despite the expanse, it feels intimate. Gold drapes spill from unseen alcoves above, like melted gold poured from urns.
Within minutes, the theater is nearly full. The lamps dim save those illuminating the stage. It’s probably foolish, but I squeeze through one of the rows to a middle seat, then settle in.
The silence takes on a focused quality, as though the air itself tightens around me. My heart leaps, for the curtains part, whirring softly to expose the set behind its velveteen shield. A man steps onto the stage, and it begins.
I’m not sure how long the performance lasts. There is a king. A revolt. A god chained to a rock. It feels as though no time has passed before the curtains close, the lamps brighten, and a feeling of wakefulness passes through me, gentle as the sun rising on a cold morning.
Slowly, I make my way back to the town square, the shop-lined street, the gloom-shrouded corridor, the chill of the citadel. I’m so preoccupied I nearly run into the Frost King as I turn a corner.
It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. He must still be recovering from whatever illness plagued him days ago, for his skin is gray with fatigue. I was not aware immortals could fall ill.
“You weren’t at dinner,” he says.
“What time is it?”
“Near midnight.”
I was gone that long? I didn’t think it was more than a few hours. “There was a door, and this town, this theater. I’ve never been to a theater before—”
The king studies me blankly.
And he likely doesn’t care.
Turning on my heel, I take two steps before I’m drawn up short by an unexpected question.
“What play was performed?”
