The question feels vague and awkward under the circumstances. The papers have speculated of the Players’ return to the District for ages, long before their bulletin confirmed it, but acasting call—
It doesn’t make sense.
“Absolutely nothing,” Cassia replies, like the answer has been waiting on her tongue for a while. “We knew they were coming. Stay home, stay away from mirrors. Let the Players have their bloodbath. It’s no business of the North.”
Unless the Players willmakeit our business. They’ve been confined to South Theatron for nearly five hundred years, an agreement they were forced into. And they haven’t risked coming this close to the Cut in over a decade.
“I don’t see how a building itself can move.” It doesn’t seem possible.
“It can’t. But buildings are alsobuilt,” Cassia replies glumly. “The Playhouse never was. It just appeared around the same time as the Players.” She shakes her head. “One big illusion, if you ask me.”
I think for a moment. “What if the Players try to cross the Cut—”
“Let’s not dwell on what is not yet a problem.”
Notyet.A half-truth. But I’ve played mental gymnastics with my mark for as long as I’ve had it. I canthinkan untruth to myself easily enough. On occasion, I’ve written out a few lies just to see if I could. But every time I open my mouth to speak a barefaced lie, the words never seem to find my tongue.
And right now, there is something Cassia is trying to avoid admitting.
“While I donotapprove of you traveling into the District alone,” Cassia begins, running a hand over her slicked-back hair. New threads of white peek out of the auburn. “I have something to show you.”
She peers down the quiet side street we turn onto, her eyes narrowed at the dimming light. Then, she extracts what looks like a faded solagraph from her pocket.
The Player depicted in the image has a sharp grin and silver-blond hair that tumbles down her back. Searing eyes that look like they might burn through the paper.
My shoulders slump. I’ve probably studied the Players almost as obsessively as Cassia has and don’t recognize this one. Much of my childhood was spent immersed in their histories, a means of distraction when kids my own age stopped including me in their games. In a strange way, the Players’ faces are as familiar as those of old friends.
Loneliness does strange things to your brain.
“This is Player Iris—one of the cast members executed in Syrene,” Cassia explains. “It’s been suggested that some of the cast could have escaped the destruction—ifsheis the one who poisoned you, it’s possible that—”
“That’s not her.” I shake my head, picturing the guilty Player’s face. “I know what I saw.”
The only thing more infuriating than being cursed by a Player is being cursed by a Player whodoesn’t exist.I should know. I’ve studied every gold-encrusted inch of the Playhouse’s history, searching for answers in its chronicle of lies. I have learned the faces of all its remaining cast members.
There are five Players left.
The Player I saw as a child—whoever she was—isnotamong them.
There’s no record of her. Then again, there’s no record of someone beingpoisonedas I have, either. Only cases of minds tormented with never-ending songs, or claims of madness evoked by Playhouse performances.
Mycurse,though—this strange, slow decay that rots me from the inside out—it’s an anomaly. One that Player issurelyresponsible for.
Come with me or you will suffer.
Cassia frowns, slides the picture back in her pocket. “I’ll keep looking, Riv.”
I drag a hand through my hair and laugh bitterly when a few brunette strands fall right out, floating to the ground. That started happening about a week ago. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Act I: Scene IV
“Is that you, Riven?” calls my mother’s voice, a hint of apprehension in her tone. Like she hopes it’s anyonebutme.
I sniff the air as I kick my boots off in the hall, suspicious of the scents of fried cabbage and braised rabbit. My mother does not cookdinner. Or anything, for that matter.
My eyes fall on the stack of three envelopes that must have arrived while I was gone—but one stands out from the others. The envelope is too rich, too expensive.
My name is scrawled over the back, the seal of the Orkestrian Academy stamped in navy blue over the front.
