Those, please—yes, the ones on the shelf there,I mouth, imagining myself buying a sack of potatoes, a loaf of bread. All by myself. Like a normal,uncursedperson.How much? Oh, sure.I’d nod and then reach into my pocket for—
Something skitters in the dark behind me.
I whirl around. A rat? Must be—
Nothing.
My stomach twisting, I step over discarded bits of paper and wood. The words “No more Players” and “Our world is not your stage” are inked across several—ghosts of protests from earlier today. Anyone from North Theatron has clearly surrendered their objections to the casting call to hide safely behind the Cut and out of the District tonight.
Like I should, too. This is silly, being out here alone.Dangerous.
But gods, it feels good.
A swell in the air swarms my mind, dampens my focus. I scrunch up my brow, struggling to put a label to the noise. It thrums deep in the ground, crawls up my legs, and digs its hooks into my chest. My feet stagger forward to the bizarre sound—long, drawn-out rhythms that weave together like…
Music?
A prickle spears up my spine.
I’ve read about music. Itheralds the presence of Players. Music is what Players used to summon the Dancing Plague—an inexplicable phenomenon that made thousands of people dance in the streets like puppets. They danced, they danced, and they danced. Then they promptly stopped dancing.
Not because they were tired, but because they were dead.
The Playhouse,I think, enraged.That’swhat’s responsible for this. For me. All of it.
My feet move faster toward the sound, anger fueling my resolve. The growing ache in my feet only eggs me on until I’m at the end of the block and turning the corner into the very heart of the District.
The Playhouse is a sight to behold up close. A behemoth of gold and marble bursting with light. Shadows in the shapes of expensive gowns and delicate wreaths flutter just behind paned glass. Chatter and laughter claw at my ears.
The casting call,I think with a chill. Thousands of Revelers will have crowded into the Playhouse tonight, risking life and limb in hopes of becoming the next Player. Gambling their lives for power, fame, beauty, andimmortality.
I stare down at the cold, translucent skin clinging to my hands. For a moment, it doesn’t sound entirely outrageous.
But there it is again, that strange rhythm—music. It spills through the cracks of the Playhouse doors, down steps that shine like wedges of starlight. But there’s something else, too. Woven deep into the melody of plucked strings and the steady hit of a drum, I hear avoice—full as the moon and sparkling just as bright.
The voice reaches around my wrists and tugs me gently forward.
Thisis music? The descriptions I’ve read have been vile. Like a sinister snake that slips through your ears and eats away at your mind.This, though—it doesn’t match the taunting cries of the Underworld I imagined.
It sounds like the clinking of stars. The flicker of a warm candle. The whisper of a loved one.
I like it.
I startle at my own thought, unsure where it came from.No. No, I don’t.
The massive Playhouse gates gape open at me like a smile. The voice, otherworldly and enchanting, beckons me forward, bringing me to the threshold.
Stop here,I tell my feet.
A soft breeze brushes my cheek. The pearly Playhouse steps gleam like an open pool of moonlight.
“What did you do to me?” I ask the Playhouse out loud. It doesn’t answer, the voice gone.
That’s not good enough. I ball my fists.
“My life would be different. If it weren’t for you,” I add, louder, “I would be a normal person. Withfriends.I would probably talk to fewer buildings.” I’m being far too loud. “People would call me by myname.And they wouldn’t treat me like I’m a rabid animal. And my own mother wouldn’t be frightened of me. So, tell me!” I’m shouting now, waving my hands. “Tell me what you did!Tell me—”
“What have we here?”
