The words slice into my memory, sink into my veins.
I reach for another.
TITUS:
Gods, they’re annoying!
MATTIA:
You’ve barely spoken to a single auditionee yet, Titus.
ARIUS:
They may surprise you yet, Titus. Casting calls bring in all kinds.
My first instinct is to toss them into the fireplace and swear I saw nothing. But when I peer up, Gene’s painted face knowingly stares down at me from the frame, the slit from Mattia’s knife gaping from her hair to her shoulder.
For the first time, Gene doesn’t look like a stranger.
I know you.
Something worse than Mattia’s candelabra smashes through my mind. A dam, broken. My breaths quicken, and my head floods with songs and words, lifting a veil I didn’t know was there. It feels wrong, like a treat I’ve stolen and hidden out of guilt.
Then, flashes. My vision burns red and gold, pain flaring through my temples until I can’t think straight.
Mattia screams. It comes out like a wail, distressed and piercing.
“Stop!” I snap at her. Her calls will reach Sil. It’ll summon the whole damned cast to this room.
But as I take in the mess around me, it occurs to me that may be the least of my worries.
A wisp of a shadow corners around Mattia and curls up the wall. With it, a cold breeze falls over the room. The lights begin to dim. Nyxene.
We aren’t supposed to be here. Mattia isn’t supposed to be doing this, saying this—
We know something we aren’t supposed to know.
“We didn’t see this,” Mattia says shakily under her breath. Her long fingers gather pages into her arms. “Riven? Wedidn’t.” She tosses the stack into the flames, which flare and spit back as she levels a fierce glare at me. “Now, come help me.”
What have I done?I wonder as Mattia gathers another bundle of pages into her arms.
Burning them won’t undo this.
I grip as many pages as I can and stagger to my feet.
And I run.
Act III: Scene VIII
I run as fast as my legs will carry me, my fists full of yellowing pages. In the light, though, they aren’t yellow at all—they shimmer like gold leaf. The texture feels familiar in my hands, soft yet untearable.
When I reach the lobby, I nearly slam into Sil.
SIL: “Riven! Where have you been? Where is Mattia? You’re both late.” He checks his watch. “The Great Dionysia begins in an hour.”
My breaths are coming too quick.
His attention narrows on me—then to the pages clutched in my hands.
