Like the Script in Sil’s.
My eyes scan more of the words, dated the night of the Playhouse’s return:
JUDE:
No need to be nervous. Between you and me, this crowd is nothing but a pack of weeds with only a handful of flowers to pluck.
RIVEN:
I’m not auditioning.
JUDE:
Oh?
This is my first conversation with Jude. Written and somehow hidden away by Gene Hunt in her own painting, fifteen years before it ever happened.
RIVEN: “Jude—hespokethese words to me.” The gold-leaf papers bend in my hands as I clutch them harder.
SIL: “I’m sure he did!” He laughs. “In fact, I’m certain it’s one of only a handful of times either of you recited your own lines. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed. The improvisation was wildly unprofessional of both of you.”
RIVEN: “These pages—they were in Gene’s painting.”
No, not pages. Script.
This is a script.
My eyes fall to the book that Sil clutches in his hands, the one that never leaves his side. The realization settles in as I note the glow of the pages. The Script that Jude is so afraid of, that he warned me to stay away from.
Sil gestures at the words in my hands, the stolen pages. “I should have known she’d go and do something like that after she tore them out. Genehadbecome a liability.”
“You murdered her,” I accuse. He poisoned that cup she drank from. I’m sure of it. My hands shake. “She didn’t deserve that. She was aperson, Sil!”
“Gene isnota person!” roars Sil, throwing his arms out. “She is acharacter, Riven.”
The world stops, the silence pounding in my ears as he levels a telling glance at me.
“And so are you.”
Act III: Scene X
My fourth wall shatters.
A thousand memories, faces, voices pound on the inside of my skull, seeking a way to the surface. Beneath it all, something stirs. Something stronger than me, something that has just awoken. I blink rapidly until my vision clears.
“I know,” I admit at last, the shock caving into my chest.
Sil moves toward me, then halts when I raise a hand to indicateno closer. “I understandthis is painful. But I am soproudof you, Riven! You’ve been terribly missed. What was it like, being away so long?”
There’s a lump building in my chest, and it tightens painfully. “I’m not— I have a family. And I have a mother and a fa—”
“A father?” prompts Sil. “What do you know of your father, Riven?”
I straighten, my memory grappling with reality, all of a sudden distrustful of both. “His name was Michail Hesper, a hero. A Peacemaker.Wrongfully murdered—”
“No, no, no, Riven. Your father was neverwrongfullymurdered. He wasrightfullyso.” Sil shakes his head. “And you are certainlynotMichail’s daughter.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
