“No,” he replies and saunters forward. His hands find my jaw, slide back into my hair. The gleam in his eyes could give the stars overhead a run for their money. “My answer is that the finale has already happened. We just haven’t performed it yet.” The coin suddenly feels cold in my hand, the words heavy in the air. It must show in my expression, because he adds, “I’ve never pretended to be a hero, Riven. I have no interest in it.”
“What, you’d sooner call yourself a villain?” I mean it as a joke, but my throat tightens and the words come out stiff.
“All that stands between a hero and villainy is proper motivation,” he says. “Love provokes the hero as violently as it does the villain, and it’s merely who tells the story that determines which is which.”
His words sink into the silence between us. I can’t help but wonder which one of thoseweare but decide the question is better left unanswered and, slipping out of his reach, toss the coin. It flips once, twice, maybe three times between us before plummeting back down, where I catch it on the topside of my palm, pressing my other hand over the answer.
“Well?” he prompts. “What’s this prophetic coin say?”
I peek, then peer up at him. “It doesn’t matter.” Then I spin and fling the coin as far as I can. It soars and soars until it stops—freezes—there in the sky. My hand stretches out to it, feet inching closer to the ledge until Jude jumps forward to grip the back of my dress and hold me steady.
With the flick of my wrist and a whispered command to my Craft, the gold illuminates. Just a small burst of light at first, a fractured coin. But while Jude mutters something about not being able to trust me with any of his jewelry, the pieces unfurl in a sparkle of light that first doubles, then triples. Then bursts—the illusion echoing across the night sky like a sea of golden stars.
Below, the city seems to sparkle under the light chasing away its shadows.
A gentle tug on the back of my dress. “I guess I didn’t care for that particular necklace anyway,” he says. “Let’s not forget our neighbors.”
I follow Jude, this time, to the South’s side while he pulls a ring from his index finger. There’s not a sound to be heard save for the music of our feet racing around the dome, recreating my illusion until the entire sky lights up with gold like a brilliant sunset.
Far below, doors fly open, windows sliding down for heads to peek out in curiosity. We grin at the delight that squeals in the South and laugh mischievously at the initial panic that eventually softens into relieved confusion in the North.
Wind in my hair, I snap my fingers and watch my tiny stars fall like golden frost, a mirror to my illusion from one night before. For the first time in a very long time, the world outside glows brighter than the Playhouse.
Jude and I settle ourselves on the ledge, our legs hanging over the drop like children on a log. We might have stayed there forever, had someone not written the words for us to come down. Nyxene will begin searching for us soon, wondering why two actors are out of bed.
And so, eventually, we gather ourselves and stand, ready to go. To sleep, to wake, to take our places for the finale. And my idea for how it might end.
I try to parcel the words, to stop him long enough to hear me out, but, “I’ll miss you, Jude,” falls from my mouth instead before he can climb back down the ivy. Even though we both know that that isn’t even his real name.
He slows on his way to the ledge, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Good.” He turns, flipping his palm to the sky to show me that ugly white scar slashed across it. “Then you’ll know how it feels.”
I linger, like the clock down in the lobby will quit ticking if I only stay still enough. But part of me suspects Jude is looking forward to shedding this costume, to rebuilding that fourth wall and living in ignorant bliss again. I’d be tempted to, at least.
When I don’t move—because I don’t want this part to be over—Jude relents. Saunters up to meet me, smirking like a fox. “I’m never far off, Riven. I’ve neverbeenfar off. What is death but a brief intermission? A moment backstage.” He brushes a knuckle to the delicate skin behind my ear, glides it down my jaw, and tilts my chin up to meet his gaze, which seems brighter than the moon that haloes his silhouette. “A quiet place to try on a new costume and then find you. And even when I’m not there onstage with you, I’m an eye in the audience.”
He’s worn a lot of costumes through time, and even if I can’t remember much, I wonder if this is my favorite—the smile, at the very least, I decide. Always sly and clever, like it’s hiding the last verse of a forgotten song. Hair that glints like torchlight at the ends, eyes as bewitching as they are gentle—and, at the moment, disarmed. As if drawn there by some invisible thread, I move to brush my thumb over that single freckle below the left one, shoving away the bitter sense of dread that prods at my heartstrings.
That idea starts to gleam in my mind, shinier by the moment.
“I am applauding your every move, listening for each and every line. And at the end, I’ll be at the stage door to meet you,” he says, and his hands are so warm and familiar, I can’t help but lean into them, wrapped in the scent of hyacinth and not caring that his rings will get twisted in my hair. “Whether in the next life or the one after, I’ll wait there in the wings until it’s time again.”
I’m not ready to let Jude go. But as he slides his scarred palm to the back of my neck, looks on me with eyes that I think I’ve spent most of this life and several others dreaming about, I don’t think I ever will be, either.
His lips brush against mine—not for the first time, but possibly for the last. I find myself memorizing every movement, every touch, holding on to the moment like it’ll slip through my fingers, the same way Jude is holding on to me.
The kiss is nothing like that day in the snow. It’s soft, lingering. My arms slip around his neck, drawn into his current, and I lean into the hand he winds around my waist, the fingers he spears into my hair as it shifts, deepens, turns into the sort of kiss reserved for the last act of a performance.
Kissing Jude feels like the strike of a match on a bitterly cold night. It feels like waking from a nightmare only to catch the glimmer of a sunrise.
It feels like that last piece of a long-scattered puzzle finally clicking into place.
Until the clinking of what sounds like a fallen chalice freezes us both.
Jude whips his head toward the ledge, eyes searching, and I’m suddenly very aware of the subtle clatter of movement down below.Sil?
Then the accompanied whispering of shadows.
Not Sil. Nyxene.
