And casts me into another world.
A ballroom awaits on the other side, stretching endlessly into a haze of flickering candlelight and flowery perfumes. In step with the swell of music, mortals float by, their faces blurring together in a dreamlike way that eerily reminds me of the arch.
They’re everywhere. Mortals from South of the Cut here to audition, draped in expensive gowns of chiffon and tunics of delicate silk they probably spent their last bit of coin on—all of it the same drained, drab gray cast over all of Theatron. They glide by like silvery ghosts with shimmering eyelids, heels scraping the marble. Their painted lips are a far cry from the shades of red boasted by the curtained-off arches in the corners.
The director is nowhere to be seen and, to my relief, neither are any of his five Players. Just Revelers desperate to catch their attention with varying degrees of absurd dancing, like their very lives depend on each exaggerated word and movement.
Script,I chant in my head. Somewhere between the doors and here, a plan took shape in my head. A really, really ill-advised one.Find the Script.
My eyes lock on a luxurious set of stairs on the other side that leads up to a dais. Before I can think better of it, I edge into the crowd, dodging between heels and elbows.
Surely, the director will be auditioning everyone separately. Maybe in a private room. If I find a place to hide, I can catch him off guard—
Someone brushes my sleeve, and I yelp. There are too many people, too close.
Suddenly, I am on the other side, breaking free and scurrying up the steps to the dais before diving through the shimmering curtain just beyond it.
I land on my knees on the other side and groan at the discomfort. The ache in my ribs seems to pulse louder than the music now; I clasp my side and count my breaths, taking in the empty corridor and shaking off the repulsive touch of strangers.
Right or left?Doubt shrouds my shoulders, unsure.
I toe the rich carpet like a scared cat, my path lined by elaborate paintings of Players, alive and dead. For a short moment, I let myself study the scenes depicted in them, fascinated by the colors. They must be from plays—I spot one of a wedding ceremony, another of a family at dinner, a third of a grotesque execution by hanging. The Player who holds the rope has her head thrown back in laughter.
It’s hard not to stare. We don’t have records of any of the Playhouse’s stories. We don’t have stories in all of Theatron.They’re dangerous, banished, just like music. Stories are just one longlie, strung with deception.
A voice splits the silence, radiating with power and shaking the edges of the gilded frames.
It does not sound human.
TITUS: “Gods, they’re annoying!”
Horror grips me, my eyes sweeping around the corridor for a hiding place until I spot a large statue of a Player.That’ll do. I scamper across the hall, skirt behind the statue just in time to see a golden-eyed being round the corner.
My education instantly sets a name to the Player’s face: Titus. He’s all brawn, with massive shoulders and warm brown skin. A few strands of black hair fall loose across his proud expression as he saunters down the hall, the rest of it tied back at his neck with twists of silver. When he smiles, he shows all his teeth. The image of a wolf nudges my mind.
MATTIA: “You’ve barely spoken to a single auditionee yet, Titus.”
A second Player, her voice sonorous, smooth and whispery like the hiss of a snake. She moves like one, too, carried by the sway of her hips and gliding like she’s skating over water. I take in her sharp gaze, steady shoulders, and dark-brown skin that glows like a harvest moon. Elegant braids are styled over her head to reveal emerald earrings that dangle from her earlobes like tiny chandeliers.
Player Mattia. The oldest Player on record.
My heart hammers at the sheer size of them, towering at least a foot over me, with long, toned limbs and brilliant gold eyes. They file before the curtain I just came through, lingering at the entrance like beasts about to be released from their cage.
Gods, what am I thinking? Thisistheir cage. I’ve just stepped into it.
My eyes sting from the soft halo that shivers around their skin, like they’re stars that have come loose from the night sky and fallen right into the Playhouse.
ARIUS: “They may surprise you yet, Titus. Casting calls bring in all kinds.”
My gaze shifts to a third Player rounding the corner. He’s lithe and willowy by comparison to Titus’s brawn and most certainly the tallest of the bunch, with fair skin and deceptively soft eyes. Arius works on tying back the golden-blond hair that flows nearly to his waist. While Titus’s tone crackles with the spit of fire and Mattia’s thrums low, like the rattle of the earth, Arius’s voice carries like a mild wind.
He seems too gentle. Too harmless, like a dove.
But I know adovecould not do what Player Arius has done. A dove did not make an entire city laugh until their vocal cords tore and split. Player Arius specializes in the comedic arts. He might actually be more violent than the other two.
I hold my breath, easing closer to the statue and peeking between the space of its marble waist and elbow.
The wolf hollers a laugh that makes me jump.
