Though, when they asked the man what had happened, he refused to say much. “Just a brief intermission, I think,” he explained and, to their surprise, smiled. “Even the most tireless of actors needs a short reprieve to prepare for the final act.”
The man vanished the moment they docked back in Theatron.
After the Playhouse disappeared from the District, speculation stirred that the Players would return for vengeance. That the disastrous finale had broken the thin threads of peace, and the Playhouse would come back to curse the North as punishment for its one and only tribute ruining the festival.
Instead, something peculiar befell Theatron the very next morning.
Children woke with songs on their lips. Storybooks opened to long-forgotten tales, their blank pages thrumming with golden life.
Warm air broke overhead, flooding the sky with yellowy light and fracturing the chill that had haunted Theatron for as long as anyone could recall.
Rather humorously, confusion plagued Theatron as the dulled hues of lips and hair and eyes and clothes deepened into vivid shades of color, like bright paint spilled over a gray canvas.
Absurd claims vowed the statues of Players across the land had developed the strange habit of blinking their golden eyes when no one was looking.
Most surprisingly, those with marks watched with great alarm as the golden symbols upon their necks vanished, nullified and no longer of any use.
Meanwhile, the cloudy, golden-glazed eyes of Revelers mysteriously cleared, their obsession with the Playhouse gradually replaced by memories and stories of their own lives.
Years later, talk of the Players would settle, then dwindle, and finally, fade into the sparkling things of myth and legend. Mere humans would even build stages of their own and fashion masks to wear upon them. They’d perform Comedies free of Compulsion and Tragedies free of true death.
One day, it would be argued whether or not these things ever had a place in theatre to begin with.
However, stages everywhere would find themselves plagued by preposterous reports of hauntings—rumors of cast members no one recognized gracing the stage during a show or of rips in costumes no one had worn. Often, of props that would curiously go missing, never to be returned. Frightened stagehands would swear of steps heard in dressing rooms long thought empty and mischievous laughter fluttering in the wings when no one was around (often accompanied by bickering).
One thing, however, did not change.
Children looking in mirrors everywhere would claim to see shifts in the glass, revealing the image of a great white mountain, and to hear voices speaking on just the other side. Voices that would sing to them, whisper stories into their pages, and tell them the stage’s greatest secret: the theatre is not a place one merely visits.
In fact, some of us never left.
[APPLAUSE]
[APPLAUSE]
[APPLAUSE]
ENCORE
The curtain flies back open, and the audience roars its applause. It’s almost enough to drown out the murmured words next to me.
“My hair didnotlook like that.” A snort comes from the seat to my right. “What is that, a wig?”
“They spelled my name wrong on the program.” The second complaint comes from my other side with dismay. If anyone heard him murmuring frustrations over the incorrect treatment of injuries onstage during the third act, no one said anything.
“Would the two of you be quiet?” I utter, clapping my hands louder and hoping no one can hear my companions. They always forget how their voices carry. “Subtlety is an art, too, you know.”
Not that we’re all that skilled at subtlety. They both chose their old names and faces for the occasion. Most of us did.
“I could have done without the dance breaks,” groans Mattia from the row right in front of me. We strolled in late and couldn’t get seats together. “I don’t call that subtle.” She looks over her shoulder. “Embarrassing, actually, I’d argue.”
Applause buzzes over the theatre as the ensemble dips into clumsy, uncoordinated bows.
“He’d have scolded us to high heaven for that,” chirps a voice behind me, and I turn in time to see Parrish’s greedy fingers pocketing what appears to be one of the prop daggers from the show.
I offer her a scathing glance. “When did you slip out?” And get backstage somehow.
Again.
