I’ve been seen. It’s time to abandon this plan before Jude spots me again. Surely there’s a better place to take Silenus by surprise, away from Jude’s eyes. An office belonging to the director, maybe…
Dressing rooms!I’ve read Players are particularly territorial about their dressing rooms—their director would have one. Wouldn’t he? And he’d be alone, away from his Players.
I stare at the golden ring in my hands. It’s so warm, it almost hurts to hold, with a flat surface that carries the inscriptionFinders Keepers.Which oddly feels like a threat.
I pocket the ring anyway. I don’t know what the going rate for a Lead Player’s ring is, but I imagine it’s enough to take the burden off Galen and pay for all the school materials I could possibly need when I’m well on my way to Orkestra.
“To our next Player!” Silenus shouts, followed by the clinking of chalices.
I take that as my cue to move as fast as I can, and trust my intuition to lead me to the dressing rooms.
Act I: Scene VIII
Unfortunately, my intuition is a godsdamned liar.
Or the Playhouse is one big labyrinth of winding reds and golds. Frustration plagues my sense of direction as I shuffle past two ballrooms and yet another rehearsal room, finding myself at the bottom of a staircase with opal railings that feel like they’ve been dipped in sunlight.
I take the steps at a pathetic crawl, groaning and cursing as needed, my mind set even more firmly on that Script.I did notslip out of the clutches of the Lead Player only to turn around and limp home now.
If that Script has the power to control Players,surelyit has the power to fix what one of them broke. The “how”of the matter might take me a minute to figure out, but one problem at a time.
The steps land me in a spacious common room surrounded on all sides by twisted candelabras that flicker softly and walls of glowing amber. After a lifetime shivering from the inside out, tolerating frosty days and icier nights, I hate to admit the warmth is welcome.
Crimson chaises circle the hearth, where flames roar beneath an ivory mantel carved with coiling serpents. I snatch a poker from beside the hearth, just in case.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Vanities poke out of an adjacent wall, cluttered with old playbills and vivid swatches of makeup. Bits of gold and coin lie carelessly beside discarded silk scarves and extravagant jewels.
Gods. They hoard all of this for themselves?I’ve never seen so many valuable items at once.
I pocket a few coins and one silk scarf as I go, cringing at how loud my steps are on the marble in the cavernous silence of the room.
Three halls bleed out of the common area. The first is marked by an exaggerated frown carved overtop—Tragedy, I reckon.
The second hall carries the opposite symbol, a dramatic, frightening smile for Comedy.
The third holds a feathered mask over its center, no expression on its face. Mimicry, the Craft of all faces.
A breath of relief fills my chest.The dressing rooms.They must be. The director must have one nearby.
I stumble past Tragedy’s hall, each breath filling my lungs with a strange, perfumed incense hovering in the air.
A flutter of movement to my right startles me, and I whip defensively toward it. There’s no one—just a great expanse of mirror that begins at the floor and blossoms into the ceiling where it swirls into reflective slats of gold. And right before me is…
Me.
I gasp. The last time I remember seeing my reflection, I was a child—and Galen was dragging me away from the glass.
Embarrassment pinches my heartstrings. Growing up, I conjured my own ideas of my reflection. That I have my father’s features. Cassia’s stern brow. Maybe the alert, sharp eyes of my brother.
I was wrong.
Two sunken eyes stare back at me, lapsed deep into my skull like a cadaver, ringed with ghostly purple and marked with the hungry edge of a starved animal. Where Galen’s skin is tanned from work and travel, mine is translucent like the underbelly of a whale.
Player Jude’s comment about my cheekbones rings true. They’re hollow and gaunt, caving into my face like a canvas stretched too thin. My lips are white as wax.
I look like I’ve just escaped a coffin. No wonder people are frightened.
