This space feels personal. Not only by the hairbrush on the side table, stiff with age, or what looks to be sleeping quarters down a narrow corridor, lit by candelabras that cling to either side. And not even by the distinct smell of lavender perfuming the air.
But rather, by the crowning centerpiece of the room: a portrait hung over the fireplace. The woman in the painting is all doll-like porcelain features with rich brown curls. She’s wrapped in crushed velvet, her diamond-shaped face and dazzling eyes piercing me through the chest. A deep shade of mauve stains her lips, one that I bet matches the tube of lipstick standing guard on the vanity.
Anyone in Theatron would recognize her. Gene Hunt was the Playhouse’s renowned Lead Player, before the catastrophic performance that ended her career and life in one blow. Patrons claimed she fell mad, breaking character and screaming nonsense at the audience, warning them to run.
Moments later, she died onstage. No deathless arts were used to prevent it.
Jude Stepharros was the mortal auditionee who replaced her. My eyes fall on him, trying to picture this monster ever being human as he paces the room, one hand pressed to his temples. “We don’t have much time. Tell me your name.”
Time forwhat?I narrow my eyes, more and more suspicious.
JUDE: “Yourname.”
RIVEN: “Call me Alistaire.” A statement. Not technically a lie. My grandmother’s name is the first to come to mind. I’m not about to give him mine.
Jude frowns. “Is that your real name?”
I bite my tongue. “No.”
He exhales, annoyed. “Fine.What shall Alistaire’s family name be?”
My eyes dart to the painting. “Hunt.”
“Hunt?”He gestures wildly at the portrait of the dead Player, Gene Hunt. “Endless names in the world, Alistaire, and your mind can’t conjure one outside of these walls? Gods, I’m doomed.”
My brow lowers at that last part. “What?”
A knock at the door sends my hand flying to my Eleutheraen blade. I point it up at Jude again. “Get me out of here.”
He returns a cold, easy look, arms hanging indifferently at his sides as the doorknob rattles. “If I were you, I’d put that away.”
The door cracks open, and in a move IknowI will regret, I sheathe the knife in my pocket. Something tells me I won’t be getting that Script away from Silenus with Jude around.
SILENUS: “Ah, there you are!” His head pops in, and he pushes the heavy door all the way open. My heart hammers furiously.
JUDE: “Sil! Do you know, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
The director turns a curious, hesitant smile my way.
SILENUS: “Well, who have we here? I never forget a face. We met earlier, yes?”
JUDE: “Alistaire, meet Silenus.” His voice is bright and cheerful despite the menacing glare I’m shooting his way. “Our director.”
SILENUS: “Sil! Please, call me Sil. Silenus makes me feel ancient.”
I scoff. “Well, historical records would imply you—”
“Sil,” Jude interrupts, coughing. “I’m glad to hear you’ve already met Alistaire.”
The director’s eyes wash over my tattered clothes and oversized boots. “Yes, Alistaire…?”
“Hunt,” I say, hating myself. And thankful he didn’t askmyname.
“Hunt.” The director’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes flickering to the portrait of Gene Hunt. “We lost the last one of those we had. Any relation, I wonder? Perhaps that’s why you look familiar.” He tilts his head, examining my face.
I stare murderously back at Silenus until Jude steps slyly between us. “I was just showing Alistaire her rooms.”
SILENUS: “Oh?”
