The most beautiful woman in Theatron, according to most books.
Or she was a few hundred years ago.
“What…what is she now?” I try to ask casually, though the nervous, high pitch the question comes out in doesn’t do me any favors.
Cicero turns and raises an eyebrow at me. “I promise you don’t want to find out.”
Before I can push for answers, he ushers us onto the pedestals, his lips immediately returning to their pressed expression whenever he stops speaking.
“You’regoing to be a problem.” He pinches one of my shoulders buried under Galen’s jacket, and I cringe. “What is this supposed to be?” He flicks my collar. “Take it off. How do you expect me to measure you?” He waves a finger between the twins. “You two, as well. You think I have all the time in the world? Dionysus have mercy.”
I fold my arms protectively over my chest. My mark itches in warning under the top button of my jacket.
If anyone sees my mark, I’m done for.
CORA: “Give them a break, Cicero.” A woman with a low bun of perfectly silver hair and a long, pointed nose appears at his side. “He’s right, though. We might as well fit you for a potato sack measuring you in this.”
Another costume designer, then. “I—uh,” I start as Cicero brushes by to wrap a measuring tape around Phileas’s neck.
“Shy, Alistaire?” teases Thyone, already halfway undressed.
The silver-haired woman laughs. “There are no secrets in the theatre, especially when it comes to costume changes.” I take a defensive step away from her. Cora’s head tilts. “Dear, there areplentyof things to be afraid of in the Playhouse. I’m not one of them,” she adds more pressingly. “At least this coat? It’s very large on you.”
“Cora?” sings a familiar voice. Emerging from a row of sapphire-beaded costumes is Jude. “I hate to be a bother, but have you seen the atrocious stitching on my combat uniform? I refuse to be seen in it.”
Exhaustion falls across her face. “Again?” she asks.
“Yes, that was my thought as well,” Jude says primly as the woman throws down her measuring tape and hurries off through the maze of costumes, muttering about Players and vanity. For some reason, I expect Jude to stay and tell me how to get out of this before someone sees my mark. But when he sweeps back through the costume wing after the silver-haired woman, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he exclusively came to complain.
On my own, then. Though I’m not plotting my grand escape for more than thirty seconds before the silver-haired woman returns. “Heron is on it,” Cora calls to Cicero, who rolls his eyes and mutters something about tearing all the stitches out of Jude’s uniforms so he can’t complain about them anymore.
Without pretense, the woman tugs at my jacket. She doesn’t look surprised when I pull away from her with a scowl and, to my shock, says, “It’sme,Alistaire.”
Her eyes flash gold, then dull back to gray just as quickly. My mouth falls open. “Jude?”
The silver-haired woman—Jude,apparently—nods. Before I can ask questions, he turns my shoulders back toward the looking glass, and I’m not sure if I cringe more at the touch or at my reflection.
JUDE: “Arius tells me you’re desperately missing me. I’m so sorry to deny you my presence this morning, but I’ve been out bargaining for your life.”
I whirl around, horrified. “You told Sil.”
“Not to be morbid, Alistaire, but if I told him, you wouldn’t be here in one piece right now. Say, I risk my neck borrowing one of Mattia’s costumes for you, and you insist on covering it up with this?”
I hug my arms over my jacket. “It’s too big anyway,” I say and kick a leg out to emphasize where the scarlet fabric bundles at my knees. Though maybe I’ve grown a little fond of the color.
“Well, your new costumes will be too big as well if I can’t measure you.” He reaches past the mirror and snags what I can only describe as a glorified nightgown hanging behind it. “It’s a slip. Same as they’re wearing.” He nods to the other auditionees. “Be quick about it.”
I snatch the flimsy excuse for fabric out of his hands as Jude steps away, but taking off Galen’s jacket feels like discarding my armor. Somewhere, a few costume racks away while I change, Jude complains loudly in the costume woman’s voice to Cicero about how “poor Arius’s performance was in last week’s show” and that “Sil really should have given that role to the far more talented Lead Player.”
By the time he returns, I’m making pitiful attempts to arrange my hair to cover the mark at my neck and pondering what the hell the point of a slip even is.
JUDE:“Stopwincing away from the mirror. They only do that North of the Cut.”
I reluctantly shift back to the glass, palm angled over my mark while Jude plucks a measuring tape from a sewing box and cinches it around my shoulders, calling measurements to Cicero.
“I can get you out of this part. But I won’t be able to help you in stage combat. Turn this way.” The tape wraps around my ribs next, and Jude stills, looking a little sick. His eyes flash up to mine, down again, and then, gritting his teeth, he calls more numbers out to Cicero, who swears loudly at the measurement.
I shrug off the strange reaction, focusing on what must be aperfectimitation of the costume woman. Everything down to the beauty mark above Cora’s lip is intact. “Did you—” I’m not sure how to ask this. “Hurt her? Cora?”
