I scoff, glaring at him. “And what is that?”
He offers what I think is an attempt at a comforting smile. “Not a thing to lose.”
I groan, but another scorch of pain sends my hand writing my fake name wherever he’s settled it on the page. Then the paper is gone and so is Jude. I hear what sounds like coals being pushed around. My vision fades in and out. I can’t seem to properly move my other hand and vaguely recall the not-too-pleasant feeling of it smacking onto the marble stage.
“Let me be clear, Alistaire.” When Jude returns, there’s an iron in his hand, the edge of it burning orange. His words seem a great deal more dangerous while holding it. “Turn on me, or try to hurt my cast, and I will kill you myself.”
I don’t need to be fully coherent right now to know he means that.
“Don’t look away, all right?”
I nod, numb, and focus on the sinister gold of Jude’s eyes against every instinct I have. I almost think they soften but quickly dismiss the thought. I’m delusional from pain. “Right. Good. Focus on me.”
Never look a Player in the eye, warns Galen’s voice.
“When your mark is gone and the Craft takes hold—”
“Player magic,” I hiss with disgust, one eye on the iron sizzling too close to my neck.
He clears his throat. “Don’t think of your body as dying, yes? Just, uh…sleeping. Think of this as a very intense nap.”
“You are the least comforting person I have ever met,” I mutter.
He breathes. “First death’s the worst. I promise.”
The scalding heat of the rod presses into my skin. I’m not sure if I scream. I’m not sure of anything. My world narrows to a boiling warmth flooding my every muscle, to the heat of Jude’s palm curving around the back of my neck, to those bright golden eyes that seem more like stars as everything darkens.
Something is wrong.I try to gasp, but the next breath doesn’t come, the air not reaching my lungs. The space between my heartbeats stretches wider,quieter, and it hits me that I’m too late. Too late for this Reality Suspensiontrick. That unsealing my mark didn’t work—
That bird in my chest makes one final retreat as Jude speaks a strange word. And finally, it breaks free.
ACT II
Act II: Scene I
Someone is singing, soft and quiet. It’s a familiar, melancholy melody my mind itches to recognize.
No, that can’t be right. I don’t know any songs. Singing is banned in the North.
I feel breath in my ear.“He’s onstage. Hurry.”
My eyes snap open. Whoever whispered the words isn’t there when I turn my head. Maybe I imagined it.
Slowly my vision clears, tracing intricate patterns of gold leaf across the ceiling. If I’m dead, the underworld looks suspiciously like the Playhouse.
Confused, I search for the edges of the chaise I remember being laid on. My hands grasp cool layers of silk instead beneath a thick duvet. The firmness of the chaise has been replaced by a soft mattress.
I bolt upright, taking in the sleeping quarters of my dressing room, the four-poster bed. Embroidered throw pillows are piled around the dark wood bed frame beside a nightstand presenting a full glass of water. A footstool has been left to the side of my bed. It’s empty.
Did I drag myself in here, delirious from pain? After—after…
Somehow, my feet find the ground. A blistering sensation brings my attention to the bandage pressed between my collarbones. It doesn’t take more than a moment to remember why. What I’ve done.
A second cast is wrapped over the wrist that snapped when I fell, though it doesn’t hurt at all. How could that have healed so quickly?
There’s a line of ink scrawled across the cast:Go back to bed.
I nearly catch myself laughing before the seriousness of the situation takes hold. But the thought of my betrayal to the North is unbearable, so I focus on the second most crucial issue at hand: I need a weapon. And if I can’t get to that arrow yet, I need to find my father’s knife.
