My eyes track the last of the dying candlelight on the mantel beyond my bedroom, waiting, waiting…
Somewhere below, the great Playhouse clock resounds its midnight call, thrumming beneath the floorboards. Curfew.
The hot coals in the fireplace are dimming, dimming…
Gone. Dark.
Satisfied that I’m in my bedroom, the Stage Manager, at last, retreats—presumably to check on everyone else. Which should keep her busy for a few minutes.
I bolt through the short hall, across my dressing room, and for the door, slipping through and shooting down the corridor in the dark.
Then, pressing a guiding hand to one wall of the common room, I run.
My memory has always been sharp. Entire chapters I glimpsed in history books sometimes stay lodged in my brain for ages.
But tonight, there’s a specific section I mentally mull over in my mind.The Playhouse: A Captivating History of Craft and Horrors, Vol 2.Chapter Sixteen.All items belonging to the Playhouse either come from, or are to be examined by, the Prop Master.
That Eleutheraen arrowhead that was shot at the Players—Jude told Mattia to give it to the Prop Master. Probably to be dismantled.
And I need it to get out of here. I’m leaving, and I’m taking Jude with me.
By the time I reach the first floor, the cold is eating me alive. The Playhouse, normally bursting with warmth during the day, is colder than the bottom of the ocean at night. My breaths form little ghosts at my chapped lips.
The Prop Master resides in the deepest crevice of the Playhouse. Most sources suggest the monster dwells at the bottom of the Labyrinth Steps.
I glimpse the stage as I pass through the wings, an eerie yellow light hanging over it. A ghost light. I’ve heard they leave them on to keep away the spirits, an old legend. My mind briefly flutters to Gene Hunt before pressing on.
Shivering, I set my jaw and inch into the murkiness of the twisting backstage maze until discovering the south tower. After what feels like an eternity searching, the tightness in my chest eases as I finally reach a door that readsprop room,barely legible by moonlight.
It opens to a stairwell and a set of narrow steps that spirals down. Moonlight skirts through slats overhead, illuminating the Labyrinth Steps.
Well. Down I go.
The stairway seems to wind on endlessly. I’m not sure how much time passes, but at some point I pass a landing with an ornate sign indicating a corridor that leads to the arena, which sits under the stage. I ignore it and continue down.
Desperate to distract myself, or maybe to prepare myself, I sift through the pages of my mind until coming across the words ofTheProp Master’s Tale.
They called Marigold the most beautiful woman in Theatron,I read mentally.But fearful that she would grow old and her beauty would fade, vain Marigold climbed Mount Eleutherae before the first Players emerged.
I descend lower into the dark, my ankles sore from the cold. But the farther I go, the more unbearably icy it gets.
The beauty Players possess still belonged to the well back then. When Marigold stared into the well of Dionysus’s blood, it reflected the most magnificent version of herself, twisted with Craft.
Stumbling over an uneven step, I curse. It’s even frostier now, and my shoulders ache. My body begs me to turn around.
I ease my mind back to the story before the cold wins, picturing the words. But the deeper I go, the more certain I am that the quiet humming emanating below is not in my head. I breathe heavily, force myself to keep going.
Greedy, Marigold stayed there for months, unable to look away from her own beauty, until one day, she fell into the well.
I gulp a breath of cold air.Marigold felt less threatening when she was a page in my textbook and not dwelling at the bottom of these steps.
She emerged monstrous, gold clinging to her skin, her eyes, her hair. She has not aged a day since.
I pause as I hear the lilting notes of an eerie lullaby echo through the stairwell.
A chill skitters down my spine, and it’s an effort to keep myself going. One, two, three more steps, and my ankle hits the final one. I walk across the small landing to the outline of a door, a quiet rustling on the other side.
I hold my breath and lower my grip to the golden handle, continuing the story.
