When the first Players emerged from the well, Marigold’s obsession shifted to them instead. She searched down the mountain for the Players, dragging away unlucky passersby to check their eyes for gold—and tearing them out if they were not.
Praying the hinges won’t creak, I inch open the door, and the scents of cinder, beeswax, and paint rush out.
Inside, the warmth of blessed light kisses my skin. I might be inside an underground cage with a monster, but at least I can feel my toes again.
The brilliance of the well left Marigold’s vision poor and damaged, but seeing her devotion to the Players, Silenus took her into the Playhouse.
My surroundings quickly overshadow my relief. I’m being watched. Not by a person, or even a monster, but by the walls—painted with thousands of detailed golden eyes. Some, a pale yellowy shade. Others, burning with deep hues of orange. A few are almond-shaped, others hooded. Still others are round as coins with spiderlike lashes.
One pair, oddly enough, emerald green.
The flickering oil lamps cast the illusion that they’re blinking at me.
It’s so warm in here, I find myself unbuttoning my jacket.
Since then, Marigold has crafted every prop onstage, asking nothing in return, only that she can reside in the same quarters as the Players.
The next thing I notice is an easel and the striking oil painting of Jude staring back at me. It sits below a set of glass wind chimes, which seems odd in a place with no wind.
I avert my gaze to a golden statue in the corner, then to a silver lyre leaning against a delicately painted tree. Lastly, to a shelf of skulls—which Ihopeare props—flanking a music box that plays merrily along.
My shoulders sag. I’m not sure why I expected the Eleutheraen arrow to be neatly stored in a glass case at the center of the room or something. This place is a mess.
A furnace blazes in one corner, where several long broadswords hang over a workbench of blacksmithing tools. Thick webs enmesh the ceiling. I make a face at the rather large spider spinning down to my right.
Then the golden statue moves. It’s not a statue.
I duck behind the canvas of Jude.
“Player?” the Prop Master asks sharply. No, not sharply.
Desperately.
She may have spotted me, but then I spot something, too, when I peek around the easel.
There, hanging at her hip, is the dismantled arrowhead.
I amnotleaving without it.
The arrowhead swings as she rushes forward.
Gathering my courage, I ease out from behind the canvas but stay in its shadow.
Marigold is smaller than I thought she would be, shorter than me, with skin the same gold as her lips. Tight coils of thick hair are dried stiff around her shoulder, shimmering with Craft. A carefully tailored dress patched with dozens of different patterns, materials, and colors clings to her waist.
Her eyes fix on mine. Or at least, I think they do. A haze of gold hangs over her pupils, too, but there’s a warm brown color peeking out at the edges of her irises.
There’s no denying—she’s striking, almost devastatingly so.
“Player,” she breathes.
Thank the gods. Her vision really is poor.
“Yes,” I whisper and wince. That’s my second lie tonight. “I’ve come to collect my arrowhead. Thank you for holding it for me.”
Her hands grip the arrowhead at her hip. “A gift. From Mattia,” she hisses, revealing a golden tongue and teeth. “Dangerous for you Players. For me to keep you safe.”
Well, she does have a point.
