I casually tuck my hand over my shoulder, covering my throat in a way I hope doesn’t look like an injured bird.
SIL: “What Jude often forgets is that not all actors are inwantof something, nor will they do anything to getit, and therefore build a bridge to it.Someactors, you see”—he claps a hand on my shoulder that nearly sends my fist into his face—“are not building a bridge in pursuit at all! Alistaire, whatisthe common thread among all actors?”
Jude’s face grows apprehensive, like he doesn’t want Sil to answer the question.
SIL: “You are all running from something. And it is almost always the same thing you are made of. So, tell me! What are you running from?”
Cold indignation courses through my expression until Sil chuckles.
SIL: “Close your eyes, Alistaire.”
“No.”
Sil’s gaze widens in surprise, and Jude’s in warning. I’m left to wonder again why Jude seems so scared of him.
The pivot of Sil’s heels sets my nerves on edge as he walks circles around me, studying me through those silver spectacles as he taps his chin.
SIL: “Has anyone ever told you you’re angry, Alistaire?”
My brother’s warning returns the question.That anger will be the death of you.
RIVEN: “What is that to you?”
SIL: “I’m not going to ask youwhy.”
Disgust pulses beneath my skin as Sil pauses before me, raises his hands, and presses his thumbs over my eyelids, closing them.
SIL: “I want you to use that thing you are made of.Usethat anger.” He removes his thumbs from my closed eyelids.“Methexis,”he prompts, and reluctantly, I follow suit.
I open my eyes as the marble washes away and find myself staring back into the glassy abyss of the stage.
RIVEN: “I still don’t see a bridge.” Just those roiling shadows below.
SIL: “Of course you don’t. You can’t see something that hasn’t been built. So tell me, what are you running from? What angers you?”
Craft. Players. The Playhouse,I think urgently.Jude.
Nothing happens, save for an odd twinge at my throat.
“So reluctant!” he clucks. “Tell me, Alistaire. Why do you so love your sorrow?”
I present a detached, ignorant smile, though ice has begun to grip me at my core. “What is that supposed to mean?”
SIL: “You aren’t just angry. That’s surface-level.” He gestures to the stage, where that raging sea crashes beneath the glass. “You’ll need to go a little deeper than that.”
Suddenly, I wish Jude was not here. I wish more that Sil wasn’t staring at me like he knows my mind inside and out.
My mask of indifference slips as Sil’s relaxes into a sort ofaha!“Youloveit,” he concludes. “You don’t lack emotion. You’reobsessedwith it. You let it fester.” He’s grinning like a fox now. “Someone has taught you to suppress quite well, I think.”
Galen’s voice passes through my mind.Too much, Riv.
SIL: “Your bridge is not made of pursuit, nor escape, but of both.” He walks another circle around me, faster now, heels clapping against the glass. “The source of all you dwell on—it’s completely onthisside, isn’t it? Above the surface, in reality. Because reality is painful, and pain is familiar.”
RIVEN: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I don’t owe him truth.Of coursereality hurts. Of course it’s familiar.
Reality is unfair. If it weren’t, I never would have encountered that Player all those years ago.
SIL: “Then prove me wrong.”
