“Methexis,”I say with him.
The golden stage, the Craft below—it vanishes, disguised beneath reality once more.
I blink dazedly at the spotlight, feeling the hot press of Craft all over.
The world has changed in a short time. It’s brighter now. Every sound echoes and chimes, every step and movement holding new intention and meaning. Everything is amplified and beautiful, exposed. Andcolor.There’s so much color.
Something has changed—something that feels like it can’t be undone.
Worse, I’m not sure I want it to be.
SIL: “How do you feel, Alistaire?”
Warm.The word comes to mind unsolicited, some of the coldness in my veins dissipating.
And something else, too. The frosty ache in my limbs eases, just slightly, like someone’s reached inside and spread a salve over the worst points.
“I don’t—” I still at the unfamiliar sound of my own voice in my ears. The pitch isn’t different. It’s just…more.
For a moment, the Player’s curse feels less like an impossible glacier and more like a sheet of ice that I’m holding a candle to.
I take a step forward, but my legs feel strange. Stronger.Things I never paid mind to, like where I pause for breath when speaking, how many steps I take in any given direction, feel oddly relevant now.
“I think that…” I struggle again to wrangle my voice. What ishappening? Why am I soloud—
“Alistaire?” At the sound of Sil’s voice, I turn to face him. He looks surprised.
And Jude is no longer there.
I turn to see Jude’s hurried steps toward the wings, his back to us.
SIL: “Well, would you look at that. You were right, Jude!”
At Sil’s words, Jude makes a brief look back and—
He’s…crying.
Then, as fast as he left, Jude is gone. Sil claps a hand on my shoulder, and I catch my reflection in his eyes. My heart stutters at the image.
SIL: “You’re a natural, Alistaire.”
Act II: Scene VII
“That’smyfucking line,” shouts Titus, storming out of the wings half-dressed and pointing a long finger at Parrish. In his other hand, he waves a script.
PARRISH: “Well,youweren’t here to say it.” She smiles snidely while Arius releases the illusion around us with a tired sigh, the set melting back into the stage. “Honestly, I’m shocked you know which lines are yours anyhow. You can read?”
TITUS: “I was trying to find a new costume.” He glowers. “Mine looks like it just went through several performances ofGods’ War. I’ll bet you Cicero ravaged it with a blade on purpose. He never liked me.”
Damn it. I thought that costume belonged to Jude.
It’s been three days since the Craft binding, all of which have been crammed with rehearsals and brutal stage combat lessons with Jude that have left me too exhausted and sore to think straight—which is new, strange.My muscles aresore.
Not numb, and notcold. I can feel them again.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I’ll be out of here as soon as the Playhouse lands in Syrene, and so will Jude. I just need to figure out how to wrestle that Eleutheraen chain away from Marigold.
So long as I can stop the Great Dionysia. Stop the bloodbath they’re plotting.
