PARRISH: “I think I’ll sing my lines instead, Sil.”
SIL: “You will not.” He cleans his glasses. “Alistaire, from your entrance? We’ll go from the top.”
Indeed, my little bridgedemonstration awarded me not one butfourspeaking scenes. But since I refuse to read their cursed scripts, learning my lines devolved into several repeat-after-me sessions with Jude that rendered us both frustrated and storming out of rehearsal.
“Did you do something to your face, Alistaire?” Titus mutters, passing close behind me. “It looks different. Nicer, though, so there’s that.”
I suggest that he do something about his face, too, and he barks a laugh on his way out.
SIL: “Let’s run it from the beginning. Where is Jude?”
“Primping in the Greenroom, probably,” Mattia mutters and goes back to picking at her nails with a prop dagger. “This is a stumble-through at best, Sil.”
The Greenroom.Another part of the Playhouse I’ve read about and have yet to discover.
SIL: “The worse the dress rehearsal, the better the show!” He flashes a forced, encouraging smile. “Someone fetch Jude, please.”
The sharp scent of hyacinth warns me first. “Whatever you’re plotting, I hope it doesn’t involve that axe you keep staring at.” Jude appears at my side with a look of patient suffering and calls out, “Here, Sil.”
He’s changed into a finely tailored black jacket, trousers, and a shirt he’s unnecessarily left half unbuttoned to show off gold markings he no doubt made some poor stagehand paint on.
“I count that four costume changes in one rehearsal,” I mutter at him as the lights go down.
“Oh? Do you have a favorite?” he asks, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
“Do any of them come with a gag?”
“Didn’t know you were into that.”
“Hold for lights!” calls Sil, running a hand through his white hair and leaving a few raised at odd angles. If he’s stressed overthis,I wonder how he’ll react to his Lead Player going mysteriously missing in a week’s time.
Above us, a stagehand adjusts the glaring limelight. I squint, trying to catch a glimpse of who aims it. I know they’rethere—I’ve spotted half a dozen stagehands setting the banquet tables, moving props, adjusting the curtain. But I can never seem to get a square look at their faces.
SIL: “And go.”
I brace myself, brushing my fingers across the fabric that hides my mark. It burns each time I set foot onstage. Worse since the Craft binding.
“How’s that healing, by the way?” Jude asks while we wait for our cue.
“Healing”is a stretch. Last I peeked under the bandage, an alarming gold film had begun forming over the wound, festering in the shape of the iron Jude used to burn through it.
“I’mnotgoing out there tonight,” I say, ignoring the question. “Rehearsals are as far as I go.” It’s bad enough my mark is gone. I’m no better than a common liar now. But I will not beworsethan one. “Performance is unnatural. One strung-out and outrageously public lie. It’swrong—”
JUDE: “Lifeis a performance.” Our cue is called, and he moves for the platform, whispering over his shoulder, “You might as well be applauded for it.”
Between hasty rehearsal breaks, I scavenge the dining hall for anything I can get my hands on. Somehow, I’m still starving when Parrish comes to retrieve me. She promises to have a stagehand deliver more food to the dressing rooms, or else cook me her very favorite snack if she can “catch the ingredients.” I gently decline the offer.
“Get dressed,” Jude calls as I enter the wings, throwing a linen garment bag zipped over an elaborate costume in my direction. He’s dressed much the same: loose white shirt, tailored black pants, black boots. Stitches of gold leaf thread his neckline, and scarlet stones hang from his ears. “The rest are already backstage. You’re going to be late as it is.”
“I’ll get you back for this,” I grumble, dread churning in my stomach at the sound of audience chatter just beyond the curtain. I reassure myself no one from the South will recognize my face—its similarity to my father’s—from so far away onstage.
JUDE: “Yes, I’m sure you will. The walls of my dressing room tremble with fear at the sound of your step.”
I slip behind the screen used for quick changes and make a point of raising my middle finger over it before donning the costume: an ensemble of white, accented by notes of gold and crimson.
“I’m sure any of the three auditionees youhaven’tslaughteredwould be proud to take my place.” I pull the blouse over my head and fiddle with the thick belt that goes with it. Then I jam my feet into the knee-high leather boots that have about a thousand laces.
“They’ll each have their shot onstage. Just as what’s-her-name did the other night.”
