The moment breaks at the clapping of hands. Sil emerges from the dark corridor. “Well done, everyone!” His mild-tempered smile simmers into something else—a stiffness to it. “Jude, a word?”
A collective dread shrouds the other Players at the director’s tone.
ARIUS: “There was a lot of chaos onstage, Sil—and a long time since we’ve performed this piece. We all might have slipped a bit.”
Mattia moves to argue, but the director cuts her off.
SIL: “Were one of you to slip, it is myLead Player’sjob to preserve the illusionbeforean audience glimpses anything beyond the curtain. Correct, Jude? And gods above, running offstage like that.”
Mattia’s face tightens. “Noneof us slipped. Something cut through it.”
“And who could have done that?” Sil gestures to me. “Perhaps a new, inexperienced actor? Come to think of it, I don’t see your contender, Mattia.” He feigns a glimpse around the wings, and I find myself looking around, too, trying to remember what happened to the others onstage. I can barely remember what happened to myself. “If I’m not mistaken, itwasLinos who fled the wrong side of the stage early and took the whole chorus with him, wasn’t it?”
Mattia says nothing, baring her teeth. But her eyes land on me, and they stay there as Sil turns for the hall, yelling, “Curtain call!” over his shoulder. “And would someonepleasecollect the damned chorus?”
I don’t know what overcomes me. My mouth drops open. “It was Gene Hunt.”
Sil stills, along with the Players. Jude’s eyes are pleading with me.
Slowly, the director turns. “Alistaire, I do hope you aren’t in the habit of blaming deceased Players before admitting fault. That was an awfully late exit you made.” He glares at me, waiting.
“Jude saw her, too. She washere—she was backstage and—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jude says coldly, expressionless. “I made a mistake. The illusion slipped.”
Sil and Jude look to be locked in a silent debate until the director mutters, “Curtain call. All of you,” and vanishes down the hall. Where IknowGene Hunt stood just moments ago.
In my time in the Playhouse, I have gathered that Gene Hunt is a great many things, and none of them isdead.
Act II: Scene VIII
The stage door flies open, and the screaming from the Revelers begins.
Even from where I’m crouched on my balcony, peering between the marble balusters, I have to cover my ears.
Fine. Jude is right. I’m a snoop. But it’s better than being alone in my dressing room with Gene Hunt’s spooky portrait.
Sil’s head peeks out. Then the cast: Mattia and Titus first, with humble words of thanks that don’t seem very humble at all. Parrish and Arius next. Finally, Jude, with a dramatic bow. Each cast member is greeted with louder screams than the last.
I can’t help but cringe at the way spectators reach over the golden barrier, so many Revelers—so many hands grasping,touching.One succeeds in grabbing Mattia’s hair and is dealt a merciless fist in return. It only seems to egg the offender on, though.
Arius scribbles across playbills shoved into his arms, and someone kisses his hand, weeping loudly, when he tosses them back. Sil thanks the crowd for coming.
A particularly pretty-looking girl with a thick blond ponytail and the sort of nose that belongs exclusively on a porcelain doll has fought her way to the front of the barrier. And is batting her eyelashes at Jude.
Predictably, he’s enjoying the attention. Arius must have tended to most of their stage wounds, but the cut on Jude’s head is still noticeable when he leans down for the girl to convey in his ear whatever she’s trying to shout over the crowd. He nods, feigning humility behind a dazzling smile, a hand to his chest.Herhand has found its way to his arm.
Realizing my jaw is clenching, I force my attention to Titus, who is doing godsdamnednothingto console the man breaking into hysterical sobs at his knees, declaring eternal devotion. Another Reveler tosses what must be her life’s savings in jewels at Parrish’s feet. Parrish gleefully kicks them around on the floor and asks if the Reveler brought anything more interesting.
When Sil signals it’s time to go in, the crowd surges violently forward, jealous fans in the back pushing their way to the front. Obsessive moths to the Players’ golden light.
That girl Jude is talking to lets out a high-pitched squeal as someone shoves her back, hurling her into the barrier. Fine. Maybe she’ll go find another place to—
Jude decides the way to remedy the situation is to pick her up and set her on theotherside of the barrier, beside him.
My mouth falls open.Notthat I care. I don’t even notice the way he places a hand on her shoulder and seems to ask if she’s all right or the way she giggles and thanks him.
In fact, I care so little that I go inside and only half slam the door behind me.
