Am I?I hope not. Somehow, at some point, Jude has begun to tangle into my thoughts like a gnarled branch.
And I think he can tell.
His mouth twists in a knowing smirk that I consider tossing a footstool at until he nods and says, “Guess I’ll have to try harder, then.” And steps one foot through the mirror. “Oh, and if you could avoid letting Sil know about showing you this, I’d appreciate it.”
Then Jude’s gone. I unclench my teeth, curiosity burning a hole through my resolve.
I follow him through the glass.
“Welcome to the Playhouse Archives,” announces Jude, descending what feels like the one thousandth step. I throw another nervous look over my shoulder. We passed Marigold’s door and the creepy humming beyond it about ten minutes ago.
I cling to the railing and sip shallow breaths, ice snaking through my limbs from the hike down. Still, as I shift my weight from foot to foot and stretch my ankles, I feel a hint of pride at my newfound resilience.
Whether or not I care to admit it, I’m stronger now than I was when I first set foot in the Playhouse.
The white marble railing guiding my hand shifts the deeper we descend, from polished, to ancient, to bonelike, fissures threading its side and gold filling in the gaps. A cool breeze carries the scent of aged parchment and the soft rustle of pages.
Beneath our feet, the stone levels out.
A cavernous labyrinth sprawls before us. Marble depictions of Players border a path to a series of polished staircases that serves the gap between floors. Every tier stacked with walnut shelves and presenting thousands of…
Books.
The rustling, and what might be whispering, comes to a halt—like the ghosts wandering the library have noticed visitors.
“Is someone down here?” I call out, and Jude shakes his head.
“It’s them,” he says. When I return a puzzled look, he goes on. “The books. They only want your attention. They get excited when someone visits.” He gestures to the shelves. “Every story ever told is in these rooms.”
A rush of excitement rises in my chest, my eyes darting from shelf to shelf. The books begin their chorus of rustling again as I hurry forward eagerly to examine their spines. I love studying—I have since I was a child. It’s where I feel at home, deep in knowledge and history. Things that are already written and done, because they’re free of uncertainty.
It almost looks like how Galen described the Orkestrian Library.But better.Bigger and filled with thousands and thousands of tomes bound in gold, silver, and bronze.
Except the Orkestrian Library is filled with historical texts. Sciences and languages and mathematics. Andthesebooks are full of…
RIVEN: “Everystory?” Anger simmers in my tone. “So it’s true, then. The Players stole them from Theatron.”
Some recreations used to be locked away for historical record, but Cassia says those are liable to vanish, too, full with ink one day and empty the next. Writing stories is forbidden anyway. Punishable, like singing.
It summons Players.
JUDE: “Theybelongto the Playhouse—”
RIVEN: “What about those?” I point past Jude’s head to a cavernous alcove of empty shelves looming eerily vacant by comparison to the rest.
Jude tenses. “Those aren’t available to us anymore.”
RIVEN: “Why not?”
JUDE: “We don’t know. There used to be more Players. Each death takes a toll on the Playhouse.”
The stories justvanished? “Where do they go?”
He frowns. “Probably back to the mortal world, to be abused and told poorly.”
That gentle rustling murmurs from the shelves again. Like spirits pacing the labyrinth.Ghosts.Gene Hunt flutters across my mind. Not a ghost.Alive.
Or alive enough to try to kill me, at least.
