“If you’re going to put on someone else’s face, you’ll have to get used to your own first.” The cool metal of Jude’s rings grazes my neck where his knuckle hooks under my chin, tugs it upward to face the glass. “And there isn’t a thing wrong with this one. Look up.”
My eyes dart away from my own in the mirror, focusing instead on the place where my head reaches Jude’s shoulder and then, cautiously, all the way up to his eyes. I expect him to be shaking his head at me in the reflection, to snidely thank me for not biting him or something as he drops his hand away, settles it back on my shoulder.
Instead, he offers an encouraging smile in the mirror.
I blink a few times, unclenching my teeth. Then, slowly, let my focus fall from Jude to me. But only to my eyes, which don’t quite look like mine anymore. The eyes in the mirror widen, larger than they ought to be. A hundred shades of gold web around my irises, the dull brown forgotten somewhere beneath. In the center, my pupils glow with a glittering, sinister light.
They look like Jude’s.
Fear coils around my spine at the image, at the evidence of the Craft binding gleaming back at me, undeniable proof of my disloyalty to everything I was raised to believe. How will it look to the council when I bring them Jude? One Player betraying and handing over another.
No. That’s not what I am. I’m not like Jude. I’m not like any of them.
It’s enough to send my eyes slamming shut again.
Jude exhales through his nose, probably annoyed andalsoprobably late for rehearsal. When the weight of his palm lifts off my shoulder, I’m certain he’s frustrated and on his way out. I listen for the sound of his departing footsteps.
Fine. I don’t want to learn this stupid stage trick anyway—
I jump when Jude’s palm closes over my hand instead, guides it upward, toward my face.
It takes a second to remind myself I loathe it—touch. Ever since I can remember. But Jude’s is slow, featherlight; I’m not sure I haven’t imagined it altogether. And I’m not about to open my eyes to find out.
The pads of my fingers flutter across my brow under his hand. “Did you know this eyebrow arches higher than the other when you’re angry?” he says. I tamp down the urge to tell himhe would knowas his hand guides mine down. “And this little line by your jaw, it tightens when you try to lie to me. You’re getting better at that, by the way.” Something loosens in my chest, and I startle myself with the small laugh that escapes my throat.
“And here—this mouth.” His hand moves, thumb brushing across my lips. The air in my lungs seems to go still. “Absolutely vicious. It’s rather lovely when you smile, though.” Our hands glide up again, the movement easier, more familiar. The muscles in my shoulders ease, and my mind wanders, curious about the distance between us, wondering what it might feel like to lean into the warmth.
“Your nose wrinkles when you’re trying to work out a problem in that frightfully clever mind of yours.” His words are closer now, a murmur that tickles my ear. “And then there are your eyes.” Our hands still at the crease below my lashes. The hollows beneath don’tfeelas deep as I thought they looked. “They give you away. All your angry little layers, Alistaire, and none of them properly reach your eyes. You might try opening them, though.”
Slowly, carefully, I do.
My eyes flutter open and don’t dart helplessly to some corner of the room again. They settle on me, on the hollows of my face that don’t look as gaunt as I thought they did before. On the nose that seems to fit better now, long and curved. There’s a pinkish hue to my lips that matches the color heating my cheeks, where our hands linger.
I tell myself it’s a trick of the mirror. Some devious Craft Jude has worked on me in the past moment. The face in the mirror is still mine—just different now. Better. Maybe a trick of the light.
“These,by the way”—he clasps my hand a little firmer—“I try to keep an eye on. They’re awfully resourceful. And destructive.”
I consider snatching my wrist away, tempted to interpret it as an insult. But to my own confusion, I don’t want to. I almost smile instead. For a moment, I don’t feel so out of place standing beside Jude.
Reality crashes through my mind at the thought. I am standing far too close to a Player, to arms that are capable of unspeakable violence. The very monster I’m supposed to bring to justice—tonight.
I wrench away from Jude, and he doesn’t try to hold on to me, probably expecting it. He just stares, waiting for me to speak.
“This is a trick,” I say under my breath. Jude is all mind games. This is to keep me on my toes, keep me confused, keep me fighting. I’m no use to him dead. That’s why he’s doing this.
“Atrick.” He looks around, like he’s searching for the aforementioned trick. “Alistaire, are you frightened because you hate me or frightened because you don’t?”
That’swhat this is about. He can’t stand not being admired by everyone he encounters. This is just a challenge to his ego—
Or,a voice offers in my head. It isn’t a familiar one. It comes from some deep, incomprehensible layer of my mind.Or—
Before I can think through it, before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry a step forward, stopping right in front of him. Jude watches me back, entirely still and relaxed as I reach up. But my hand isn’t as steady as his. It shakes uneasily as the tips of my fingers graze over the curve of his cheekbones, along his brow, his dark lashes tickling the side of my hand. I mimic all of his motions. His face seems more familiar now, in a nice way.
It isn’t hard to see why an audience of thousands would fall in love with him from their velvet seats. I imagine it’s hard not to fall for his charms; he’s crafted from the same stuff as the Playhouse—from beauty, from pride, from that obscure likeability some people seem to be born with.
My palm glides down the curve of his jaw, stays there, out of places to explore but not quite ready to let go. UnsurewhyI don’t want to. My eyes flicker up to his, which are still watching me, softer than before. A confusing twinge of something pinches in my chest when Jude catches my hand, lingering and frozen in place. My heart downright begins stuttering over its own beats when he guides my open palm to his lips, presses it to his mouth.
Alarm bells ring in my head.Loudly. I jerk backward. I’m not falling for whatever ploy this is—whatever charms Jude unleashes on anyone who stumbles into his path.
