“I—” It occurs to me I’m out of breath. I drop my arms to my sides, recovering my common sense. “I’m ready to learn Mimicry now.”
Jude blinks a few times, like he can’t remember what we were talking about. Then, nodding stiffly, gestures at the mirror. “Right, then.” He clears his throat. “First things first. Find your bridge.”
I throw him a funny look. “But I’m not onstage.”
He gestures around us. “You don’t have to be. The world is your stage.”
Gritting my teeth but remembering Marigold—and that chain shackled around her ankle—I relent. I need that chain. And I need this plan to work—tonight. “Methexis.”
A world of glass blooms beneath my feet, and tendrils of gold twist there, reaching for my heels. I tug on my anger, struggling still to banish that funny feeling from a moment ago. It takes a second before I can summon it to the surface, until the warmth of Craft floods through my veins.
JUDE: “Perfect. Now, I want you to picture a face—one deeply familiar, easy to Mimic.”
I riffle through my mind, searching for faces. Except, any familiar ones could endanger them.
Maybe sensing this, Jude nods. “Yes, mine is an option.” He leans over my shoulder and adds, “No one could blame you.” And I internally vow to Mimic him with a big fat nose and crooked teeth once I get the hang of it.
JUDE: “When you look in the mirror, do not see yourself. Imagine you’re looking at me. My eyes. My mouth. Speak and hear my voice. Mimicry is all aboutintention.Imagine you know me, inside and out.Becomeme. Let Craft take over, envelop you.” He stalls. “The Playhouse will want something in return, though.”
There it is. “Come again?”
JUDE: “Think of it as borrowing a costume. The Playhouse expects it to be returned. It will want something ofyou.A deposit—a promise that you’ll return what you’ve taken.”
RIVEN: “Whatsortof deposit?”
JUDE: “The longer you’re in the costume of someone else, the less you’ll remember what’s beneath it. You may begin to lose pieces of yourself—your memories, your thoughts—if you wear it for too long.”
I study the mirror, noticing the strange way the brunette of my hair has started to deepen, darker.
Redder.
“You mean me,” I say. “My memories are the deposit.”
“The fade won’t begin until you’ve been in costume awhile. The distant, older sort of memories go first. Then maybe…more important details.”
“Always a catch, isn’t there.”
“Do you know why there are so many mirrors, Alistaire?” he asks. “Because theatre is, itself, a reflection. When an audience sits before us, we’re not here to tell them aboutus.We are here to tell them aboutthem.A conduit of catharsis, body and soul. So long as you’re in the Playhouse, you will alwaysgivesomething.”
I have to punch down the bile fighting its way up my throat, biting my tongue. A strange, freeing sensation wraps around my limbs. Then I can’t quite remember what I’m doing.
From the ground, Craft hums, pulses through me.
JUDE: “You are me.”
The words, sudden and spirited, fly from my lips. “You are me.”
I force the intention of it into the mirror, braving the face there.
Silence fills my world as I stare deep into my reflection and repeat Jude’s voice in my head:My eyes. My mouth. Speak and hear my voice.
Warmth washes over my skin and, as it does, my features mold and shift, sharpening.
The spitting image of Jude stares back at me from the glass. With it, though, I feel a strange sense of emptiness. An urgency to remember my own name.
I stare at my hands, at the forest-green sleeves that match the ones Jude wears now. The floor is farther away than it was before when I peer down. There’s a tickle at my neck from the brush of copper hair, the texture coarser than I’m used to. My arms feel heavier at my sides, woven with muscle. I reach one up to find the pinch in my nose—a golden ring.
I’m Jude. And the Jude beside me has lost all sense of dignity.
