MATTIA: “Alistaire is anovice.”
Her voice booms from the hall as she and Sil rapidly approach. I quickly tuck my script behind a crate before I further prove her point. IthinkI know his lines.
MATTIA: “This is alead role, Sil—and a Playhousecastperformance. No auditionees are permitted onstage—”
SIL: “Exactly!” His shout is so loud, I startle. “We’re over the Cut now. I won’t have news of our incapacitated Lead Player making its way to reporters.”
MATTIA: “Jude can still go on tonight. He’sexcellentat Reality Suspension, Sil—”
SIL: “UnexpectedReality Suspension is messy at best. Jude is in no shape to perform, and we willnotappear weak during our first performance North of the Cut.”
“Noauditionee could have done what—whatAlistairedid here today,” Mattia accuses. “She’s conveniently still doing aperfect imitation.”
SIL: “She appears to have an affinity for—”
MATTIA: “None ofuscan do one this exact, much less for this long.”
“Places, Mattia. Now. Alistaire!” Sil calls to me while waving off a furious Mattia. She stalks back into the wings but throws me a look that reminds me of her warning—that she has her eye on me. Not to do something stupid.
And oh boy, am I about to do something stupid.
I clench my jaw at the unfamiliar bite of Jude’s teeth and turn to Sil. “Yes?”
From his breast pocket, Sil draws a silvery envelope. The Playhouse symbol seals the flap—a single mask cracked in two, one half grinning wide and the other tilted downward in a frown. A single arrow protrudes through both, binding them together. “You take the role of a Player tonight. You deserve to be paid as one.”
A peek inside the envelope makes my hands go numb.
I’ve never seen so much money in my life.
“And.” Sil hands me several envelopes, plain and more tattered than the first. “These are for you. The audience often sends well-wishes to our final contenders.”
Final?It occurs to me I’ve hardly seen the other auditionees since I arrived. I’ve often felt like the only auditionee here.
Why?
I watch Sil’s eyes, certain there’s something unspoken between us. Something I’m not seeing. But before I can open my mouth, he stalks down the hall, calling for places.
Parrish hovers at the curtain, peeking through the crimson.
PARRISH: “Full house tonight.”
I grimace. It didn’t take long for Revelers to follow the Playhouse through the Cut and fill their velvet seats. I imagine every face in the audience as blissfully numb as Haris’s and shudder.
TITUS: “I hope you’re ready,Jude.” He waves mockingly as he passes. “A new master of Mimicry on our horizon, perhaps! Do me next, won’t you?”
“Come now, Titus,” teases Parrish. “I wouldn’t wishyourface on anyone.”
My hands file through the envelopes Sil handed me: a shocking series of letters from strangers declaring admiration, love, promises of loyalty, and hopes for me in the casting call.
But when I tear open the final one, I inhale sharply.
“What is it? A lock of hair?” asks Titus, pocketing a prop ring that he uses to propose to Parrish’s character in the third act of tonight’s Comedy. “Don’t worry yourself, Alistaire. I once received a hand in a box!”
Arius whistles from the wings. “We still don’t know whose that was.”
But it’s not a lock of hair. It’s a note.
The lights begin to fall. I steady my breath, counting everything I’ll need tonight: my Eleutheraen arrow. Marigold’s chain. About fifteen minutes during intermission. Jude.
