As the curtain rises, I look over the strange note once more, this one different from the others. It’s not full of pretty words and delicate scrawls.
It’s one line, and in a hand I know well.
i’m coming, little sister.
—G
Time moves in indistinguishable blurs of story and memory and emotion. Whether it’s measured in hours, days, years—during a performance, I’m not sure, and I don’t care.
Then it stops moving altogether as I burst into the wings, back into reality’s wintery grip.
Someone claps a hand on my shoulder and says something to the effect of, “I’ll be damned, Alistaire!” and the name clears my vision.
It takes a moment to remember what’s just happened onstage, the way a dream flees from your mind the moment you wake up. We’re in intermission.
Sil hurries backstage, clapping his hands and raving about the first act while I quietly excuse myself to get some water.
Then I’m bolting as fast as I can down the hall, rounding the corner and tearing through the door to the Labyrinth Steps. By the time I’ve scurried halfway down the spiral stairs, I’m still shaking the Craft from my fingertips, and that strange dreamlike feeling that I’ve lived someone else’s life in the few hours I was onstage.
The farther I go, the dimmer the lights get. By the time I reach the landing, spot the door leading into Marigold’s prop room, I can barely see the face of my timepiece. It grimly reminds me I have nine minutes before the curtain rises for the second act and everyone notices the lead is nowhere to be found.
I check my hands before knocking on the door. Still Jude’s hands, still covered in heavy golden rings, with an ugly scar across my—his—palm.
I hope to Dionysus I’m right about all of this.
I knock.
Act II: Scene XIV
The rattle of a chain precedes a set of wild, unfocused eyes peeping through the cracked door.
“Jude?” Marigold whispers, hopeful. She moves away from the door to make room. Inside, her music box plays cheerily along.
“Yes! It’s me, uh, Jude,” I say, correcting my pitch.Gods,I do a bad Syrenian accent. I search frantically for things Jude might say. “Please hold the applause, I know I’m pretty,” I add awkwardly.
Her face is damp with wet trails over the gold of her cheekbones. Curiosity surfaces on my tongue, almost forming the words:Why are you crying?And I stop myself long enough to remember Jude has a tendency to make statements and wait to see if someone argues with them. So I clear my throat and rephrase: “You’ve been crying.”
Marigold huffs, bequeathing me an unsettling glimpse of her razor teeth. I’m a lot bigger than her in this form, but that doesn’t make me feel much better when she’s got nails like unpolished daggers. The chain at her ankle drags when she moves, though it’s hard to see it beneath her dress, which is patched from about a hundred different fabrics and patterns. She skulks past the portrait of Jude, still on the easel.
Only now the canvas is absolutelymutilated.Like she’s dragged those sharp little nails right across the face. The edges are singed.
This may not be as easy as I hoped.
“I’ve come to free you,” I say, but the statement comes out like a question.
Marigold turns abruptly. “Leave the Playhouse?” she hisses in a way that sends alarm bells ringing in my head.
“No! No, of course not,” I backpedal but inch forward. “Only from this room—you ought to get bored in this room, yes?” He always does that. Adds“yes?”at the end of statements like no one could ever refuse him. “I’ll take you to the auditorium, where you can see the rest of tonight’s performance.”
Her expression darkens, but there’s a glint in her eye at the mention of a performance. “He said I’m never to leave this room, not ever.”Sil,I presume. “Not since I—” Marigold begins to weep. Loudly.“My dolls.”
I pause. “Okay, is that…a no?”
“I have a contract,” she whispers, sniffling and annoyed. Then she narrows her eyes at me. “Youhave a contract.”
I hadn’t thought about that. Jude would have one. I don’t know what it entails, but Marigold gives me the impression that leaving the Playhouse is a no-no. Though clearly, hecan.
“Contracts can be amended,” I say with a shrug and a grin, the way I think Jude would. “Where is yours?”
