“With the rest of them, and yours,” she says, hesitant.
I blink, not saying anything.
“The stage,”she clarifies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Right! Forgot where I left that old thing,” I reply nervously, tucking away this information.
Her brow lowers. “The freckle below your left eye is missing.”
Well. Damn it.
I’m about to say something about makeup when she grabs a godsdamnedhammeroff the table and swings at me.
Ducking, I skirt behind the table and push it between us. “Now, Marigold, I’m sure we can talk about this,” I say, as if a monster who arose from the ruins of the Eleutheraen well is going toreason with me.
Marigold freezes, and I realize my mistake. I’d pronounced the first part of her name “mare”instead of “mahr.” “You don’t sound like him,” she says, showing all her teeth.
Well. It was worth trying to do this peacefully. I fly across the table, foot aimed for her chest, knocking Marigold onto her back while I snatch the Eleutheraen arrowhead from my bag.
I hold it high and bring it down hard on the base of the chain in the wall. It takes Eleutheraen gold to break it—and for once in my entire timeat the Playhouse, it would seem I’ve lucked out. Because this arrowhead wasn’t just dipped in Eleutheraen gold, it’s outright crafted from it. No wonder Mattia couldn’t destroy it herself.
The chain loosens but doesn’t break. My luck runs out after that, because when I look up, I notice two horrifying things at once.
One, Marigold’s jaw unhinging as she screams and lunges at me.
Two, the smell of lavender and the woman watching by the door.
Gene Hunt observes, quiet as death.
She looks different. Her eyes, which bled gold before, are overtaken with it now, bright and feverish. A glow radiates over her skin, suggesting she’s more apparition than flesh, though the skin shehasis peeling right off. It flecks down her neck, torn away entirely at the shoulder.
The air surrounding her stirs uneasily, as if struggling to hold on to her form.
Then she moves, impossibly fast, as she shoves Marigold away from me.
I’d thank Gene, except she whirls around, wielding…
The striking gold ofmy own missing knifein her hands.
I blink, having only enough time to think,I should move,before she lunges.
“Where did you getthat?” I shout, skittering away. Her blade—myblade—sinks into the wall, and the room shakes from the impact of Eleutheraen gold meeting a Craft-based foundation.
Somewhere upstairs, an orchestra sings to life, summoning me back to the stage.
Intermission is over.
Seized by panic—the preamble to all good decisions—I grip the workbench and throw it at Gene just as an enraged screech closes in from behind.
I whirl, reaching for my arrowhead, as Marigold flies at me, shrieking like a vengeful spirit.
Her screech cuts off, vanishing behind her golden tongue. But her mouth hangs open.
We stare at each other, our eyes slowly turning downward where the jagged point of my arrowhead is lodged into her side.
I barely register what I’ve done by the time Marigold falls back onto the crooked floorboards, dead.
Averywarm hand grips my wrist from behind.
