Nessa’s laugh dies in her throat. Her fists tighten around the garlands, her whole body stiffening. The crowd straightens as one, lilting murmurs snuffed out like a flaming wick pinched between fingers.
The Player sweeps into view, flanked by robed guards. Dav is among them, his expression hard as stone. Her gown is crimson silk embellished with gold coins, sleeves trailing like banners. She lifts her arms wide, voice carrying like a bell through the hush.
“In honor of the Great Families and the benevolence of the Crown whose hand delivered us from pandemonium,an additional performance shall be given this night. Ready yourselves.”
The streak of red paint across her face gleams like fresh blood beneath the sun.
The light seems to fade as she leaves, and the Kingdom of Wands shifts back into a stage. Whether we’re ready or not, the show is about to begin again.
Sixteen
“Now we know that, as much as Shakespeare should go over well with a crowd like this, they arenotintoRomeo and Juliet,” Declan says, stuffing his arms into his shirt and pulling it on over his head as he bounds after me backstage.
The air behind the curtain hums with movement. Musicians tune their instruments, dancers adjust their costumes, a man in full body paint sneezes as he applies another layer of glitter. I swipe a squashed fig from my sleeve and flick it on the ground.
“They threwrotten figsat me, but they don’t like Shakespeare. Make that make sense.” I pick another sticky piece of pulp from my skirt. “Maybe I misremembered the balcony monologue. I don’t know it word for word, but the vibe was definitely right.”
“My monologue wasfire.”
“Aren’t you too old to call itfire?”
Declan shakes his head, weaving around a contortionistwarming up beside a table covered in masks. “They loved me out there.”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “You didn’t need to take your shirt off.”
“Says who?” he asks, brow furrowed. “Do I need to remind you again of how much they loved me?”
“Yes, I know. Your fan club in the front row nearly fainted, and whenever I said any of my lines, I was pelted with fruit.”
He grins that slow, infuriating grin that never fails to find its way under my skin. “All good theater involves a little tragedy, a little longing, and a lot of skin.”
I snort. “That’s not a quote from Shakespeare.”
“Should’ve been.”
Nessa’s blond hair catches my eye as she slips through the jumble, clutching a polished brass torch and a vial of oil. The torch gleams like a trophy in her grip, and her whole face shines, lit from the inside with giddy nerves.
“This is the moment I was born for!” she whisper-shouts, her voice fizzing like champagne. “Song joined with flame—two arts united. The queens will see me at last. And it’s all thanks to you and your teachings, brilliant Story Witch.”
“It hasn’t been that long.” My stomach knots. “Have you had enough time to practice?”
Her smile widens, luminous. “Think happy thoughts, remember? Doubt is poison. Nothing will go wrong if I only manifest love and light.”
“Nessa—” I reach for her, but the Player’s voice is already rolling out across the stage, commanding silence.
“Behold Nessa Ellesmere, the Songbird of Wands, with a voice like warmed honey and a heart as pure asglass. Listen well to her melodies that speak what mere words cannot. Sing, Nessa, sing so your kingdom may be entertained!”
The crowd roars, and Nessa steps into the light with her chin lifted, torch raised above her head.
Applause shakes the stage, and I try to swallow back the dread creeping up my throat with the same affirmations I spoon-fed Nessa and her friends. She’s fine. She’s golden. She’s aligned.
Nessa joins the tip of her torch with another, and it flares to life. She moves to the center of the stage and sings her first note. The clear thread of her voice weaves through the hush as she glides across the stage, torch in hand. For a few moments, she is everything she’s said aloud she would be. She is incandescent, deserving, untouchable. She glides across the stage, mellifluous voice ringing out. She hits a stunning high note, takes a breath, and tips the oil into her mouth. Her cheeks swell with liquid, ready to spit flame when her toe catches the edge of a brazier. A stumble, barely there, but enough to slice the rhythm in two. She inhales a gasp, recovering quickly, but the damage is done.
The sound that rips from her throat is wrong. She doubles over, sputtering and coughing, clawing at her throat, eyes wide and wet. The torch clatters to the stage, sparks spitting across the boards.
Gasps split the audience, and a ripple of horror moves through the court.
Nessa staggers upright, arms outstretched toward the wings. Toward me.
