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SEVENTEEN

THE CURTAINS RISE AT THE BELLOW OF a trumpet. Three men appear, pointing and crying out as a specter rises in the distance. The ghost’s voice booms out over the theater. I melt into my plush seat, consumed by the action. My heart pounds as the ghost cries for revenge against his murderer.

“Here,” Valery says, pushing a booklet into my lap.

I don’t want to look away from the action, but I flip through the pages to please her. More than ever, I want to make amends with Valery. It’s a program, featuring images of the actors in the play. “Before” and “after” shots. Each actor has been made up as someone else, with a note on which famous film star he or she is portraying. The actors aren’t only playing roles in Shakespeare’s play, they’ve been made to look like actors from the past. The surreality of it isn’t lost on me.

I peer at one of the actress’s images as the scene changes. It’s dark but I’m struck by the subtle changes that have been made, enabling her to look more like a classic film star named Veronica Lake, according to the program. Her hair is longer, waving over her face. Her nose more pert. Lips more full. The differences are pronounced—perhaps too much so to be achieved by a powder brush and eyeliner.

As the next scene begins, Kincaid appears onstage. He sports a trim beard and a black mourning ensemble but the hint of a smile betrays the somber moment. As the ghost’s request for retribution is repeated along with the truth about his murder, my throat swells.

One of the actors clutches his side, where a thin crimson ribbon pours from his ribs. His performance is haunting. Even from where I’m sitting, I see the pain reflected in his eyes. Ophelia goes mad, casting flowers, and I weep for her, the girl locked away and used by Hamlet and Horatio and the king. I weep over Hamlet’s confrontation with his mother.

Kincaid’s age is the only thing that distracts me. He’s too commanding. Too self-assured to play Hamlet. He doesn’t understand his character’s dilemma.

I could do better.

Only Valery seems as moved as I am by the performance, which surprises me. Jost and Erik sit up straighter during the final climactic scene, and we watch, waiting to see who lives. No one breathes until the final line has been spoken.

“That was beautiful,” I murmur.

“Were we watching the same performance?” Valery asks hollowly, but before I can ask what she means, she excuses herself.

“It’s late,” Jost says beside me. “Are you hungry? It’s well past supper time.”

I start to nod, but then shake my head. “I’ll join you after I freshen up.”

I’m surprised when he turns to Erik and they begin discussing the play. As I exit, their conversation grows louder.

Valery lingers near the stage door, peering through. Her shoulders are hunched close to her craning neck, and I’m struck by the overwhelming need to know what she’s doing. I creep up next to her, but the oak floor groans beneath my feet, giving me away.

She spins, her fingers splayed against the slope of her collarbone.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, but she shushes me.

“I was looking for a friend,” Valery says, her eyes darting to the ground as she speaks.

She’s lying, but why?

“You could try going in,” I say, reaching to push open the door.

Valery shifts to block me. “I’m not playing a game with you, Adelice.”

“Then stop pretending that you aren’t up to something. Stop pretending we’re friends, and tell me who you are and what you’re doing.”

“I’m surviving,” Valery says, spitting the words at me. “No thanks to you, Adelice. Judge me all you want, but you might want to look in a mirror.”

She dashes away before I can recover from her stinging rebuke. She might be right about me, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t lying. I slip through the door instead of going to the powder room. Something drew Valery back here, and I’m going to find out what.

There are plenty of corners to hide in, shadows cast by pulleys and bits of the set. Here is where the spell of the play gives way to props and costumes. The story fades to flat, choreographed illusion. But it’s not the wooden trees or the series of curtains separating the world of the stage from the audience that chills my blood. A woman rubs black-and-blue marks developing on her neck, and an actor dressed in a soldier’s uniform moans on a table. Jax is there, attending to the actors. He spots me hiding among the shadows and gives me a quick smile. I try to smile back, but the scene before me is more horrifying than anything that occurred in the play.

The violence was realistic because it was real.

“What about my face?” the woman who played Ophelia asks. “Can you change it back?”

“I suppose,” Jax says, examining the marks from where Kincaid nearly strangled her during the show. “If you want to go through the alterations again.”

She winces at the suggestion. “I think … I think I do. I don’t like looking like someone else.”

“I’ll let them know.” Jax pats her arm and hands her a pack of ice for her bruises. He turns to me, but he closes his mouth as quickly as he opened it, turning hastily back to his work. Jax is the only other Sunrunner who’s been friendly to us since our arrival. The rest keep their distance, but he seems interested in us.

I roll up the program filled with old film stars. These people are Kincaid’s homage to the past—his past. Whatever he offers his actors must be substantial for them to endure so much pain. It can’t be a simple process to have your entire face altered to look like someone else.

This is the benefit of Tailoring that Kincaid wanted to show me.

“Shame, shame,” Kincaid’s high voice says, startling me. “Spying on us, eh?”

I start to defend myself, but he continues before I can think of a good excuse for being back here.

“She was quite good,” he says. He smears a rag across his forehead, wiping off some of his elaborate stage cosmetics. “Got a bit carried away. I hate to leave marks on them, but it’s part of the play.”

“She wants her face back,” I say.

“Pity, but the boys can fix her.”

“How would they do that?” I ask. I try to keep my voice steady, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremble in it that betrays my true feelings. If there is a way to reverse alterations, I could save my mother and help Amie remember. But maybe it’s easier to change a face than to undo the kind of damage the Guild inflicts.

But Kincaid is still glowing from his great theatrical accomplishment and doesn’t seem to notice. “‘All the world’s a stage,’ Adelice,” he says. “‘And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.’”

“I’m not interested in being pseudo-intellectual,” I say. “Can they fix her?”

Kincaid glowers, but his tone stays even as he answers. “They’ll have her original measurements on file. It’s a shame, considering how lovely she is as Veronica, but I did promise them they could be altered back. If she wants to continue in my employment, she’ll get used to a bit of alteration for the good of the performance.”

I force a small smile, but bile rises in my throat. I can’t imagine being so far indebted to Kincaid.

As we watch, the stage crew emerges from the shadows, leading the injured actors away. I bite my lip to keep the accusations from tumbling out. When I turn back to Kincaid, anger blurs my vision, bringing his strands into harsh relief, as Deniel’s had been when he attacked me. Kincaid’s central time strand glimmers. It’s not like the golden strand I witnessed being pulled from the young Tailor. It’s tarnished with age, although there’s a thin, bright fiber braided through the central portion. I blink, trying to dismiss the sight, unsure of what I’m seeing.

“Sir,” Jax says, appearing beside us, “we’ve assessed the injuries and cleared most of the cast for release.”

“Very well,” Kincaid says. “There’s an issue with the voltage drop near the pavilion. No one can get it to dim properly.”

“Probably the variable resistor. I’ll take a look at it and check the estate’s grid for any faulty circuits,” Jax says. He seems giddy at the possibility.

“Please do it quickly. We mustn’t keep the party guests waiting,” Kincaid says in a low voice.

“Are all the Sunrunners also Tailors?” I ask after Jax leaves.

“A very small portion of them are Tailors. Sunrunning takes up plenty of my workforce,” he answers, “but Jax is one of the few that’s gifted at both. He and your father.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that. I know so little about Dante.

“Do you have more questions?” Kincaid asks. “About the performance? I do hope you enjoyed it. We needed some revelry to erase that … unpleasant experience.”

He thinks I’m back here to see him, I realize. It doesn’t even occur to him that what he’s done has only increased my anxiety about the Tailors and men working on his estate. I have lots of questions, but Kincaid won’t answer them.

“No,” I say, weighing my response. It takes every ounce of energy I have to say what I say next. “I wanted to compliment you on your performance.”

Kincaid beams and claps me on the shoulder. “We’ll have more shows now that there is such a large audience.”

“What about intel? Looking for the Whorl?” I ask. It’s a question that’s been on my mind since yesterday. Deniel came too close to getting to me, which means the Guild knows I’m here. “Shouldn’t we be coming up with a plan to stop Cormac?”

It’s a stupid move bringing this up now, but I can’t push it out of my mind any longer.

“My men are looking,” he assures me. “When we have news on the Whorl, you will be informed and then we can move forward. No reason not to enjoy ourselves in the meantime though.”

“And once we find it?” I ask.

“It’s the key we’ll need to rid this world of Cormac.”

“And to rid Arras of him, too?” I prompt.

Kincaid waves me off. “Of course, sometimes I forget.”

Forget about what? I wonder. That Arras exists or that he vowed to separate the worlds? I can’t bear to ask him.

Kincaid shepherds me toward the dressing room, prattling on about the various plays he’ll put on for my delight, but as he does, I glimpse a soldier lolling forward lifelessly. I hope he’s only unconscious.

Dinner is more like a festival. We dine at small tables in the main garden. Large solar lanterns strung overhead shine like small blue moons against the sparkling Interface.

I haven’t seen the Interface since we came here from the Icebox. The lighting system always masks it, creating the illusion of a real sky most of the time. But Jax has managed to dim the lights to near twilight, and now I can appreciate the Interface’s strange and terrible beauty as its rugged strands writhe above us.

There are toasts with champagne, and tiny bits of cheese passed on silver trays, but I’m heavy with thought.

“Are you okay?” Jost whispers at my side.

I turn on my best false smile—the one I perfected during my time at the Coventry. He doesn’t seem to notice, so while my face beams, my heart slips down.

Kincaid is surrounded by men and a few of the actors. None of the players bear wounds or bandages from the performance. The woman still wears Veronica’s face, but she smiles and laughs and hangs on the arms of a fellow actor. If they aren’t sad, why should I be? Kincaid took care of them. None of them seem to be in pain.

“We’ll do another,” Kincaid promises. “Perhaps Titus?”

A few of the men whoop in approval. Only the actress’s smile falters. The slip reveals her terror, but her mask is back on before anyone else notices. I hope she’ll leave, run away from the stage and Kincaid, but based on how well she plays her part now, I doubt she will. She’s acting again. It’s in her blood.

Valery is absent. I see Kincaid glance to his side a few times, but she’s not there. The play upset her enough that she risks Kincaid’s displeasure, or perhaps she knew he would be so wrapped up in his own ego that her absence would go unnoticed.

“You aren’t eating,” Jost says, pulling me toward a table laden with platters and plates.

“I’m not hungry,” I say. I loop my arm through his and press my face to his shoulder.

“You should eat,” he says.

The din of the party grows louder as a man demonstrates a dance. His hands flail out and he reaches for the actress. She spins gracefully into his arms.

I look at Kincaid. I imagine he’ll be bouncing in giddy beat with them, but instead he’s engaged in deep conversation with a guard. His fingers stroke his small false beard. He issues an order I can’t hear, and when he turns back to the spectacle, our eyes meet. He smiles, but his eyes stay hard, absent their usual sparkle. Unreadable.

Kincaid can act after all.