“Night, Declan.”
“Good night, Amanda.”
Eleven
“Again!” The Player’s clap cracks across the sand as she paces where the audience will sit come nightfall. “But this time, withpassion.”
Declan exhales through his nose, while I clutch my script, if my frantic scribbles aboutFourth Wingcan be called a script. We’re halfway through our retelling, or at least my very loose interpretation of it, and apparently we’re failing to convey the life-or-death yearning of dragon riders in love.
The Player sweeps up the ramp, crimson sleeves whispering against the planks. “Story Witch,” she declares, “you speak of their love, yet it sounds as though young Xavier and Viola are merely trapped within the same verses. And Mr. Thorne”—her gaze flicks to him—“you mustwanther words, not merely endure them.”
“I’m trying,” Declan says flatly.
“Tryharder.” Her bracelets clink as she gesturesbetween us. “When the Story Witch breathes, your eyes should follow the air itself. When she speaks of suffering, you should ache for her. When she looks at you—”
“Burst into flames?” he mutters.
A delighted smile curls her painted mouth. “Now that would be a show worth watching.”
After another hour of acting notes and critique, the Player finally dismisses us with a regal flick of her wrist and an instruction to “find the thread between story and soul.”
As we move through the bustling backstage, Declan leans closer. “Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”
I inhale like I’m about to deliver something profound, then sigh. “Nope. Although I do feel like we just went through couples counseling.”
Declan murmurs his agreement as we push through the curtain and are immediately intercepted by Dav, sword at his hip, expression carved into its usual scowl. A dark bruise shadows the edge of his jaw right where Declan hit him last night.
“You can take your next meal in the market while tending one of the food stalls,” he barks.
Declan tilts his chin. “You volunteered us for another job, didn’t you?”
Dav’s mouth twitches. “Consider it an opportunity to make yourselves useful instead of ornamental.”
Declan smirks and motions toward the bruise. “How’s your jaw?”
“Move.” His nostrils flare as he jerks his head toward the path.
I yawn so hard my eyes water. “I am way too tired torun or fight anyone off today, so maybe try not to get us into more shit than we’re already in.”
“I didn’t sleep well either.” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, a slow drag that makes it hard to remember what breathing is. His gaze finds mine, dark and burning, and holds.
Heat flares beneath my skin, memory crashing over me in a rush of rough hands and cool water and what would’ve happened if he hadn’t slept on the floor.
“I kept thinking about—”
“Our performance tonight?” I cut in quickly. “Yes. Me too.”
“Sure,” he says softly. “Our performance.”
We brush against each other as we step into the market stall. Even through the fabric of my dress, the contact sends a shiver up my arm I pretend not to notice.
The stall’s table is stacked with honeyed fruits, smoked meats, and small loaves of crusty bread. Declan and I drop onto a narrow bench. Fennel spots us from across the market and rushes over, Cinder clinging to his back like a furry pirate captain.
Declan starts picking at the offerings, eating figs and slices of cured meat with his fingers, while I tear off bits of bread and assemble apple, pear, and meat finger sandwiches like it’s a spread for adult Lunchables.
Fennel collapses half under the table, half in the sun, snoring contentedly with his head on my foot. My toes go numb, but I don’t have the heart to move him.
Dav prowls a few paces away, scanning the market like everyone’s a potential assassin. A boy no older than ten wanders too close to a spice stall, fingers hovering over a pyramid of garlic bulbs. Dav barks a commandharsh enough to make the kid flinch and nearly topple the whole display.
