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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 li
ves. 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.”
