Chapter 22 · The Understudy's Soliloquy

The two Maeves stood beneath the dead chandelier, breathing in perfect, terrible rhythm.

One wore my face.

The other wore it better.

Blood crawled from the cut beneath my ribs, warm beneath my shirt. Across the stage, the same red stain spread beneath the mirror double's collarbone. When I pressed my palm to the wound, she did the same. When I flinched, her mouth tightened a heartbeat later, as if pain had to cross an invisible wire before reaching her.

The theater watched us through hundreds of dark seats.

No—through hundreds of eyes.

The audience had returned when the main light died. Shapes filled the velvet rows, still as mannequins, their faces hidden behind white porcelain masks. Some wore masks of grief. Some smiled. One had no features at all except a vertical crack from brow to chin.

Above us, the black script unrolled from the fly tower. Its pages hung like strips of wet skin.

ONLY ONE MAEVE KELLAN MAY SURVIVE THE CURTAIN CALL.

The words bled through the paper and dripped onto the stage.

The Curator's voice came from everywhere at once.

"Prove the original. Prove the copy. Prove which one deserves the final breath.