Chapter 27 · Hand the Knife to the Victim

The last light went out, and the theater exhaled.

Maeve heard it in the walls first—a long, damp breath slipping through the bricks beneath Saint Veyre. Dust sifted from the ceiling. Somewhere beyond the mirror room, a door slammed shut. Then another. Then every door in the condemned theater opened at once.

Eli's hand found hers in the dark.

His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. There was still no pulse beneath his skin.

"Don't let go," he whispered.

"I wasn't planning to."

Across the dead mirrors, blood-red letters began to fade. NO AUDIENCE. ONLY WITNESSES.

A single white line appeared beneath them.

SCENE TWENTY-SEVEN: THE MERCY OF THE KNIFE.

Orla made a sound that was almost a laugh. It cracked halfway through and became a cough. When Maeve turned toward her, she saw the lighting operator pressed against the wall, one hand clamped over the ragged wound beneath her ribs. Blood had soaked through her coat and dripped between her boots.

"That's not a scene," Orla said. "That's a punishment."

"For what?" Maeve asked.

"For changing the rules."

The mirror in front of them rippled.

Not reflected glass.