Chapter 30 · The Understudy’s True Name

The theater doors slammed shut with a sound like a verdict.

Maeve flinched as iron bolts drove themselves through the wood. Dust sifted from the ceiling. Somewhere above them, an audience applauded in perfect rhythm—three beats, a pause, three beats again.

Eli folded against the edge of the stage.

The knife was still buried in him.

No blood ran from the wound. Instead, narrow strips of paper spilled between his fingers, fluttering onto the floor. Each one was covered in cramped handwriting, stage directions, and fragments of dialogue written in different inks. Some of the words were fresh and black. Others had faded to the color of old bruises.

Maeve dropped beside him. “Look at me.”

His eyes found hers, unfocused but stubbornly alive. “Did I read it?”

“No.”

“Good.” His mouth twitched. “Clara said not to.”

Behind them, silver light tightened around Orla’s body. It climbed her throat like a wire. Her lips moved, but the voice that came out belonged to the theater.

“THE LEAD SHALL COMPLETE THE WOUND. THE UNDERSTUDY SHALL OFFER—”

“Shut up,” Maeve snapped.

The lights overhead flared.

Orla’s head jerked back. Her eyes widened, and for one brief second the real Orla returned.