Chapter 35 · The Cost of Rewriting

The curtain rose by itself.

It climbed with a wet, dragging sound, as if something beneath the stage were pulling it upward with both hands. Dust sifted from the velvet hem. The theater exhaled a breath of cold rot that crawled over Maeve’s skin and slipped beneath her collar.

Beyond the curtain, the stage had changed.

The painted forest was gone. In its place stood an operating room made from black wood and tarnished brass. A surgical lamp hung above the center mark, its bulb glowing with a weak, jaundiced pulse. Stainless-steel trays lined the floor. The instruments on them were not scalpels or forceps, but theater props sharpened until they could cut bone.

Eli staggered beside her.

Maeve caught him before his knees struck the floor. His weight slammed into her injured shoulder, and a hot burst of pain blurred the edges of the room.

“Stay up,” she hissed.

“I’m trying.” His breath shook against her temple. Blood darkened the side of his shirt where the knife had gone in. “You always this comforting with your patients?”

“Only the ones who lie about being dying.”

His mouth twitched, but the smile failed halfway. His hand closed around her wrist.