Chapter 6 · The Understudy in the Mirror

The curator’s applause followed Maeve into the dark.

One clap. Then another.

The sound traveled through Saint Veyre Theatre like wet fingers tapping glass. Somewhere beyond the black curtains, a heart monitor gave one long, unbroken tone. Maeve heard it beneath the applause, beneath the low groan of the stageboards, beneath Eli’s ragged breathing.

Jonah.

Her hand was still wrapped around the knife.

Blood slid from the blade and fell between the floorboards. The red drops did not splash. They vanished, swallowed by the stage as if the theater were thirsty.

Eli sagged against her.

Maeve caught him beneath the shoulders. His shirt was soaked at the left side, but the wound she had made was no longer spilling blood in the ordinary way. Thin black threads pulsed beneath the torn fabric, stitching flesh to shadow.

“Stay with me,” she said.

His lashes fluttered. “I’m trying.”

“You’re not allowed to die.”

A crooked smile touched his mouth. “That sounds familiar.”

The curator’s applause stopped.

At the edge of the stage, the figure in the old-fashioned tailcoat lowered his hands.