With an impatient sigh, I glanced between the racks of dusty costumes and the trunk beside the bed I shared with Coco. Wool pants, scarves, mittens, and shawls spilled out of it, along with a couple of moldy blankets we’d found in the garbage last week. I touched Coco’s side of the bed gingerly.
I hoped she’d made it to her aunt safely.
Shaking my head, I turned back to the rack of costumes and picked out an outfit at random. Coco could take care of herself. Me, on the other hand . . .
I gave up trying to undress after three excruciating attempts. My broken fingers refused to work properly, and my body simply couldn’t contort itself to reach the buttons between my shoulders. I plucked a bergère hat and wire spectacles from a nearby bin and put them on instead. Last night’s velvet ribbon still hid my scar, and my cloak covered up the worst of the bloodstains. They would have to do.
My bladder insisted on immediate relief, and I refused to pee in the corner like a dog.
Besides, I could always pop Angelica’s Ring in my mouth if I needed to make a quick escape. I suspected the lobby would be too crowded to maneuver while invisible, or I would’ve forgone the disguise completely. Nothing roused suspicion like a specter stepping on one’s toes.
Tilting my hat over my face, I crept down the staircase that led backstage. Most of the actors ignored me, except—
“You aren’t supposed to be back here,” a haughty, hook-nosed girl said. She had a round face and hair the color and texture of corn silk. When I turned toward her, she gasped. “Good lord, what happened to your face?”
“Nothing.” I ducked my head hastily, but the damage was done.
Her haughtiness transformed into concern as she crept closer. “Has someone hurt you? Should I call the constabulary?”
“No, no.” I flashed her an embarrassed smile. “Just lost my way to the toilet, that’s all!”
“It’s in the lobby.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that blood on your dress? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Perfect.” I nodded like a maniac. “Thanks!”
I walked away a little too quickly to appear innocent. Though I kept my head down, I could feel other eyes on me as I passed. My face must’ve looked truly ghastly. Perhaps Angelica’s Ring would’ve been wiser, after all.
The lobby was infinitely worse than backstage. Wealthy nobles and merchants who had yet to find their seats crowded around it. I kept to the outskirts of the room, angling toward the walls to avoid unwanted attention. Thankfully, the theatergoers were far too interested in each other to notice my skulking. Soleil et Lune was, after all, far more popular for its gossip than its plays.
I overheard one couple whispering that the Archbishop himself would be attending this matinee—another excellent reason to return to the attic as soon as possible.
As father of the Chasseurs, the Archbishop guided their spiritual warfare against Belterra’s evil, proclaiming he’d been given a mandate from God to eradicate the occult. He’d burned dozens of witches—more than any other—yet still he didn’t rest. I’d seen him only once, from afar, but I’d recognized the cruel light in his eye for what it was: obsession.
I ducked into the toilet before anyone else could notice me. After relieving myself, I tore the ridiculous hat from my head and stood in front of the mirror. It revealed at once why the crew had stared. My face was in shambles. Deep purple bruises had seeped beneath my eyes, and dried blood spattered my cheeks. I scrubbed at it with the cold water from the tap, rubbing my skin until it was pink and raw. It did little to improve the overall effect.
A polite knock sounded on the door.
“Sorry!” I called sheepishly. “Stomach trouble!”
The knocking ceased immediately. The woman’s shocked, disapproving mutters drifted through the door as she shuffled away. Good. I needed to wait out the crowd, and a locked toilet was as good a place as any. Frowning at my reflection, I set to working the blood from my dress.
The voices outside gradually subsided as the music grew louder, signaling the start of the performance. Inching the door open, I peered into the lobby. Only three ushers remained. They nodded to me as I passed, oblivious to my bruised face in the dark.
My breathing came easier as I neared the door to backstage. I was only a few steps away when an auditorium door opened behind me.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” an usher asked.
Whoever it was murmured an answer, and the hair on my neck stood up. I should’ve proceeded to the attic. I should’ve run—every instinct screamed at me to flee, flee, flee—but I didn’t. Instead, I peeked back at the man standing in the doorway. The very tall, copper-haired man in a blue coat.
“You,” he said.
Before I could move, he pounced. His hands gripped my arms—vise-like—and he flung me around, positioning himself in front of the exit. I knew immediately that no amount of struggling would free me. He was simply too strong. Too big. There was only one way forward.
I smashed my knee straight into his groin.
He doubled over with a groan, grip loosening.
Tearing free—and throwing my hat at his face for good measure—I darted into the depths of the theater. There was another exit backstage. Crew members gaped as I sprinted past, knocking down crates and other props behind me as I went. When he caught the edge of my cloak, I ripped the fastening at my throat free, never faltering a step. It didn’t matter. The Chasseur still pounded after me, his strides nearly thrice my own—
He latched on to my wrist as I spotted the hook-nosed girl from before. Though I thrashed away from him—my spectacles clattering to the floor as I struggled toward her—he only tightened his hold. Tears streamed down my ruined face. “Please, help me!”
The hook-nosed girl’s eyes widened. “Let her go!”
The voices onstage faltered at her shout, and we all froze.
Shit. No, no, no.
Taking advantage of his hesitation, I twisted to break free, but his hand inadvertently met my breast. He loosened his grip, clearly appalled, but lunged as I pulled away, his fingers catching my neckline. Horrified, I watched in slow motion as the delicate fabric tore, as his feet tangled in my skirt. As we clutched one another, trying and failing to regain our balance.
As we tumbled through the curtain and onto the stage.
The audience gave a collective gasp—then fell silent. No one dared breathe. Not even me.
The Chasseur, who still held me atop him from our fall, stared up at me with wide eyes. I watched—numb—as dozens of emotions flitted across his face. Shock. Panic. Humiliation. Rage.
The hook-nosed girl skidded out after us, and the spell was broken. “You disgusting pig!”
The Chasseur flung me away like I’d bitten him, and I landed on my backside. Hard. Angry cries from the audience erupted as my dress gaped open. They took in my bruised face, my torn bodice, and made their own assumptions. But I didn’t care. Staring out at the audience, horror seeped through me as I imagined who could be staring back. The blood left my face.
The hook-nosed girl wrapped her arms around me, gently helping me to my feet and leading me backstage. Two burly crew members appeared and seized the Chasseur as well. The crowd shouted their approval as they frog-marched him behind us. I glanced back, surprised he wasn’t putting up a fight, but his face was as white as my own.