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Fun is probably the last thing we’ll be having, but I give him a small smile.

Valery wastes no time once he’s gone.

She rushes to my bed and lifts the silk dress from the heap I’ve left it in. Smoothing it out, she crosses to my closet and hangs it carefully on the closet door.

“Lovely,” she says, surveying the gown. “You should wear your hair down. We’ll put some waves in it.”

I open my mouth to ask her why she’s doing this, but then I shut it again. It’s the friendliest Valery has been since we discovered her here. Perhaps she feels badly about what happened with Deniel. I can’t exactly blame her for being cold to me after Enora’s suicide.

But I can wonder what she’s up to.

“It’s good I came now. They don’t have the kind of tools I had at the Coventry. This will take some time,” she says.

I follow her into the bathroom and she urges me toward the sink. There’s no fancy chair for me to sit in while she dampens my hair, so I bend awkwardly and she presses my head down under the flowing water. It’s freezing and my body tenses.

“Sorry,” she says absently, and I feel the water grow warmer. A moment later, her long fingers run through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp. It feels good for a moment but then her fingers grow more frenzied in their actions until she’s practically scraping me with her fingernails. I wince, and she repeats her apology. She lets the water rinse out the soap and it slides into my eyes. I squeeze them shut but feel the sting of the shampoo. She lifts my head and wraps a thick towel around me, offering me a washcloth to wipe my eyes.

When we return to my room, I sit at the vanity and she pulls the towel from my head. Water drips down my back, and my robe sticks to my skin from the moisture.

I feel a comb running through my hair and water gushes to my shoulders as she pulls it into a straight line.

“You should cut this,” she says. “Less work.”

“I like it long,” I say. My mother’s hair was long. My mother’s hair
is
long, I correct myself, but I push the thought back out of my head, fighting against the helplessness I feel when I think of her. I don’t want to imagine her roaming around her cage, deep in the cells under the estate.

“As you wish.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “I mean, I can get ready on my own.”

“I’m sure you can, but Kincaid expects a certain level of aestheticism when it comes to his guests.”

“I can put on cosmetics,” I snap.

“Fine.” She drops her hands and steps back from me. “I thought we could talk.”

I soften a little at her words, feeling ungrateful and confused at the same time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do this. You aren’t my aesthetician anymore.”

“I know that. I liked doing your cosmetics, Adelice,” she says. “I’m not offering out of obligation.”

“In that case, thank you,” I say.

She retrieves long, thin pieces of fabric from her pocket. Her eyes meet mine and she pulls one taut between her hands, and for a moment I’m scared of the stranger I see reflected there. Who is this?

But then she takes a section of my hair and wraps it with precision around the fabric, tying it off at the end.

“Like I said, we don’t have the same tools at our disposal here.”

I swallow hard and nod. “Is that why you wear your cosmetics differently?”

“Kincaid likes the geisha aesthetic. It’s an old Earth style,” she responds in a quiet voice. “I often do my cosmetics to please him.”

But that’s not the only thing she does to please him.
Still, today her face, while lined and painted, reflects the aesthetic of an Arras woman. I wonder if she’s trying to send him a message after last night’s spectacle, reminding Kincaid where she comes from.

She repeats the action until most of the hair framing my face is wrapped up into the rags. She faces me and leans in, taking my chin in her hands and studying me. Her breath smells of cinnamon.

Even here, after everything that’s happened, Valery is the essence of poise. Her skin silky, everything about her soft. Her fingers, though, are cold on my face and they pinch my skin as she turns my head to inspect me.

“How am I holding up?” I mutter through my nearly closed mouth.

“Well enough. A little cosmetics and no one will see the damage.”

I frown. Damage?

“None of that,” she says in regard to my dubious expression. “It makes it worse.”

In fairness, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not exactly looking forward to another round of cosmetics, but if it gets Valery talking, it will be worth it.

She reaches for the bag she brought and pulls out a cream, which she smooths over my face. Her brushes dance over my cheekbones, glide against my eyelids, and line my lips. For a moment, I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my quarters at the Coventry. Enora will meet me to take me to training or a meeting or a carefully prepared feast. This will have been a dream—or will it have been a nightmare?

I’m not sure.

“Open your eyes,” Valery commands. I do so, and she brushes a mascara wand roughly through my lashes. I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror. She’s concentrating, which makes her look like she used to—engaged in her work. She did truly enjoy it. She hadn’t been lying about that. Her robe has fallen off her shoulder and there I spy it—a thick purple mark running across her olive skin. It creeps toward her neck, but doesn’t quite reach it. A lavender scar. Her eyes catch mine staring in the mirror, and she tugs the robe back up.

“Let’s get that dress on,” she suggests.

I stand and let my dressing gown fall to the floor in a puddle.

“You should be more careful.” Valery clucks under her breath.

My eyes follow hers and I see a patch of blue blooming on my calf.

“Probably from Deniel’s attack,” I say, shrugging it off.

“There are plenty of things to hurt yourself on here,” Valery says, but her words are colored with warning. She draws my gown into her hands and waits.

I’ve worn enough of these dresses to know only one thing works under them. Nothing. She drops the dress over my head and I let the straps fall over my hands. The dress slides gracefully into place.

“Lovely,” she says.

“We didn’t talk much,” I say.

Valery pauses and pain flashes across her face. “I know.”

“You didn’t want to,” I accuse lightly.

“No, I didn’t.”

I start to ask her why, but she steps to the side and pulls the rags from my hair, which bounces down into soft curls that fall across my shoulders. I watch her in the mirror. She came because she wanted to do this. She wanted her old life, if only for a moment. She tugs one side of my hair up with a sparkling comb and stops to look at our reflection. I can’t bring myself to smile, but Valery positively glows. We look glamorous and polished. We look like ghosts from Arras.

“Beautiful,” she says with pride in her voice. She places her hand on my shoulder and I’m transported back to another time. Another world. My imagination sketches in Enora where she would have stood in the Coventry.

“Do you miss her?” I whisper.

Her hand falls and her expression changes. She steps away from me, still meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“I don’t want to talk about her with you.”

“So what? You’ve replaced her? With Kincaid?” I challenge.

“I never want to hear you mention Enora again,” Valery snaps. “She’s dead, and you have no right to even think of her.”

“Someone has to,” I accuse. “She tried to help me. She knew what was going to happen to her, that’s why she gave me that digifile.”

“And what did that cost her?” Valery asks. “Helping you, getting you that digifile. Enora trusted too many people, and it destroyed her.”

Enora had revealed her concern, showing her hand by giving me that digifile. Had the person who helped her get it betrayed her to the Guild? It doesn’t matter, because I understand why she did it. “She led me to the truth even after her death, and you don’t care.”

“Caring won’t bring her back. It will only bring us pain,” Valery warns.

“I dream of her—of how I found her. I’ll never stop thinking of Enora,” I say in a determined voice. Valery might dismiss Enora’s memory, but I won’t.

“Don’t worry,” Valery says in a sharp tone. “After a while you’ll stop dreaming.”

But dreams are the least of my concerns. After she leaves, only one thing consumes me: the lilac scar licking up her shoulder. She’s hiding it, and I have a suspicion I know why.

Valery has been altered.

THE CURTAINS RISE AT THE BELLOW OF a trumpet. Three men appear, pointing and crying out as a specter rises in the distance. The ghost’s voice booms out over the theater. I melt into my plush seat, consumed by the action. My heart pounds as the ghost cries for revenge against his murderer.

“Here,” Valery says, pushing a booklet into my lap.

I don’t want to look away from the action, but I flip through the pages to please her. More than ever, I want to make amends with Valery. It’s a program, featuring images of the actors in the play. “Before” and “after” shots. Each actor has been made up as someone else, with a note on which famous film star he or she is portraying. The actors aren’t only playing roles in Shakespeare’s play, they’ve been made to look like actors from the past. The surreality of it isn’t lost on me.

I peer at one of the actress’s images as the scene changes. It’s dark but I’m struck by the subtle changes that have been made, enabling her to look more like a classic film star named Veronica Lake, according to the program. Her hair is longer, waving over her face. Her nose more pert. Lips more full. The differences are pronounced—perhaps too much so to be achieved by a powder brush and eyeliner.

As the next scene begins, Kincaid appears onstage. He sports a trim beard and a black mourning ensemble but the hint of a smile betrays the somber moment. As the ghost’s request for retribution is repeated along with the truth about his murder, my throat swells.

One of the actors clutches his side, where a thin crimson ribbon pours from his ribs. His performance is haunting. Even from where I’m sitting, I see the pain reflected in his eyes. Ophelia goes mad, casting flowers, and I weep for her, the girl locked away and used by Hamlet and Horatio and the king. I weep over Hamlet’s confrontation with his mother.

Kincaid’s age is the only thing that distracts me. He’s too commanding. Too self-assured to play Hamlet. He doesn’t understand his character’s dilemma.

I could do better.

Only Valery seems as moved as I am by the performance, which surprises me. Jost and Erik sit up straighter during the final climactic scene, and we watch, waiting to see who lives. No one breathes until the final line has been spoken.

“That was beautiful,” I murmur.

“Were we watching the same performance?” Valery asks hollowly, but before I can ask what she means, she excuses herself.

“It’s late,” Jost says beside me. “Are you hungry? It’s well past supper time.”

I start to nod, but then shake my head. “I’ll join you after I freshen up.”

I’m surprised when he turns to Erik and they begin discussing the play. As I exit, their conversation grows louder.

Valery lingers near the stage door, peering through. Her shoulders are hunched close to her craning neck, and I’m struck by the overwhelming need to know what she’s doing. I creep up next to her, but the oak floor groans beneath my feet, giving me away.

She spins, her fingers splayed against the slope of her collarbone.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, but she shushes me.

“I was looking for a friend,” Valery says, her eyes darting to the ground as she speaks.

She’s lying, but why?

“You could try going in,” I say, reaching to push open the door.

Valery shifts to block me. “I’m not playing a game with you, Adelice.”

“Then stop pretending that you aren’t up to something. Stop pretending we’re friends, and tell me who you are and what you’re doing.”

“I’m surviving,” Valery says, spitting the words at me. “No thanks to you, Adelice. Judge me all you want, but you might want to look in a mirror.”

She dashes away before I can recover from her stinging rebuke. She might be right about me, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t lying. I slip through the door instead of going to the powder room. Something drew Valery back here, and I’m going to find out what.

There are plenty of corners to hide in, shadows cast by pulleys and bits of the set. Here is where the spell of the play gives way to props and costumes. The story fades to flat, choreographed illusion. But it’s not the wooden trees or the series of curtains separating the world of the stage from the audience that chills my blood. A woman rubs black-and-blue marks developing on her neck, and an actor dressed in a soldier’s uniform moans on a table. Jax is there, attending to the actors. He spots me hiding among the shadows and gives me a quick smile. I try to smile back, but the scene before me is more horrifying than anything that occurred in the play.

The violence was realistic because it was
real
.

“What about my face?” the woman who played Ophelia asks. “Can you change it back?”

“I suppose,” Jax says, examining the marks from where Kincaid nearly strangled her during the show. “If you want to go through the alterations again.”

She winces at the suggestion. “I think … I think I do. I don’t like looking like someone else.”

“I’ll let them know.” Jax pats her arm and hands her a pack of ice for her bruises. He turns to me, but he closes his mouth as quickly as he opened it, turning hastily back to his work. Jax is the only other Sunrunner who’s been friendly to us since our arrival. The rest keep their distance, but he seems interested in us.