Page 50 of The Nightmare Bride
Kyven tapped a Wanted poster. “What’s this?”
I scanned the yellowed parchment. The headline offered a reward for the leader of the swamp brigands, then listed the man’s crimes: robbery, highway banditry, tax evasion. The accompanying portrait was generic and washed-out, and could have been anyone.
The poster must have been years old, considering no lawmen remained to collect a reward from. “It’s about the outlaws living in the woods. The same group that woman in the cellar was from.”
Kyven ran a finger along the bottom of the poster, where someone had scrawled a handwritten addition.The true seneschal of Oceansgate. “And this?”
My mouth tightened. “I don’t know. They’re common thieves, but...their founder has become kind of a mythic figure, at this point. People act like he’s the champion of thedowntrodden. The noble thief who helps the poor, that sort of thing. Maybe because he gives away money. Or used to, when the nightmares first started. And he’s made sure everyone in Oceansgate has a set of chains. But calling him ‘the rightful seneschal’ is ridiculous. I guess Olivian just hasn’t cultivated the people’s love, like this guy has.”
Kyven tore the poster off the wall and folded it into the pocket of his tailcoat.
“What’re you doing?”
“Research.” He flashed a sunlit smile. “I want to know everything about my new home.”
I gave him a skeptical look, but he was already pulling me by the hand again. A brisk walk later, we veered through a doorway, and I found myself sitting at a wooden table in a crowded pub.
The place was wide open—high-ceilinged but dark, all warm black walls and gray stone floors. It was old, too, in a way that settled into my bones and gave weight to the air.
Amid all those shadows, Kyven gleamed, as fresh and bright as a copper penny.
He ordered two ales and a plate of fruit. The waitress set everything on his half of the table, leaning in so far her bosom nearly spilled into his face.
Not that he noticed. He pinned me with a look, then set to peeling an apple in one continuous spiral. I tracked the progress of his paring knife, wondering if I should have done something to keep him from having a blade.
But I didn’t actually feel threatened. Not with Kyven studying me like he was paying attention with his whole self. Like he could scorch away my layers with the frosty burn of his eyes.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he said.
I shifted on my stool, trying to get comfortable. All around, laughter mingled with the clink of glassware and the pungenttang of sweat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes. Your company was actually tolerable, for once.”
“Careful.” His mouth hitched. “Compliments like that are guaranteed to go to my head.”
I scoffed and guzzled my ale. “Everythinggoes to your head. Compliments, insults, doesn’t even matter.”
“Hmm. You may have a point.”
Great. There he went with thehmms again. I’d learned to be wary of them, because Kyven usually chased them into meatier territory, drawing me into a conversation that sounded light on the surface, but wasn’t.
Sure enough, he leaned in, his elbows planted on the table. “There’s nothing quite like it, is there? The theatre. It’s possibility in its rawest form.”
I grimaced. A philosophical discussion was the last thing I needed right now. “I have no idea what that means.”
His knife circumnavigated the apple. “Itmeansthat inside that auditorium, there’re no rules. I'm not a prince. You’re not a keymistress. The curtain goes up and we’re free to become pirates, if we like. Or rivals, or lovers, or friends. In there, we can be whatever we want. Write any story we wish.”
My skin tingled. Shit. I hated that this angle interested me. “And you...enjoy that? That freedom?”
“Freedom, yes.” His face lit up. “That’s the word. Theatre isn’t just possibility, it’s freedom, in its purest form. Because every time I go, I’m reminded that I can reinvent myself, just like those players do on stage.”
I pondered that. Huh. “And what would you like to become, exactly?”
“Well.” His smile took on a mysterious edge. “That depends on the day. On my mood. Which changes rather frequently, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I drained my ale to give myself time to think. I wouldn’t argue his capriciousness—he habitually flitted from one thing to the next. But his flightiness had a...steady quality, almost. He was predictably unpredictable, and always cheerful, always upbeat.
Which, all this time, I’d assumed was manufactured. But his expression, inside that theatre...
“And you, lioness? Who would you be, if you could reinvent yourself?”
