Page 92 of Grave Flowers
“Oh, it’s chilly in here.” It took no effort to mimic shivering. I shook with fear from head to toe. “I shall fetch a covering and return.”
Before Father, Prince Lambert, or Aeric could respond, I ducked into the crowd, trying to bury myself behind the various bodies as quickly as possible. The theater’s inclined floor tugged me forward. Doom engulfed me. My destination, the door backstage, loomed ahead, as ominous as an executioner’s block. The masks ringing the stage were the same, but I saw only the expressions of hopeless pain, sorrowful grief, unrestrained fury.
I slipped backstage. It was even more chaotic than the theater. Actors bustled back and forth, doing singing exercises (though I was fairly certain there were no musical numbers), practicing lines, and engaging in various superstitious behaviors like tapping the cue script once and passing a boot around to rub. Most were attired as Acusan flowers, but two were dressed as royals. A king and a prince.
King Claudius and Prince Lambert, I thought.
I saw her.
A dark-haired actress, wearing the red dress costume with my name embroidered across the front. Ducking my head, I made my way to her.
“Excuse me, which part are you playing?” I asked. She had brown eyes, but I saw she wore a wig meant to emulate the length and color of my locks. Half Fely actresses, it seemed, were in short supply.
“Oh, Your Highness!” She smiled. She pointed to the embroidered name. “You, of course.”
“I thought the play was a Primeval Family myth.”
“It was until this morning. Prince Aeric brought us a new script and costumes. I don’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s had me in a frenzy all day. I was set to play the Daughter, and now, suddenly, I’m playing you. By Family fortune, we mostly only have to pantomime actions.”
“I see. Here, come with me.”
Desperately, I hurried her into the closet that had been Yorick’s room. The emptiness of it made my heart hurt. I could almost see how it had once been, so carefully decorated and cozy. His deception still stung, but as I thought of him drowning in the fountain, I wished someone would’ve helped him. Just as I was alone, he’d been as well.
“Prince Aeric has made yet another change,” I said. “He wants me to play myself.”
“What?” The girl threw her hands in the air. “After all my preparation?”
“Well …” I hesitated. “I thought you only received the new part a few hours ago, and there are hardly any lines.”
“True, but I’ve already channeled you, and it took a great amount of emotional energy.”
“There’s no time. Quick, we’ll switch outfits.”
The actress sighed dramatically. “Very well, but I still better be paid.”
Hastily, I slipped into the costume. It was a cheap mockery of the real one, quickly sewn with slits of different heights and ties instead of fasteners. Yorick’s black jester’s cape still hung from the hook. I picked it up and wrapped it around myself. I let out a little sigh of relief. Now, there was no actress to portray me in the play, and if I was lucky, my ally turned foe Prince Lambert would be exposed, and Aeric would order him to be arrested. I’d poison Aeric tonight and return home as soon as possible, hoping I might avoid whatever Inessa had planned by making sure I didn’t say a roundabout invocation. Acus would be left in chaos while the next heir to the throne was determined, but all that mattered was that I did my duty, protected Radix, and ensured I pleased Father.
I had to be strong for only a little bit longer.
Holding Yorick’s cloak closed, I climbed the four stairs to the royal box. It was quite close to the stage and about six feet from the ground, giving a level view of the theater. Attendants extinguished the candles, and white tendrils of smoke curled through the air. Instruments began humming discordantly as the musicians tuned them for the performance. The sound was as eerie as a moonmirror wail.
I settled next to Aeric, swathed in Yorick’s cape. Aeric frowned as I settled next to him. Leaning over, he said, “You must be very cold.”
“Practically freezing.”
The curtain parted.
The stage was revealed like an opening eye. Crimson silk flowers attached to actual branches wreathed the set, surrounding the memory garden tableau. The backdrop depicted a blue sky with fluffy white clouds, but the undersides were gently streaked with red, as though they bled. The actors dressed as flowers ran out, bobbling comedically about the stage, drawing laughs at their antics.
An actor wearing a crown sat on the bench. He lifted a hand to his chin, attempting to pantomime a man lost in thought. Another actor, dressed in Prince Lambert’s costume, approached from behind. An exaggerated, maniacal smile was on his lips, and he tiptoed toward the unsuspecting king. A twitter ran through the audience as they read Prince Lambert’s name embroidered on the costume. I watched the ridiculous portrayal, its overdramatization more bizarre because I knew it had really happened. If Inessa was right, King Claudius had sat in the garden surrounded by the graves of his children as Prince Lambert crept near, armed with moonrain provided by Father. I thought I should look at Prince Lambert to see his reaction as his crime lived once again on the stage. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t drag my eyes from the stage.
The prince reached the king and lifted a vial almost-comically labeledPOISONinto the air. Heads turned, the court looking from the stage to the royal box, faces morphing as they realized they had seen an accusation. Some sobered, some gasped, some looked excited.
“What is this?” Prince Lambert hissed. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Why is my name sewn onto the costume? Nephew. What troubles do you stir with this nonsense? This is a fantasy. A farce.”
“Oh, it isn’t finished. Sit down, Uncle.” Aeric leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. Leisurely, he lifted his legs onto the rail and removed his crown. He turned it over in his hands,as though bored. Then his attention turned to me. “There is still yet another part.”
The set changed. A bed was brought out with a crown attached to the headboard, signifying it was the king’s bed. Sweat collected in every hollow of my body, in the lower slope of my back, in the dip at the base of my skull. With flourish, an actor dressed as Aeric threw himself into the bed and propped himself up to pose promiscuously. Nervous laughs punctuated the theater. The actor patted the spot next to him. I knew what it was supposed to be. My and Aeric’s wedding night. The actor frowned and glanced backstage, waiting. No one else stepped onto the stage. Fumbling, the actor began to monologue about how much he loved his new bride. Then he gave it up entirely and started a spontaneous piece inspired by his own life as a poor theater child.
