But Enzo died. They grieved, and made their peace with it. And now …
“I will bring him back,” Maeve continues, “and I will tether him to anyone I please.” Then, her voice turns gentler. “But I’d rather tie him to those who care the most for him. The bond with the living is strongest that way.”
Still, Raffaele doesn’t reply. He closes his eyes, willing himself to silence his mind. To force away the churning sensation of wrongness in this idea. Finally, he opens his eyes and meets the queen’s gaze. “Will he be the same?”
“We won’t know,” Maeve says slowly, “until I try.”
SCENE VII
(Exeunt all but Boy.) BOY. Are you an ogre?
(Enter Ogre.)
OGRE. Are you a knight?
BOY. I am not a knight! Nor am I a king, scout, or priest.
Therefore, you can be sure I am not here to steal the jewel.
—Original translation of The Temptation of the Jewel, by Tristan Chirsley
Adelina Amouteru
The Little Baths of Bethesda turn out to be a set of ruins at the edge of Merroutas.
Early the next morning, as the sun crests the horizon and fishing boats set out into the bay, Violetta and I make our way down the dirt path leading out of the city-state’s main gates and to a smaller cluster of abandoned domed houses, all situated beneath the stone arches of a former aqueduct.
It looks like a place that once bustled with activity. But the bathhouse itself—or what’s left of it—was built on soft ground, which must have sealed its fate. As people abandoned the bathhouse, so must they have abandoned the small settlement of homes around it. Or perhaps the aqueduct delivering its water crumbled first. The once-glorious pillars at its entrance have now collapsed, and the stone foundation has sunk into the marshy soil. Vines crawl up the stone, their flowers vibrant green and yellow. I feel a strong attraction to this place’s ruined beauty.
“He’s here,” Violetta whispers beside me, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Good.” I adjust my mask across my own ruined face and approach the entrance.
The bathhouse is cool and dark inside, its arched stone ceiling covered with mosses and ivy. Narrow shafts of light cut through the ceiling’s openings, illuminating the pools of water below. We step carefully through the halls of ancient marble colonnades. The air smells wet and musky, the scent of something green and alive. The sound of dripping water echoes all around us.
Finally I stop where the bath pool begins. “Where is he?” I whisper.
Violetta lifts her eyes to the ceiling. She spins in a half circle, then focuses on a dark corner. “There.”
I strain to see into the shadows. “Magiano,” I call out. My voice startles me—it bounces off the walls, over and over, until it finally fades away. I clear my throat, a little embarrassed, and continue in a quieter tone. “We were told we could find you here.”
There is a long silence, so long that I start to wonder whether Violetta might be mistaken.
Then, someone laughs. As the sound echoes from surface to surface, a flurry of leaves rain down from the bathhouse’s mossy banisters. A trail of dark braids flashes in and out of the light. I instinctively extend one of my arms in front of Violetta, as if that might protect her.
“Adelina,” a voice calls playfully. “How nice to see you.”
I try to pinpoint where the voice comes from.
“Are you Magiano, then?” I reply. “Or are you just taunting us?”
“Do you remember a comedy called The Temptation of the Jewel?” he continues after a pause. “The play opened in Kenettra a couple of years ago, to great fanfare, right before the Inquisition banned it.”
I do remember it. The Temptation of the Jewel was about a dull, arrogant knight who continually bragged that he could steal a jewel from an ogre’s lair—only to be bested by a cheeky young boy, who snatched the prize first. It was penned by Tristan Chirsley, the same famous scribe who’d written the Stories of the Star Thief collection, and its final performance had happened in Dalia, in a theater overflowing with people.
The Star Thief. I shake my head, trying not to think of Gemma and the others. “Yes, of course I do,” I respond. “How is this relevant? Are you a Chirsley admirer?”
Another laugh sounds through the vast space. Another shuffle of feet and flurry of leaves high above us. This time, we look up and see a dark silhouette crouched on a rotting wooden beam right over our heads. I step aside to look more properly at him. In the shadows, all I can make out are a pair of bright gold eyes, fixed curiously on me.
“It’s relevant,” he replies, “because I was the inspiration for it.”
A laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “You inspired Chirsley’s play?”