“It’s not something dangerous, is it?” She tightens her grip. Her eyes flick down the hall, then back to me. “I’m worried about you. You barely come up for air anymore.”
Grace’s forehead is creased, her hand still wrapped around my forearm. I know she’s trying to help. I know she wants to make sure I’m not in over my head. But the questions are too much, feel more like persistent jabs than a helping hand. Even more, I feel the pressure of her trying to mine inside again, pluck my thoughts right out of my head. And right now, I’m too tired to keep my walls high enough to block her out.
“Grace.” I take her hand and gently pry it off my arm. I step back, making sure I break our connection. “If you really are concerned about me, please stop trying to worm your way inside.”
I don’t mean it to sound harsh, but it must, ’cause she takes a few steps back too, as if I’ve slapped her. “Hell, Joan. I’ll stop worrying about you, if that’s what you want.”
“I swear, I’m not trying to keep things from you. Trust me, you’ll understand—”
“Oh, I understand. You’re doing what you need to do,” she says flatly. A pause as we stare each other down. “You’ve always done what you needed to do, though, right? That’s been crystal clear from the beginning.”
“Grace, come on.”
“By the way, for the record? You’re now as hard to mine as he is.” And then she turns around and slams her door.
*
My morning passes by in a flurry of strategy sessions with Gunn and underboss Win Matthews. Some of the conversations I can weigh in on (Which finale is the troupe’s strongest and most impressive? Should I spellbind all the sorcerers’ shines, or just my own? Where should the celebratory toast take place after our performance?). And of course, a lot I can’t (Where should the dividing line between gang territories fall? Will it really be profitable if D Street gets a monopoly on distributing our product?). But still, I stay behind closed doors with them for hours. They manage to iron everything out around two thirty, and then Gunn and I leave Win and wait for the troupe in the show space.
Grace, Billy and Ral, Tommy and Rose all file in from the hall. Alex comes through the double doors a couple minutes later. My heart starts fluttering on seeing him, and so I look away, focus on Gunn. He’s studying our troupe one by one, giving us each a little approving nod. The staff of stagehands has already filtered in too and begins to prep trays of shot glasses for our shine demonstration. A few of them start to rearrange the room into a seating area of benches in front of our stage.
The troupe shifts around me uncomfortably. I can almost feel their panic, over the not knowing, over being part of a performance they’ve never rehearsed.
“I apologize for the subterfuge to get you here,” Gunn finally addresses our troupe when the room is set, “but when you realize what today is all about, I believe you’ll appreciate my decision to be cautious.” He pauses. “In a few moments’ time, a man named Anthony Colletto will come through that door with some of his men, and he’ll be looking for an unparalleled performance, and an even wilder shine.”
There’s a tiny gasp from Grace, mumblings between Ral and Billy. Of course they all know the name Anthony Colletto. Of course they realize Gunn’s saying that we’re performing for the Shaws’ sworn enemy tonight. The troupe’s faces are pinched with concern, and confusion, but either Gunn doesn’t see them, or doesn’t care.
“And we’re going to show Colletto a shine that’s not only the highest-grade, strongest magic contraband available . . . we’re going to seal it, use magic to work around the limitations of sorcery, and let him ship it around the country for us. And together, we’re going to take over the goddamned world.” Again gasps, sideways looks. I close my eyes as I feel Grace trying to meet my gaze—
“This is possible, in part, because of all of you,” Gunn persists over their reactions. “I knew, back in that clearing in the middle of nowhere, that through the magic of seven—the magic of you—we were going to achieve extraordinary things.”
And like always, despite the fear and confusion that has taken hold of the crowd, with Gunn’s words, something else starts to churn within the troupe. An undercurrent of pride. Despite having been left in the dark, Gunn’s assured them they matter.
He always knows just what to say. Gunn’s good, far too good, at getting what he wants.
As Gunn walks toward the back stage, he says, “I want you to perform the finale that you ran last night, the Magical Dawn, for Colletto and his men. And then I want you to stand up here”—he points to the back-stage altar—“and brew your heart into your shine. Joan will take it from there.”
My cheeks flush, just a bit, as all eyes glance to me, wondering, judging.