moved several large mirrors in front of the curtains, spanning the length of the stage. People’s reflections stared back at them.
“Tonight,” Hastings said, “we have something special for you.”
Quinn closed her eyes as he spoke, listening to the wind whistling through the cracks of the doors at the back of the theater, and the breathy excitement humming from the crowd.
“From a distant land, the Dark Masquerade brings you something”—Hastings paused, his words catching in a melodramatic tone—“unique,” he finished. “A phantom from the in-between. Please welcome to the stage—Mirior.”
The curtains parted slightly, and the crowd’s breath nearly stopped as Quinn rounded the wall of mirrors. Absolute silence greeted her as Hastings faded into the background, stepping away from the light of the candle.
Moving with grace-like beauty, Quinn glided across the stage, her footsteps making no sound. That was when the whispers began. It started low, a dark tingle in the audience. But as Quinn stepped up to the candle, allowing the dim fiery glow to flicker over her features, it grew.
Black tendrils, like rising smoke, lifted from individuals in the crowd. The more opaque the strands, the more fearful the person. Quinn closed her eyes, reached out, and extinguished the flame with her thumb and forefinger. The strands of fear turned into rivers, flowing out and around her as darkness descended upon the room.
Stagehands hurried to light the candles placed on the top edge of each mirror. Quinn turned her back on the audience and lifted her pale hands. She pointed the tendrils towards the mirrors, and they followed.
The reflections of the audience rippled before her and there were several gasps at her back. Quinn’s expression did not falter. She lowered her hands and moved forward, passing one mirror, and then another, until she was on the other end of the stage. She glanced at the audience, noting the people were enthralled with what they saw before them—then she moved across the stage, skimming the tips of her fingers across the glass as she passed it by. The tendrils she controlled were brought to life inside the mirrors.
Images appeared. People began to whimper and cry. Some gasped for breath but found no relief. Several turned their faces away, clenching their jaws as they prayed that what they saw was not real.
As Quinn came to a final stop at the end of the stage, at the very last mirror, she met a pair of glittering eyes in its reflection. With a frown, she turned and followed that gaze to its owner and a shock of recognition seized her.
It was the man from the marketplace.
He had found her.
The candles above the mirrors were snuffed out before the crowd became too agitated, and Quinn disappeared behind the curtains as the mirrors were removed and Hastings hurried out to calm them with the last act of the evening.
Quinn had no clue what the people saw in the mirrors, only that it showed their deepest, darkest fears. Each person’s fear was different, but in the mirrors, it was expounded upon and brought to life.
Tonight, though, one of her own fears had come to life.
She had never expected to see him again, much less here. But there he had sat, his eyes fixated on her, watching her every movement. She wondered if he knew. She wondered if he would look for her again. If he would tell Hastings about today.
Quinn strode quickly through the backstage area, ripping her mask away from her face. Caine scurried after her, attempting to stop her, but she waved him away with an irritated scowl. Quinn stormed into her dressing room and slammed the door in his face, leaning heavily against the wood as she stared at her pale image in the vanity mirror across the room.
As much as she worried over the stranger, she didn’t detect fear in her own eyes. No. Instead, she saw something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
Stranger in the Night
“There’s no such thing as coincidences. Only unknown motivations.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, possible murderess, and reluctant performer
The dull roar of the crowd trickled to a comfortable silence as Quinn stripped away her stage persona and the amphitheater emptied out. With a sigh, she hung up the white gossamer gown with care and cleaned away every trace of face paint from her skin.
Clad in nothing but her undergarments and a loose burlap shirt, she grabbed one of the three books she owned and an apple with its skin already beginning to pucker. It was a day past ripe, but