Enna still trusted him.
“It was Carl,” Zara says. “He killed Enna. To fulfill the visions. He wanted revenge for what Leopold did to Enna.”
“He got revenge for Enna by killing her?” Eli says, like she’s just trying to get things cleared up.
“The revenge was for himself, too. Who he and Enna used to be. What Leopold did to them when they were in love. Carl thought she was miserable, ruined by what happened. He believed Enna was as good as dead already.” There is a horrible heat in Zara’s chest, and she doesn’t know if it’s rage or sadness or just the water, burning.
“You’re saying it was all five of them?” Eli asks as they come out on the other side of the cyclorama.
“Yes,” Zara rasps.
The whole thing was like a little play.
Cosima made the costumes. Barrett did the props, the set dressing. Meg was the director. Carl was the lead actor, playing a role only Enna would ever see. Toby was a supporting actor, providing Leopold with an alibi and then conveniently taking it away. Toby didn’t know about the murders until the curtain came down. Neither did Cosima — but she was still willing to bind Zara’s hands. Meg must have told her to do it. Cosima must have been in too deep to question why.
The part that makes Zara close her eyes — the part she doesn’t want to look at — is how they tried to warn her, to protect her from what they were doing. They ignored Zara at first, keeping her at arm’s length from the day she arrived. They avoided talking about Roscoe’s and Enna’s deaths. The more Zara and Eli insisted on the truth, the more all five repeated the same words, in different variations.
Focus on the play. Don’t ask questions.
It wasn’t until Barrett painted it on the walls of Zara’s bedroom and gave himself away that Meg told her a little story, a slightly altered version of the truth. She couldn’t risk Zara figuring out what actually happened, so she made Zara believe that Leopold was responsible for the deaths. The story to frame him was already in place.
All Meg had to do was tip Zara’s mind in the right direction.
As Zara’s thoughts whirl, Eli pulls her out from behind the stage, to where the assistant stage manager and a few stagehands are waiting. They stare at the two girls, but they don’t seem to understand what they’re looking at.
Zara kneels, trying to catch her breath. It feels impossible. Eli crouches next to her, a hand on her back. “Call 911!”
The stagehands hold up empty palms. No one has phones backstage.
And then Zara catches sight of Meg’s blond hair shining across the stage, on the other side of the wings.
The audience launches into one more round of applause. They’re unstoppable. They love Echo and Ariston.
They always do.
Meg heads for the cyclorama. Zara’s mind does a fevered turn through the Aurelia. If she and Eli head backstage with Zara moving this slowly, Meg will catch up to them before they can reach the lobby or the loading dock. “Come on,” Zara says, setting her eyes on the one place they might be safe. She stands up, grabbing the rich red velvet of the curtains.
Zara pulls Eli onstage.
After being buried in water and bricked under the stage, this is where Zara belongs. The stage is bright, like being flooded with early spring sunshine.
At first, the audience thinks Echo has finally arrived to take a bow. The applause grows wild at the edges. It’s already a standing ovation. With the houselights up, Zara can pick out individual faces. People are delighted.
And then people are confused.
Because Echo is bleeding. Echo is breathing hard. Echo is dragging someone behind her like a life preserver.
Silence overtakes the theater.
Adrian rushes up. Zara can feel him wanting to help. Kestrel, too, runs toward them. Chorus members break the ranks of the curtain call, starting to ask questions. Carl watches Zara with hard eyes. Toby starts to cry.
Zara is where she belongs, but she can’t tell the story that needs to be told, not with her throat damaged from nearly drowning. “I need you to do the talking,” she whispers to Eli.
Eli nods. And then her voice springs out, louder than Zara’s ever heard it, filling every corner of the Aurelia. “Someone call 911!” she says. “There’s been an attempted murder.”
Zara whispers in Eli’s ear.
“And an actual murder,” she adds.
The silence in the theater shatters into a thousand voices — people calling for help, crying out, yelling into phones.
“Was that okay?” Eli whispers, leaning her head in to touch Zara’s.
“Brilliant.”
Zara doesn’t know what to do next, or what to say, or how to stop bleeding. But Eli is there. She kneels down, tears off a piece of Zara’s dress, and wraps it around her fingers. “You were right,” Zara murmurs. “This play has a terrible ending.”
Eli looks out at the lights, the faces, the beautiful body of the theater. “This isn’t how it usually goes.”
“I like this ending better,” Zara whispers, pulling Eli a little closer until they’re at that distance where every word sounds like an invitation and the meeting of their bodies feels fated.
Zara touches her lips to Eli’s. Every time they do this, they’re inventing so much — themselves, each other, what it means to be in love. This is the best truth that Zara has. She and Eli stand together at the heart of the Aurelia, kissing and kissing as the lights burn into them. Now everyone can see.
This is their story.
This has always been their story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the book’s curtain call, where the audience gets to see — and applaud — everyone who helped create the magic.
I love this part.
First, thank you to every artist I have ever shared a stage, backstage, or greenroom with. Many years as an actor (and a few stabs at playwriting) have taught me that theater people are some of the best in the world. I would not be an author today without those bighearted companies and chances to connect with other people. Like Zara, I found my voice in the theater.
A special thanks to my sister, Allyson Capetta, an inspiring theater artist in NYC, who was very sweet about answering my frantic e-mails with subject lines like “QUESTION ABOUT SUBWAYS.” Thanks to Kitt Lavoie for sharing his knowledge of running a New York theater, Brian Brookhart for letting me run around — I mean research — in the fly space, and Sara Watson, who provided information and inspiration for Eli’s career as a young lighting designer.
When I became a YA writer, I discovered a second artistic community that is just as supportive, wildly creative, and tireless in its search for beauty and truth. Big love to the VCFA family and those who heard the first public reading of this story in January 2015. A spotlight for my agent, Sara Crowe, who championed this book from the first draft. Tossing roses at the feet of my incredible early readers: Katie Bayerl (mystery choreographer), Yamile Saied Méndez (brilliant director of all things Eli), Ann Hagman Cardinal (who found Eli in real life and stage-managed an entire draft), Mary Winn Heider (old theater hand and wondrous giver of feedback), Tirzah Price (who was there from the first rehearsal), Julia Blau (who waited patiently for opening night), and Cori McCarthy (my live-in story designer, who read every word — multiple times — and helped me make them more).
The Candlewick team is the best crew I could imagine for this book, making things run smoothly behind the scenes and finding every possible way for the story to shine. Clapping so hard that my hands sting for Emily Wagner and her early enthusiasm; interns Courtney Burke and Sofia Elbadawi; copyeditors Susan VanHecke and Maggie Deslaurier; catalog writer and live-texter of story excitement Christine Engels; proofreader Martha Dwyer; Jamie Tan, Wonder Publicist; Matt Roeser, who gave this book its epic cover; and Sherry Fatla, who designed its gorgeous insides. Cheers for the readers whose targeted feedback made the book stronger: Sarah Ketchersid, Andrea Corbin, and Melanie Cordova. A standing ovation for Hilary Van Dusen, who b
elieved this was a Candlewick book and gave it the perfect home.
The final bow goes to Miriam Newman, my editor. Finding her was a moment of pure distilled luck. Working with her has been a mind-sparking act of collaboration — the kind of story-making I love best. Miriam: Zara and Eli wouldn’t have their love story without you. I’m sad to leave the Aurelia, but I like to think it’s always there waiting for us.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Rose Capetta
Cover photographs copyright © 2017 by Richard Nowitz/Getty Images (theater lights); copyright © 2017 by andipantz/Getty Images (painted circles)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2017
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
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