The Performance
I stole a glance at the audience. The son of the royal advisor was staring at me, his eyes devouring every inch. Gone was the bored expression he’d worn earlier; now, his lips curled into a mocking, appraising smirk. His gaze felt invasive, unsettling. I regretted wearing such a short skirt and letting my hair down. Some primal instinct for self-preservation warned me that his look spelled trouble. And I was right...
My name is Marmalade. Odd, isn’t it? I’ve grown used to it, though—it’s the only name I’ve got. Just like I’ve got no past to speak of.
For the past two years, I’ve been traveling across the country with Dominic’s theater troupe. It was exactly two years ago that they found me, lying by the roadside between two small provincial towns. I was wearing nothing but a nightgown and a simple little ring with a black stone. And I was asleep. Right there on the road. Maybe it was some kind of enchanted slumber—I don’t know.
Dominic reported me to the town guard. They checked all their records, searched for any reports of missing persons or abductions in the nearby towns and villages. They even sent a query to the capital. Nothing. No one knew a girl like me.
I couldn’t remember a thing about myself—who I was, where I came from. I sat in a corner of the guard station, curled up on a bench, tucking my bare feet beneath me and wrapping myself in a cloak a kind-hearted guard had given me. He scribbled away in a massive ledger for what felt like forever before looking up at me and saying:
“I don’t know what to do with you. You need a place to stay and a job. You could go to the workhouse—they always need hands, and they’ve got lodging. Or there’s the brothel, but that’s not for you. You’re too... young. I’m not sure...” He trailed off, lost in thought. “What do you say?”
I stayed silent. I shook my head, signaling I didn’t want either option, and stared at the candle on the table. A moth fluttered around it, and I felt sorry for the poor thing—it was bound to singe its wings any moment.
“Then it’s the street for you,” the guard sighed. “We can’t keep you here long. There’s no space. I’ll give you some old clothes, and you’ll have to figure out your own path. Sooner or later, you’ll end up in the workhouse or the brothel anyway.”
He handed me some tattered rags and wrote up a document stating my name was Marmalade Road and that I was eighteen years old. He made up the name and age on the spot, not wanting to bother with details. There happened to be a box of marmalade candies on his desk—probably a favorite treat of his—and with a glance at it, he named me. As for the surname, well, they found me on the road, so “Road” it was.
I left the station and wandered toward the town center. I’d overheard Dominic and Clo talking about a theater troupe performing there that day. I stood in the crowd, watching the stage, and knew right then I wouldn’t leave until they took me in.
After the show, I approached Dominic as he climbed down from the makeshift stage. He saw me and grinned.
“Hey, little stray! How’re you doing? Everything okay?”
I shook my head no and stood there in silence.
“Haven’t found your family yet? That’s a shame. Don’t worry, they’ll turn up.”
He headed toward the wagon, and I trailed behind him. I followed him relentlessly until he finally relented.
“Alright, alright, but you’ll sleep in the second wagon with the supplies and props. We’re short on space.”
I nodded eagerly. And so, I stayed with them. I’ll tell you later how I ended up on stage. For now, it’s my cue!
“I’m a merry little butterfly, dancing over the meadow!” sang Clo, bouncing across the stage and flapping her arms.
The wooden boards creaked under her hefty frame, and her tattered green wings drooped sadly, flapping against her back in rhythm with her jumps, barely clinging to her emerald dress.
“And I’m a big, fat toad!” bellowed Dominic in a menacing voice, a tall, lanky man wearing a devil’s mask.
We couldn’t find the toad mask before the show, so we made do with something vaguely sinister instead.
I couldn’t help but laugh inwardly at our ragtag traveling troupe’s attempt to perform a children’s fairytale. We usually specialized in risqué romances and dramas about the gods, which the common folk adored. But when we arrived in the capital, we learned that the performance we’d been booked for at the “Bloody Grin” tavern had been canceled—the owner had died unexpectedly. We’d spent all our remaining money on the journey, so we had to scramble for work. Dominic heard that the daughter of the chief royal advisor was having a birthday soon, and they were looking for actors for a children’s party. So, we quickly transformed into butterflies, bunnies, and bees, cobbling together an impromptu tale of a kind butterfly and an evil toad. The children watched with wide eyes, hopefully filled with curiosity and delight. The chief advisor himself chatted with his wife beside him, occasionally glancing at his eldest son, who lounged in a chair with a bored expression. There were other guests too—men and women, likely the parents of the children.
I wore bumblebee wings, long wire antennae with yellow pom-poms at the tips, and a black-and-yellow striped skirt that barely covered my backside. Thankfully, I had thick yellow tights on underneath, which made the short skirt a little less unbearable. I hate being stared at—I’m painfully shy. I never speak. At first, everyone thought I was mute. In everyday life, not a word escapes my lips. The troupe has gotten used to me just being there, like a table or a wall. But on stage, I’m different. I’m free, talkative, graceful—within the confines of my role, of course. Dominic says it’s not uncommon. He thinks I’m talented, that I’ve got a bright future ahead. I’m not so sure. For now, I just wish I could learn to speak offstage. I look people in the eye, words sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get them out. Some people fear the stage; for me, it’s the opposite. On stage, I live. Off it, I’m silent among others.
“And I’m a stinging bumblebee!” I buzzed, darting onto the stage. “Get out of here, you ugly toad! I’ll sting you if you don’t leave this sweet, kind butterfly alone!”
The children clapped and shouted:
“Sting her, bumblebee, sting her!”
The performance went on, with us delivering our lines and the kids chiming in with suggestions. But I could feel the heavy, unpleasant gaze of the advisor’s son on me. I’m attuned to looks, to the shades of words and nuances of tone. Maybe it’s because I speak so little and avoid eye contact, always walking with my head down. Though the show was a success, the day turned into a nightmare. I stumbled into a mess that would later change not just my life, but the lives of many others—and the fate of our entire kingdom.
Volard
After the performance, the actors were called to the kitchen, where a stout cook, on orders from the chief royal advisor, fed us heartily. We were paid well, and Dominic was thrilled. He even started musing about how children’s parties could be a goldmine—steady work without traveling the kingdom. With enough savings, we could settle down and open a small theater of our own. Gerdis, another actor who played romantic leads thanks to his good looks and inflated ego, disagreed. Of course, he did—in nearly every town or village, he found eager admirers to spend romantic nights with, often returning at dawn, smug as a cat who’d gotten into the cream. He’d tried his charms on me too, but I pretended not to notice, and Dominic put a stop to it after catching him pestering me once.
Clo, meanwhile, was in heaven with the abundance of food—something she didn’t see often. She dug in with gusto, sampling everything in huge portions. When she eats, she doesn’t talk, so she was silent, just chewing away. When she’s not eating, though, she talks nonstop, in endless streams, whether anyone’s listening or not. I listen to her long monologues with a quiet envy, wishing I could learn to speak at all.
It’s as if my mouth is sealed shut. I open it, move my tongue, air escapes my throat—but no sound comes. Could it be a curse? In one town, Dominic took me to a doctor and a healer-mage. The doctor said everything was fine—my throat, teeth, tongue, all normal. I should be able to speak. The healer-mage found no curses or enchantments on me.
“It’s likely some personal trauma,” he explained. “That’s why you can’t remember anything. You’ll speak when the time is right. The fact that you can talk on stage suggests you might have been a public figure before. In front of an audience, your body shifts, becomes someone else’s, playing a role. A fascinating case!”
Whatever the reason, the time for me to speak hasn’t come yet.
Mari, who’d lagged behind us after being called away by a servant, entered the kitchen. She approached me and whispered:
“Marmi, come with me. I’ve got something important to show you.”
I was surprised. Mari rarely spoke to me—she was jealous of my natural ease on stage. Honestly, her acting was dreadful; she often forgot lines and delivered them with over-the-top dramatics, thinking it made her more impressive. But she was beautiful, so she always got the roles of princesses and queens. I was relegated to supporting parts or playing children.
We walked down a corridor deeper into the castle, and I realized I’d walked into a trap. Leaning against the wall was the advisor’s son, grinning at Mari and me.
“Thanks, darling,” he called to Mari, slipping something into her hand. “You’re free to go. I’ll have a little chat with this cute bumblebee myself.”
Mari hurried off, leaving me alone with him. I’d already changed into a plain gray dress, my long, light-blonde hair braided neatly. Nothing about me resembled the cheerful bumblebee from the stage. But he remembered me. I turned to leave, sensing where this was headed.
“Hey, hey, not so fast,” he said, grabbing my arm. “You haven’t even heard me out, and you’re already running! I’ll pay you three hundred—no, five hundred gold pieces if you come with me now! You’ve probably never seen that kind of money! I won’t hurt you, little bee. Oh, you’ve got such tempting curves! Come on!”
He started dragging me down the corridor. I couldn’t scream—I don’t know how to speak. I yanked at my arm, dug my heels in, but it was no use. He was strong as an ox, built like a young bull—stocky, solid, tall. Beside him, I was a pale shadow, stumbling along, unsure of what to do.
Then I bit him. Hard. Caught off guard, he let go of my hand, and I bolted down the corridor. I ran fast, but he caught up in two strides and struck me across the face.
“You little wretch! She bites! Be thankful I like a girl with some fight. You’re a fiery one, I can tell.”
Blood trickled from my nose, and he recoiled in disgust, though he didn’t release my arm. I sank to the floor, my legs giving out, my head buzzing like a hive. Fitting, I thought absurdly—bumblebees live in hives.
“Jarbe, what are you doing?” a stern male voice suddenly boomed behind us. “What is this?”
The young man turned to see who’d called out, his face twisting in annoyance.
“Nothing. We’ve got our own business, Volard. Just playing a little game, me and the girl. Keep walking—don’t interfere!”
“I can see the girl needs help,” the man replied sharply, ignoring him.
He approached, crouched beside me, and examined my face. Blood streamed from my nose, and my cheek was likely swelling from the blow. I sat silently on the floor, eyes downcast. I couldn’t speak to explain, and honestly, I’d almost resigned myself to my fate. But I’d realized teeth were a decent weapon. I’d fight to the end. If it came to the worst, I’d bite this rich bull somewhere far more painful than his hand.
“Did you hit her?” the stranger asked, his voice thick with anger.
“She bit me,” Jarbe whined like a child. “These types need to be taught a lesson! I offered her good money! And she runs!”
“Get out of here! Leave the girl alone!” the man hissed furiously. “I’ll tell your father about your antics at the ‘Merry Gargoyle’ tavern. Enough of your impunity.”
“Come on, Volard, you’re not serious, are you?” Jarbe wheedled. “Fine, take her yourself! I just wanted some fun, but she’s like a wild animal. Devil take her. Oh, and by the way, she’s mute!”
“Get out!” the man roared, and my attacker scurried down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.
“Can you walk?” Volard asked, offering me his hand.
I tried to stand but shook my head no. My head spun from the blow and the lingering fear. He scooped me up in his arms and asked:
“You’re an actress? With the troupe?”
I nodded.
“Your group just left to make it before the Hour of Northern Lightning.”
I looked at him, panic rising. What was I supposed to do now?
“I doubt Advisor Trenis will shelter you tonight,” he said thoughtfully. “And leaving you here with that scoundrel Jarbe nearby isn’t safe, especially since you’re injured. I’ll take you to a doctor I know. In the morning, you can rejoin your troupe. Agreed?”
He looked at me, and I nodded vigorously. Yes, I agreed—anything to get far away from this house and that vile Jarbe.
To my astonishment, right there in the corridor, the man opened a portal and stepped through into a room lined with shelves and cabinets brimming with vials, flasks, bottles, and books. My mind raced—he must be someone important, yet he was helping a complete stranger, a poor actress. And he’d been a guest of the kingdom’s chief advisor. No ordinary man. He’d protected me, and I was deeply grateful, though I couldn’t tell him so.