The silence in the hall was a living thing, a held breath stretching to the breaking point. It was broken by the scrape of a leather shoe on polished wood.
Vincent was moving.
He didn't walk; he stalked. Each step was a measured beat of possession, an inexorable march to reclaim what was his. The spotlight followed him, painting him as a dark angel ascending from the abyss of the audience. His face, once a mask of possessive triumph, was now a canvas of raw, unvarnished fury. The puppet master had seen the strings, and he was coming to rip the puppet from the stage.
He reached the edge of the proscenium, his shadow falling long and sharp across the floorboards where I stood. He didn't climb the stairs. He vaulted onto the stage in one fluid, predatory motion, landing silently a dozen fe
