But she could not panic. Not now. She took a breath, and then another, as if she were about to go on stage.

“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player/That struts and frets his hour upon stage.”

Her voice was hoarse from shouting and muttering to herself without water. But the lines were solid.

Memorized. Macbeth. Act 5, Scene 5, Page 2. Hold for the applause.

Sid held for the applause. It never came. But the process of making herself an actor helped her. The recitation, the performance, kept her from being a terrified young woman, alone and screaming in the dark. It was all she had.

She was, after all, a theater girl. She’d been leaving an audition.

Well, they’d know she’d left and assume she was going home. No one would notice for a long time. Sam might, but she’d assume the young woman would call her back or gotten angry and hung up. Why would she sound the alarm today? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

Her parents? They’d call at the end of the week to see if she’d gotten the part. But if she didn’t reply, how long would it take to check for her? The landlord was more likely to check—her rent was due in three days.

Even so—he’d just toss her stuff out. She wasn’t exactly the most sought-after performer. She was a small-time girl from Ireland. Not the star she wanted to be. She was…

Who will look for me? Her head rested on the lid of the tomb for a moment. Then she pulled herself up.

“No. This isn’t where I die. I’ll find a way out. This—this has to be a trick of some kind!”

Her calm conclusion after four hours was that this might be some kind of…trap. And that someone was stalking her among the tombs, in their sick and twisted world. And she was going to die if she couldn’t find a weapon, or a way to survive.

Either that—or she’d gone nutters. All the failures of her auditioning had caught up to her. Which would be odd; she had performed in some good plays! She wasn’t happy that she wasn’t a star, but she was putting the effort in, getting her name out there, learning. Why would she have gone mad now?

Which left only one option. That if this was not some kind of trick, or a delusion of the mind, this tomb, the letters on the stone coffin, all of it, was real.

She didn’t know which option she preferred. A trick, probably. She didn’t want to be insane. As for reality?

“I’m not the right person for an adventure. I’m too old to be a wizard, or whatever, and I’m pursuing a career in theatre. That’s not the same as fantasy.”