In the grander picture, she keenly uood the differences between perception ay. In the finer details, she uood this too. Rather than focus on the small e, on perception or reality, she uood the o work towards the appropriate middle of each.

  On the one hand, she held a grand bazaar for charitable purposes; and, oher hand, she built a school, and filled it with learning materials that she desired learnt. On the one hand, she anised and arranged certain trade deals; and, oher hand, she restructured the textile guild’s rules to include a share of profits for apprentices and journeymen.

  People, by nature, only cared about “feelings”. It took a certain disposition to overe this without influence, much easier with nurture. However, to only care about appearahat would put the cart before the horse. Putting aside her personal wishes, one simply could not maintain su a perpetuity. The problem came when such a brilliant appearaurally drew in others: a city pretending beyond its means, tinuing to swell, could only end in disaster.

  It was also not her personal wish to only appear brilliant. She would rather focus entirely on improving the reality; however, that by itself would prove ineffit. The opinion which people had of her greatly influenced how far her efforts could go.

  Her father had uood this, nurtured it. Her mother had bee a crucial partner for him in this regard. The people loved him and, when he asked, they answered. The enthusiasm a person had for their work naturally shohrough.

  “Mr Johann,” she said.

  The man before her seemed to tremble, a modest man, well-fed for his background, yet it sat more on his body than his face. After hesitating over what to do with his hat, he tipped it without removing it, his hand then ing down to join with his other.

  “M-madam,” he said, only to wind quickly bow his head twice before correg himself. “My Lady.”

  A cool wind blew and a chill ran down his spihose things perhaps reted, perhaps nardless of the wind, her regarding of him reached its end and she slowly rose from her seat. While her work was taken inside by others, her maid draped a scarf over her shoulders and then waited a step behind, ready to serve her mistress.

  “I am to uand you are something of a pywright, if only in aspiration.”

  Though his hands ched, his face remained ral with a hint of pain, untouched by her words. “Well, um, I suppose that, yes, it would be correct to say that. I have written pys, but those are… amateur things. Only one has been performed and, um, to call it, well, performed is—it was for the church, a little thing over the Twelve Days.”

  “I would prefer to listen to silehan to your stammering.”

  He practically jumped, suddenly standing taller—and standing still. After a sed of silence, he quietly said, “My apologies, My Lady.”

  “What need is there to apologise now? I have told you my preference, so there is only a need for apologies going forward,” she said.

  Her tone held no ill-will and he could hear that, even if he couldn’t believe it. “Of course, My Lady,” he said, still quiet.

  “Apany me.”

  There was no question to her words, nor was it as harsh as a and, simply words spoken that had no doubt they would be followed. Sure enough, his footsteps hurried to catch up as she began to walk among her garden.

  “You have learned much about pys,” she said, not a question.

  He g her, only to thier of it. After a moment to prather his words—word—he clearly replied, “Yes.”

  “Do tell me about Greek pys.”

  His mouth opened, ready to begin stammering before he had even thought a word, but he fortunately caught himself in time. Silence followed. His idle gaze found some iing flowers which bloomed this early in the year, and a pleasant smell lingered in the air. Having lived iy all his life, he often fot he even had a nose—except when it was blocked.

  Finally, his thoughts caught up. “The A Greeks wrote two kinds, edies and tragedies. In the simplest way, edy is when there is a happy ending, tragedy when there is a sad ending. It sounds silly, but we only knoeople said about a few of the many, many pys they put on, so it’s hard to say more… My Lady.”

  Her footsteps came to a stop, not in front of anything in particur, but—as he looked around—it was a beautiful spot. The garden did not have any of the exotic luxuries he had expected, no marble statues gleaming white, nor strange animals. There was a gazebo, certainly expensive, but he uood it as something practical, the sort of thing a noblewoman needed for eaining pruests.

  “You have not read any such pys?” she asked.

  The question cut through his idle thoughts and, again, he gave himself pause before he spoke. “I read what I . My mentor has a good ten that are transted, aold me about some others he read, but… a py is not words on a page. Even if performed, the thoughts and feelings of the audience back then and our thoughts and feelings now, how they be the same? Many of them are about bad kings who ignore prophecies, but who of us would listen to a so-called oracle?”

  A titter apahe quiet rustle of leaves. “You have a curious approach to this,” she said, her even tone keenly heard by him.

  His perpetual wince deepened. With a deep breath, though, he mao soften it. “Thank you, My Lady.”

  “It was merely an observation, not a pliment,” she said. “Of course, you are free to take it as one.”

  His face sched up once more. This time, it was not settled by a deep breath. With no question posed to him, he had nothing to say, and so he said nothing.

  After a short silence, she spoke. “How do you view edy and tragedy?”

  His hands ched, face showed nothing, for a handful of seds trying to find the thoughts that felt just out of reach. “My mentor told me that edy is when the leading man listens to his dy, and tragedy is when he doesn’t,” he said, leading into a half-hearted chuckle.

  She did not ugh, nor make any ent, so he relutly tinued.

  “I think it is not easy to say. With the A Greeks, tragedy feels… hopeless. Terrible things are predicted to happen and they do, sometimes even because the character tries to avoid it.”

  A hum from her gave him pause, but she did not speak, so he eventually tinued.

  “edy is full of life. It is familiar and warm and rewards kindness and punishes greed. Some people like to talk about learning lessons from pys, but, how I see it, a good edy simply inspires us to be better people. Who is not kinder when happy?”

  “So then, dedies makes us worse?” she asked without any particur emotion.

  Lost in his own monologue, her interruption almost made him jump and, for a moment, he dared not breathe. Still, she did not rush him and he eventually found his thoughts.

  “Poedies do. It is easy to think the more tragic a story, the better, but why isn’t the greatest tragedy an i girl being mercilessly tortured? Tragedy… wants us to hope the character redeem himself. And, in his failure, we think about our own failings and how others might have their own struggles too. But I think this is very different to how the A Greeks thought of it. They believed in cruel gods, not like us with Christ. I think they saw tragedies as justice.”

  He spared her profile a few gnces as he spoke, not wanting to repeat the earlier surprise, and saw nothing the whole time.

  Rather than reply, she began walking once more. A slow, meandering walk along a path anything but straight, following the edges of flowerbeds and skirting around trees. A brick path, sturdy, ft, almost unnerving how easy it was to follow, his feet stantly ready to stumble, only to find nothing to stumble over. It made admiring the garden easy.

  Until she stopped, to which he almost tripped over trying to immediately stop too.

  “Your mentor.”

  He ducked his head, eyeshes fluttered, trying not to blink and failing. “Mr Klein, and it would be wrong to not mention Mrs Klein, My Lady,” he whispered.

  “How did you make his acquaintance?” she asked.

  She sounded rather disied while he also knew she had o make this kind of small talk with someone like himself; it left him wary of the unstated purpose for his summons. However, he had been asked, so he answered.

  “I was not the best child, My Lady, but I liked reading and writiually, I started work at a business where I took notes for the owhat was Mr Klein.”

  “You fot the part where Mr Klein learned of you for your embellishing of Biblical stories.”

  He felt the blood drain from his face down to his poundi, ready to burst. “I do try tet that part,” he mumbled, the words slipping out. Instantly, he froze up, eyes wide as he dared not move, focused on her out the er of his vision.

  “My father oold me, of all insults, none is harsher than to be called dull. If nothing else, one must have suents lest their life bee a tragedy.”

  Although his eyes still prickled, an almost manic grin overcame him, so maions cresting at the same time and spilling out for it. Pathetiany times he had been told off and with far from kind words, often feeling like only his mentor could put up with his prattling. His family certainly didn’t, those his mentor had introduced him to feigned a bit of i for his mentor’s sake, no one else willing to eain his passion.

  It had to be a trap, he knew. Some dastardly pn to have him admit to some crime—probably to incriminate his mentor. If nothing else, he had a vivid imagination, as well as knowledge of many modern pys of betrayal amongst the nobles aers of society.

  Then he had tet his thoughts, her feet once more in motion. She circled around the garden at such a brisk pace that he seemed to wice as many steps to keep up.

  “You have heard of the heatre?” she asked, sounding far from breathless.

  “Yes, My Lady,” he said, his ck of breath evident.

  The supposed theatre, he had long doubted it would ever be properly used. It looked far from luxurious enough for the usual theatregoers to patronise. Were the oners supposed to attend? Oh, he would love to see what sery and es could be afforded with a cup of copper pieces.

  “It is yours to use if you so wish.”

  For a moment longer, he tio think a fool of whoever took up the task of running that theatre, then it was as if he broke. No thoughts graced him, his heart suddenly in his throat, yet pounding in his ears, overe by su intense euphoria that he genuinely felt dead. However, he did not die so easily and momentum carried him through the shock.

  “You would have a stipend to pay actors and any other staff, as well as a kind of stipend for clothing, cloth, and paints,” she said, her haly gesturing along as she spoke. “My only requirement should be that at least one show is performed a week—to begin with. I uand it is not a simple task to run a show; however, if not even that is met, I would be requiring answers.”

  He couldn’t speak, not for a ck of words, but a ck of voice, yet he had to. He had to ask, “The theatre is mine?”

  “Do not speak to me so casually,” she said, nothing about her delivery cold.

  He still shivered. “M-my apologies, My Lady,” he said in as loud a whisper as he could manage, head bowed.

  A moment passed, then ahen finally her voice broke the growing silence. “I only said it is yours to use. Ma of the building itself, including such things as setting prices and maintenance, will not be your responsibility. You may be asked for input on some things, but should not offer it unasked on matters outside of your role.”

  This time, the silence had the ce to settle, his thoughts ing, ing, only to out the same thought each time. The same question.

  “Why me, My Lady?”

  “You are not in a position to ask such questions of me. However, I am sympathetic that this is a sudden offer. While you may feel pressured by this request, rest assured that, in the case of your failure or if you should dee, I shall find someone else. As for your question, I have little in the way of expectations and so thought a passionate amateur a better fit than an experienced pany.”

  Her words carried a disdain he couldn’t put into words. A distaste at having to actually say such things, having to expin all this to him, but it didn’t e across in her delivery. More nuahan that.

  She had aowledged she had o tell him why, yet she had. To begin with, she had o have summoned him to tell him all this, yet she had. Unless what he knew about nobles was very wrong—something that might well have been the case—this was not oainly not over a oner.

  Despite the fusion, what ended up breaking him once again was joy. It flooded him, swept away any doubts, a behind a numbness like he was dreaming. For so many years, he had yearhe few ces he had already squandered had left behind painful scars. Before today, he was resigo keeping his mentor pany and nothing greater.

  When he eventually came to his senses, he realised she had moved to face him. Her face told him nothing. It was not that she had a bnk expression, but like she was wearing a mask. He knew she had thoughts, feelings, beliefs, loves and hates—and she showed none of them.

  Even in the face of someone she had o care about, she was not careless.

  “Although I did say you would have only that one requirement, I would make a certain request,” she said.

  Only now did he feel the full weight of the persoood before. How she held herself, how she spoke, how she stared through him as if he was nothing. And he was nothing. A shadow, but he saw before him the woman raised to one day be a queen.

  “A-anything, My Lady,” he said, bowing deep, a hand keeping his hat from falling.

  “It would be to the city’s be if you could write pys including many kinds of people.”

  His brow furrowed and, as he straightened up, he tried to quickly find the words, suddenly remembering how precious her time truly was. “Many kinds of people… I’m not sure I uand, My Lady.”

  She did not scowl nh, almost uling how still she seemed. “In this case, I particurly refer to Italians, Austrians, and Dutch, whom I would prefer portrayed in not necessarily a fttering manner, but as our fellow man rather than caricatures. I would also prefer the same for Jews and Muslims; however, it is more important that you do so with uanding, so I would arrange suitable meetings for you to learn.”

  It was a lot to take in, harder still as he tried to keep his disgust from showing.

  “I hope I am not overstepping, My Lady, but if I could uand… how it would be the city, I better ahe request,” he said.

  “Not overstepping, no, you are precisely as far forward as you may be,” she said, a rare smile toug her lips. “Indeed, it would be to your be to uand, so let me first ask: Do you know what makes a city so great?”

  He froze up, eyes wide, not expeg to be put on the spot. After a shaky breath, he shook his head.

  “It is the depth and breadth of the people which it sists of. That there are bakers and bcksmiths, carpenters and cobblers, ahat there are actors and pywrights. Each tributes to the city, not just their craft, but their very selves. They are neighbours and friends and family and lovers and rivals and those we simply pass oreet.”

  As she paused there, he suddenly felt her gaze more intensely.

  “Just as we have our stories, so too do those people I listed,” she said, gesturing with a hand. “However, among our stories, we also have many unpleasant rumours of them. Some of us hold an irrational fear or hatred of those different while others hide behind false reasons. Although it is not an easy thing to ge either such opinion, one way that I am aware of which works well is, in essence, bringing about familiarity. So it need not be that those I mentioned are particurly important to the pys, enough that they bee familiar.”

  She then leaned forward that little bit, her voice a loud whisper thick with the air of secrecy, and she said, “My guests are inquisitive people, so I hope that you would also sider such topics of our theatre that they might wish to hear of.”

  He found himself caught by her bait.