In the grander picture, she keenly understood the differences between perception and reality. In the finer details, she understood this too. Rather than focus on the small or large, on perception or reality, she understood the need to work towards the appropriate middle of each.


    On the one hand, she held a grand bazaar for charitable purposes; and, on the other hand, she built a school, and filled it with learning materials that she desired learnt. On the one hand, she organised and arranged certain trade deals; and, on the other 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 overcome this without influence, much easier with nurture. However, to only care about appearance, that would put the cart before the horse. Putting aside her personal wishes, one simply could not maintain such an act in perpetuity. The problem came when such a brilliant appearance naturally drew in others: a city pretending beyond its means, continuing 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 inefficient. The opinion which people had of her greatly influenced how far her efforts could go.


    Her father had understood this, nurtured it. Her mother had become 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 shone through.


    “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 coming down to join with his other.


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


    A cool wind blew and a chill ran down his spine, those things perhaps related, perhaps not. Regardless 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 understand you are something of a playwright, if only in aspiration.”


    Though his hands clenched, his face remained neutral 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 plays, 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 silence than to your stammering.”


    He practically jumped, suddenly standing taller—and standing still. After a second 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.


    “Accompany me.”


    There was no question to her words, nor was it as harsh as a command, 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 plays,” she said, not a question.


    He glanced at her, only to think better of it. After a moment to properly gather his words—word—he clearly replied, “Yes.”


    “Do tell me about Greek plays.”


    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 interesting flowers which bloomed this early in the year, and a pleasant smell lingered in the air. Having lived in the city all his life, he often forgot he even had a nose—except when it was blocked.


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


    Her footsteps came to a stop, not in front of anything in particular, 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 understood it as something practical, the sort of thing a noblewoman needed for entertaining proper guests.


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


    The question cut through his idle thoughts and, again, he gave himself pause before he spoke. “I read what I can. My mentor has a good ten that are translated, and he told me about some others he read, but… a play 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 can 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 accompanied the 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 managed to soften it. “Thank you, My Lady.”


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


    His face scrunched 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 comedy and tragedy?”


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


    She did not laugh, nor make any comment, so he reluctantly continued.


    “I think it is not easy to say. With the Ancient 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 continued.


    “Comedy is full of life. It is familiar and warm and rewards kindness and punishes greed. Some people like to talk about learning lessons from plays, but, how I see it, a good comedy simply inspires us to be better people. Who is not kinder when happy?”If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    “So then, do tragedies makes us worse?” she asked without any particular 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.


    “Poor tragedies do. It is easy to think the more tragic a story, the better, but why isn’t the greatest tragedy an innocent girl being mercilessly tortured? Tragedy… wants us to hope the character can 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 Ancient 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 glances 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, flat, almost unnerving how easy it was to follow, his feet constantly 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, eyelashes 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 disinterested while he also knew she had no need to 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 writing. Eventually, I started work at a business where I took notes for the owner. That was Mr Klein.”


    “You forgot 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 pounding heart, ready to burst. “I do try to forget that part,” he mumbled, the words slipping out. Instantly, he froze up, eyes wide as he dared not move, focused on observing her out the corner of his vision.


    “My father once told me, of all insults, none is harsher than to be called dull. If nothing else, one must have such moments lest their life become a tragedy.”


    Although his eyes still prickled, an almost manic grin overcame him, so many emotions cresting at the same time and spilling out for it. Pathetic. How many 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 interest for his mentor’s sake, no one else willing to entertain his passion.


    It had to be a trap, he knew. Some dastardly plan 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 plays of betrayal amongst the nobles and betters of society.


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


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


    “Yes, My Lady,” he said, his lack 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 commoners supposed to attend? Oh, he would love to see what scenery and costumes could be afforded with a cup of copper pieces.


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


    For a moment longer, he continued to 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, overcome by such an 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 hand gently gesturing along as she spoke. “My only requirement should be that at least one show is performed a week—to begin with. I understand 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 lack of words, but a lack 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 another, then finally her voice broke the growing silence. “I only said it is yours to use. Management 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 chance to settle, his thoughts churning, churning, only to churn 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 decline, 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 company.”


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


    She had acknowledged she had no need to tell him why, yet she had. To begin with, she had no need to 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 common, certainly not over a commoner.


    Despite the confusion, what ended up breaking him once again was joy. It flooded him, swept away any doubts, and left behind a numbness like he was dreaming. For so many years, he had yearned. The few chances he had already squandered had left behind painful scars. Before today, he was resigned to keeping his mentor company 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 blank 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 no need to 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 person he stood 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 benefit if you could write plays 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 understand, My Lady.”


    She did not scowl nor sigh, almost unsettling how still she seemed. “In this case, I particularly refer to Italians, Austrians, and Dutch, whom I would prefer portrayed in not necessarily a flattering 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 understanding, 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 understand… how it would benefit the city, I can better answer the request,” he said.


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


    He froze up, eyes wide, not expecting 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 consists of. That there are bakers and blacksmiths, carpenters and cobblers, and yes, that there are actors and playwrights. Each contributes 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 on the street.”


    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 change 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 particularly important to the plays, enough that they become 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 consider such topics of our theatre that they might wish to hear of.”


    He found himself caught by her bait.