“Everyone, our dear tess marries her beloved today and we have to prepare the cake! Let us make haste to the kits to aid her most talented cooks.”

  Those opening words cut through the idle chatter of the theatre, yet did little to settle the children cmbering over the “seating”.

  It was not an unusual se. It was not a usual theatre. There was no box seating, no real seating to speak of; it was made up of huge, crete sbs stacked atop each other which left pces to sit as they shrank. Loosely, those ten arcs could handle an audience of half a thousand—a figure that the theatre rarely reached a tenth of for any performance.

  Weather not alolite about these things, the seating and the stage did have a roof over them, but it did not cover the space between the seating and the stage. This was not a pce for fancy lighting nrand windows, so a gap for natural lighting was necessary.

  Rather, it ce for children to mess around, mothers and daughters to sit and chat with their drop spindles and their knitting, perhaps workers would stop by on their way home. Not only them, though. All sorts of people from the city—and those visiting the city—could drift in.

  After the opening words, the stage had bee a flurry of activity. Ten-odd people carried up bits and pieces to cobble together a se. Promily, there was a cooking table with cupboards underh. Towards the back, two sheets hung off poles, dyed grey and theailed with thick bck lio make it look like stonework, which then had smaller cloth “windows” pinned over parts. In the middle of the stage, a broad chest was dropped down with a k and a g. A mop and bucket sat off to one side, while the other side featured a pair of stools.

  By the end, a loud silence fell across the theatre. Distant noises leaked in from the city, but the audience, even the children, spoke in hushed whispers if at all.

  One man paced onto the stage first, a little short to be called nky, yet his outfit emphasised his ck of weight with its loose fit; however, those clothes had clearly been made with care. Sun-bleached linen made up the apron and cloth hat, the stitg hidden except for an embroidery on both which marked him as a member of the tess’s staff.

  After making a full loop of the stage, mumbling under his breath, the sound of footsteps stopped him in his tracks and he looked up.

  “About time! What took ya?” he asked, his arms gesturing along.

  Two more men joihe stage. One was dressed in much the same way as the first man only that he filled out the outfit, yet still hardly what could be called fat. With him, though, was a shorter man who had eaten well—or at least looked so, hard to tell that a bundle of cloth had been stuffed under his shirt.

  That shorter man held his high and walked with a strut. The other cook apanying him led him to the loool, then gave half a bow before he turo the first cook and said, “Gunther, is no good, no good at all.”

  The cook called “Gunther” scowled, his arms crossed. “What’s wrong, then, Jacob?”

  “Jacob” put his hands together, a pained look on his face. “Ya know the master baker Mrs Enede sent for?”

  “The one from France?” Gunther asked and Jaodded. “Ain’t that him?” Guuck his thumb over at the man oool.

  Jaodded again.

  At that, Guhrew up his hands. “What’s the problem?”

  “Well,” Jacob said, his hands fidgeting, “turns out he’s French.”

  A simple line, said with no grand spectacle, ahe group of dies burst into titters and giggles—not pausing in their spinning and knitting, though. Not too funny.

  On stage, Gunther gently shook his head and waited a moment for the audieo settle. “Now, now, not his fault, is it? ’t help who our mam or dad is. If Mrs Enede sent for him, I’m sure he’s a det bloke.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Jacob said. “What I mean is he speaks Frend don’t speak German.”

  Gunther spped his hands to his face, loud enough that it echoed—and this time the children ughed. “French?”

  “Yup,” Jacob said.

  “Not German?”

  “Nope.”

  Gunther’s head hung low, thehrew up his hands again and paced bad forth a few steps. “Dutch? Czech? Italian? Polish? ? Spanish? Puese?”

  After every question, Gunther shook his head. “None of those.”

  Turning to the audience, Gunther showed his most pained expressio. “English?”

  “Ah, I didn’t ask that,” Jacob said and held up a finger. In a practised, if not fluent, at, he turo the “master baker” and asked, “Parlez-vous Angis?”

  “Angis? Angis!” the baker said before angrily rambling off in supposed French, Jaodding along, adding his own, “Oui,” or, “Hum,” here and there.

  That tirade sted half a minute and ended with the baker spping his knee and then crossing his arms in a grand harrumph. Jacob gave him a short, “Merci,” and then turned back to Gunther. “No, he doesn’t speak English.”

  For a few seds, Guared at Jacob with exaggerated blinks. “You speak French?” he asked, voice pitg.

  “Oui,” Jacob said with a smile and a nod.

  “Then, then ’t you, ya know, tell us what he’s saying?” Gunther asked, pointing his thumb at the baker again.

  Jacob quickly shook his head. “Not on Saturday, no.”

  “What? Why not?” Gunther asked, his voiow stu a higher pitch.

  “Well, I’m Jewish, ain’t I?” Jacob took off the white cloth hat as he said that, revealing another, smaller cloth hat underh.

  Guared for a sed and the out a sigh. “That why ya take Saturdays off? I just thought ya liked to drink,” he said, ing down to his normal pitch.

  “Oh I do, but not Fridays, no. Look after my sister’s kid Friday nights. She works down the pub, so ’t take off Friday and Saturday, she?”

  “S’pose not,” Gunther said, nodding, only to slow to a stop. “Wait, if you don’t work Saturdays, what’re ya doing here?”

  Jacob held his cook’s hat in his hands, expression as if a scolded child. “I ’t have some cake if I don’t work?”

  Guook one long look at him, the out a sigh. “Of course you . That’s what Our Lady said, right? ’t be a celebration if anyone’s left out. B’sides, you work plenty hard enough for a bit of cake.”

  With that said, Gunther hung his head a out anh.

  “Still, what we gonna do ’bout the cake?” he weakly asked.

  Jacob rubbed his , theured at the audience. “Maybe one of them help?”

  As if pricked, Gunther shot up straight, eyes wide. “Brilliant!” He rushed to the stage’s edge, so quick he almost lost his bance as he teetered on its edge. “Someone here’s gotta know how to bake a cake? Anyone?”

  A kind of rumble filled the theatre, not by stampi, but by the audiehemselves letting out a droning note, building and building. While it had no siarget, there were some who grew restless—particurly those older daughters beside their mothers.

  Until finally someoood up and the noise broke into a mild ughter.

  “God bless! You’ve saved us, you have. Please, e up, e up, and what’s your name, dear?” Gunther said, each phrase apanied by a gesture and each gesture enthusiastid exaggerated.

  While he spoke, she moved along to the stairs and then down; when she arrived at the stage, Gunther offered his gloved hand to help her up the steeper steps there, and then ushered her to a seat beside the baker.

  Only then did she answer, barely managing a whisper. “Lenne.”

  “Miss Lenne, is it? Beautiful name, ain’t it, Jacob?” Gunther said, turning to his colleague.

  “Don’t think it would suit you, Gunther.”

  For a moment, Gunther froze and the audience ughed, then he carried on like nothing had happened. “Miss Lenne, if I ask, is there a potential Mr Lenne in your life already?”

  “Re she do better than you, Gunther.”

  Again, Gunther froze and the audience ughed and he ighe jab, keeping his focus on her. For her part, she had bee-red from the moment she’d stood up, but held a small smile at this time. Her mouth opened, only to thier of it and instead shook her head, then ducked it even lower.

  In a siride, Gunther was at the front of the stage again. “If any of you’ve got a spare son lounging around, keep Miss Lenne in mind, all right?”

  Anht, tittering ughter rolled through the mothers of the audience, whispered remarks shared—and Lenne’s mother found the womao her rather chatty all of a sudden.

  Ba the stage, Gunther was once again in front of her. “Miss Lenne, you know how to bake a cake?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said with a bit more voice, but still far from enough to fill the theatre like his so naturally did.

  His hands came together in a sharp cp. “What we need for that, then?”

  She stilled with a deep breath in her chest before letting it out and raising her . “First would be flour,” she said, clearly attempting to speak clearer and properly, and then added, “Fair flour.”

  “Fair flunther echoed her words as he moved to the chest at the back of the stage and, from inside, he took out a huge sack. With how he heaved, how he strained, how he put his bato it as he dragged it across the stage, it seemed heavy enough to be full of rocks.

  When he dropped it o the table by the front of the stage, a puff of flour burst out the top. He spluttered and waved away the lingering flour. O settled, he opehe saough to look ihen reached in and pulled out an oversized horseshoe made of wood.

  “Fair flour, huh? We’re gonna need some help to pick out the bits.”

  Unlike before, there was no she of volunteers with most of the children eagerly climbing down the seats to get to the front.

  “Well, the more the merrier,” he said and, after hopping down himself, he even threw some of the giggling children up onto the stage who took too long.

  So they started on their job, crowding the sad pulling out such things as s and swords and whatever other small props would fit—and then proceeding to mess around with them.

  Gunther went back to Lenne. “What ?” he asked.

  Although she tried to keep a straight face, her lips kept twitg and her breath got away from her until she pinched her eyes shut. “Honey is .”

  While the py carried on, more people drifted in to watch, little else to do at this hour of the day if there was no work to be done. However, there was also one man in particur who did not look like he belonged here and, as if to make good on that, went to leave.

  “Mr Klein?”

  The man’s step made clear he would not stop, so Johann hurried after.

  “Mr Klein….”

  He walked beyond the edge of the crete, then a few step to the side where he hung his head, gently shaking it. Johann had followed him this far, silenced by this rea.

  Silence, a loud silehick with the sounds of the city, muffled voices from the theatre, punctuated by moments of ughter, and it lingered food while before this man finally spoke.

  “You would call this theatre?”

  Johann already had a pained expression, but that question had him wince, eyes shimmering. “I, I know it’s not… the sort of thing we normally watch.”

  “It’s a farce.”

  He blinked away the tears that threateo spill, his heart so painfully tight. “It, it’s a silly thing, I know. But it’s the first time we’re perf one I wrote from scratch, so I wanted you to see it. ime, it will—”

  “There isn’t a ime. Look, I am gd you found… something. Whatever it is, though, is not theatre,” Klein said, a restrained heat behind his voice. “I have no i in whatever happens here.”

  The tightness in Johann’s chest, with every beat of his heart, lessened. “This may not be like the theatre we have visited so much before, yet it is theatre.”

  Klein merely sighed at that and it was clear he hadn’t the motivation to voice his disagreement.

  Johann, though, did not wish to give up.

  “Did you see those people? They could not even dream of seeing the beautiful pys we have seen, performed by such talented actors that I would believe their every word. However, st week, they watched us perform a py of Orpheus and Eurydice. And when it came time for him to walk without looking back—every time he stopped to ask them if she was still following him, you should have heard them shout.

  “They love theatre han us.”

  He had spoken in a quiet voice, tempered, sounding equally as if on the verge of breaking into tears as about to scream. Truly, he was on the verge of both. Never before had he felt so utterly helpless. For all the times he had been uo find the words to say, of all the times for his own mind to fail him, it had to be now.

  He needed his mentor to uand.

  No, he o be uood.

  Klein gave a slight shake of his head. “How could you of all people say that?” he asked, not asking for an answer. “What these peasants love is the spectacle. They ck the foundation to even appreciate true theatre, never mind love it as we do. That, or, perhaps I have misuood you all this time.”

  Johann listened with a rueful smile. “Perhaps you have,” he said softly, not quite a whisper.

  He o be uood; however, that uanding no longer o e from his mentor.

  “Lady Augstadt did not, though. Not my actors. They know I love theatre so much that I want… everyoo py a part.”

  Still, Klein said nothing, said no more, until he finally said, “Goodbye.”

  Johann’s mouth pulled into a smile, holding an echo of the dear memories. “Pray give my thanks to Mrs Klein too.”

  No answer came and, after a sigh, Klein strode off, more hurried than evee to a py. Johann joked to himself that it was if Mr Klein thought being here would take away his memories of true theatre.

  A funny joke, but it did not make him ugh.

  For a long while longer, he simply lihere, lost iwilight between memories and dreams, until he heard the climax of the show inside. As if he had been dreaming, those troublesome emotions broke apart into nothing more than a feeling of wistfulness. With a rueful smile, he returo the theatre—if what happened inside could still be called theatre.

  What separation there was between stage aing, between actors and audience, between py ay had beeo begin with in this spaow was utterly demolished. Figuratively and literally.

  The stage found itself in a disarray so great that it spilled over, loose props scattered across the seating from those children who found swords and shields. What audiehere was now crowded the stage’s edge and the stage itself. Those actors, still in their roles, directed the chaos with great edy.

  This py about baking a cake for the tess’s wedding culminated with a genuine cake being presented for all to share.

  He wished Mr Klein had seen this moment, even though he knew, if anything, it would have only worsened his mentor’s opinion. In truth, he may not have disagreed with what his mentor would have said. “She’s buying favour.” “These peasants are only here for the cake.”

  And he would have asked, “What need has she to buy these peasants’ favour? What need has she to bribe these peasants to watch a silly little py?”

  What need did she have to bribe his favour?

  Johann had no ao any of those aher doubted his mentor would have had any answers either. At least, nothing ving. Either she was stupid and gave away money arbitrarily, or she worked with a wisdom beyond his fathoming.

  The cil which oversaw the theatre’s maintenance was not the result of someoupid. Such responsibilities, such specific stipends, how she had arranged certain rates from the textiles guild. That his pys occupied only part of what went on at the theatre, other hours of the day in use by preachers and musis and anyone else who went to the cil with an idea.

  She had told him the purpose of his pys. At the time, he hadn’t realised that she was as much describing as prescribing that purpose. Holy, he didn’t know what she knew, if she knew him as simply a name—or if she had found his very nature.

  Someone else, anyone else, it would have eaten at him until there was nothi. He knew how undeserving he was of this opportunity, of kindness. He knew. But she hadn’t treated him like he ecial, didn’t speak of this as a kindness. This unishment he happily chose for himself. Because of that, he had no reason to doubt her.

  In the midst of his musings, tent to bask in a theatre full of jardless of how much that had to do with the cake and not his py—a child ran up to him. She was young, perhaps six, or more likely eight and not as well fed as a child ought to be. That thought hardened when he heard her speak, polite and calm.

  “Is sir the one what wrote the py?”

  He k down, the crete floor hard. Sturdy. A pce that would exist long after her st patron gave a st donation. “Sir is the one who wrote this py. And who might this little miss be?” he asked, gentle in his tone, in his smile.

  She gave a curtsey. “I’m Hedwig,” she said, almost a frown. “I go to St Hedwig’s where Ms Lucie is teag me to write. I asked mama if I write a py, and she told me to ask sir.”

  While she spoke, she gnced back; Johann followed her look to spot a young woman with an amused smile. Well, for as young as she looked, she still had a daughter.

  Then it struck him: St Hedwig’s, the school the tess had opened.

  He gave a silent ugh before catg himself. “Miss Hedwig , I’m sure. But why does she want to?” he asked sincerely, more sihan ever before in his life.

  Which he theted as her head ducked down, eyes shimmering. “The other kids don’t like me. But if I write a py, and every’s cake, they’ll be my friend.”

  The more she spoke, the more he picked up the at. Czech. He tried to remember when that nonseh the Poles happened… nonsehat the tess had wastefully involved herself in. Nonsehat had always sounded so distant before.

  Stories, she’d asked. Was he ied in fners’ stories.

  Tragedies.

  “You write a py, and I’ll have to see what I do about the cake,” he whispered.