Rewrite That Witch
CH1024 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 1024: The Dispute over Ideas (I)

Stop the show.

For a moment May’s mind snagged on the logistics — the magic movie was finished, there was no stage performance to cancel — before she realized the logistics weren’t the point. Why would he ask this at all?

Perhaps sensing the shape of her silence, Kajen spoke quickly. “I don’t mean cancel it. Shelve it briefly. A week’s postponement — illness, rest, whatever excuse serves. By then, I expect the officials will arrange an audience with the king.”

“But —” The word left May’s mouth before Roentgen cut across her with a short, ugly laugh.

“I told you. She’d never halt a production she’s been working on. Master, you’ve asked the wrong person.”

“She’s abandoned whatever she once cared about,” Bernis said, though less like accusation than like grief, stamping one foot lightly. “I defended you that day, Mrs. Lannis. What is drama to you now — a vehicle for fame?”

“It’s obvious enough,” came Roentgen’s voice again, colder. “She married the Chief Knight. That explains why City Hall rejected our application and why someone like Master Kajen, of all people, can’t get an audience.”

“Enough.” Kajen’s voice cut the room. “I didn’t bring her here so you could argue with her. And I’m certain she played no part in that rejection. If you don’t trust my judgment, the door is behind you.” He looked around the room, then back at May. “Right now I want only her answer.”

The pieces arranged themselves.

Kajen Troupe submitted an application for a coronation performance through proper City Hall channels. It was refused. Then someone told them May had married Chief Knight Carter Lannis — and they put the two facts together.

The logic was not absurd. In the theater world, using connections to block a rival’s performance was considered one of the few genuine offenses — worse than stealing a role, worse than undercutting a contract. It was a betrayal of the whole idea that drama was something more than politics. If May had done that, their contempt would be justified.

She said carefully, “I told no one about what happened at the hotel, except the people who were with me. I give you my word.”

“I believe you,” Kajen said. He rubbed his forehead. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you at all. We don’t understand this city — we don’t know why we were turned away. Asking you to delay your show is the last thing I want to do.” A pause. “We would compensate you for any losses.”

The other actors looked away when he said compensate. May didn’t bother following their discomfort.

She knew Kajen Fels. If he was asking, he had reasons he hadn’t yet explained.

“Before I answer,” she said, “I want to understand something. Your manager told me that I’ve disappointed you.” She held his gaze. “Why?”

The room waited. Kajen waved one hand toward the others.

“Master —” Roentgen began, then stopped herself. She walked out. The rest followed, one by one, until May and Kajen were alone.

The old dramatist’s eyes settled on her with a weight that almost made her step back. Years of authority lived in that look — not cruelty, but an expectation that had been carrying itself for a very long time.

“How many dramas have you played in the past two years?”

She hadn’t expected that. “Seven or eight?”

“Twelve,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Cinderella. The Witches’ Story. Dawn. New City —” He stopped. “Setting aside the quality of the writing — do you believe you played them well?”

“Have you seen them?”

She caught herself the instant the question was out. What a stupid thing to ask. Most of her performances were in the Western Region; he hadn’t traveled. “No. You’ve heard from students.”

“I have students in all four regions of Graycastle,” Kajen said. “They tell me things.” He sighed. “Memoir of a Prince’s Search for Love — how long did we spend in preparation?”

“Eight months.”

Silence.

She saw it then — the shape of his criticism, the thing he hadn’t needed to say outright. Twelve plays in two years. Lines stumbled over, expressions arriving a beat too late. Nothing that ordinary audiences caught; everything that trained ones noticed. She’d told herself it was the pace of Neverwinter, the scale of what needed doing, the demands of running a troupe and teaching new performers and managing production logistics all at once.

None of that was wrong. But it was also convenient.

“I don’t know why you left the Longsong Theatre for Border Town,” Kajen said. “Perhaps it was ordered. But even if it was, he wouldn’t have forced you to perform work of this level against your will. A play is like an open dance — no one dances well in shackles.” He paused. The authority in his voice softened into something that sounded almost fond, the way a teacher sounds when the disappointment is real because the student once mattered. “May. The audience improves you. Their high demands, their expectations — that friction is part of the craft. You’ve satisfied most people, yes. But you gave up the aspiration to become truly excellent. That’s why I’m disappointed.”

She had nothing to say. It was true. She could feel how true it was — the way a healed bone aches when you press on it in exactly the right place.

A long pause gathered itself.

“How long did you spend on the drama you’ve brought here?” she asked.

“Two years.” He said it with quiet pride. “Every free hour — on the boat, in this hotel, even during the old plays. Every detail polished. I believe it surpasses Memoir of a Prince’s Search for Love at the height of my fame.” He looked at her directly. “You still love drama truly — I’m certain of that. So tell me you’d rather see nothing than see a perfect play.”

Discussion

Suggest a change