CH172 · Rewrite
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Chapter 172: New Drama

“Class dismissed.”

“Good-bye, Teacher.” The children’s voices joined and separated, the words dissolving into the sound of chairs scraping and small feet on the stone floor. Irene watched them file out and felt, as she did every time, the particular satisfaction of a thing she had once thought impossible having become ordinary.

She had applied to teach the day after Ferlin submitted her paperwork. She had expected weeks of bureaucratic consideration. The permit had arrived the next morning.

The building had been a noble’s residence before the Months of Demons; now the interior walls were gone and the space reorganized into teaching rooms that could hold four to six classes simultaneously, children during the day and adults in the evening. The textbooks were thorough in a way she hadn’t expected — whole chapters on classroom management, on how to keep a room of small children oriented toward the same thing at the same time. The author had clearly accumulated years of failures in rooms exactly like this one.

She was locking up when she saw Ferlin waiting at the gate.

He was not wearing his armor, which he hadn’t worn since their arrival. Leather clothes and no regalia, and still — she thought this every time — exactly himself. Tall and exact in his proportions, the Morning Light, the First Knight of the Western Territory. Unadorned, still him.

She went to him and he held her. He was worried about something — she felt it in the way he held her, not quite present.

“What happened?”

“His Highness has invited us for refreshments,” Ferlin said. “This afternoon.”

She understood immediately. She patted his back. “He has never seen me, Ferlin. And you’ll be there.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly than the situation required. “I will.”


They were shown into the reception hall and didn’t wait long before Roland Wimbledon entered — grey-haired, simply dressed, accompanied by a woman of perhaps thirty who carried herself with the specific quiet authority of someone who managed a great deal and drew no attention to it.

Scroll. Head of the Ministry of Education. Ferlin had mentioned her name; they had apparently met.

Roland sat and waved them toward the food without ceremony. “There’s no need to be uncomfortable. I’m not hosting you for etiquette.”

They sat. Ferlin thanked Scroll for expediting Irene’s teaching permit, and Scroll nodded with a precision that suggested she processed expressions of thanks the same way she processed invoices — filed, acknowledged, done.

“This is about education,” Roland said, after the initial pleasantries had run their course. “I heard you worked at Longsong’s theater. Were you a performer?”

Irene blinked. No one in an official context had ever asked her this directly. “Officially, only once.”

“Every weekend, in the town square, there will be a performance,” Roland said, making no particular introduction to the subject. “Script, staging, and direction are arranged. I need performers. Your schedule has space, and you have experience on the stage.” He looked at her with a directness that was not unkind. “I’d like you to be the lead. There’s a salary supplement. Would you like to join?”

She was nodding before she had fully processed the sentence.


Ferlin read the first two scripts that evening while Irene read the third.

He read Cinderella — a peasant girl and a prince, love improbably persisting against the entire logic of inheritance — and set it down slowly. Then The Rooster Crows at Midnight, which was about serfs. Serfs who reached the end of what they could bear and did something about it. He read the scene where they put the minor lord in a bag and then read the scene where a passing witch intervened and then read the ending, where a foreign lord bought all the serfs and promoted them to free people, and set that one down too.

No nobility in Border Town except Sir Pine and Roland himself. Who would protest?

“Ferlin.” Irene looked up from the third book. The candle was nearly gone. “You should read this one.”

“What is it?”

“Three witches,” she said. “Each of them starting from a different place. One abandoned, one used, one—” She paused, choosing the right word. “One loved. And the story follows all three at once, in turns, until they meet. And then the Church comes and—” She put the book down carefully. “I dare say even in Redwater City this would fill a theater. The narrative technique alone—”

“Scroll wrote it?”

“Roland and Scroll together, I think. The style is — it’s like three mirrors, each showing the others from the side.”

Ferlin held the book for a moment without opening it. He was thinking about what would happen when people saw this performed. What conclusions they might reach about witches. About the Church. About the nature of the women the Church had been calling fallen.

“Doesn’t it contradict — everything?”

“No.” Irene looked at him steadily. “What if it was me? If I became a witch — would you think I was evil?”

“Of course not,” he said. Immediately. “Never.”

“And our daughter, if we had one?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at his wife, who had waited twenty years to stand on a stage properly, who had burned with it quietly and said nothing about it, who was now holding three scripts written by a prince of the realm and had in the space of one afternoon become a lead performer — and understood what she was telling him, underneath the question.

He got down on one knee.

“If we had a daughter who was a witch,” he said, “I would do exactly what the father in the third story does. I would take care of her.”

Irene set the book down.

“Good answer,” she said. Then she smiled. “I think we can try now.”

“As you bid,” he said, and picked her up.

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