"Catherine Harlowe, called Kitty," she says after a firm, well-practiced handshake. "I serve Steward Fig as Chief Designate for Matters of Spectacle."
"Ah, good fortune, for my eyes are sore strained. Do you grind the lenses yourself, or…?"
You squint and pat your pockets as if looking for a pair of glasses.
She lays a hand on your wrist. "Reserve that for the Court," she says, politely but with iron behind her words. Understood, you think, closing your mouth.
Kitty Harlowe raises a slate in one hand and a spear of white chalk in the other, clearing her throat. "I understand you're to do a bit of an exhibition for His Majesty today, and that you're at the Court's disposal for the foreseeable future. Is that so?"
"Indeed."
"What is it you intend to do? I don't mean," she says, pointing the base of the chalk at you, "what ballads are you going to sing, or riddles you will tell, or like tedium. I only mean to discern what you intend to accomplish through your performance."
You blink. "'Accomplish?'"
"What effect do you intend to have on those who hear you?"
Such thoughts as you had directed towards your exposure before the Court centered on the specifics. You hesitate as you ponder what you would like your illustrious audience to actually feel at the conclusion of your work: