At last the gates open to the general audience, and you begin to make your way inside. Just inside the wall is the box office window, where your ticket is being held.
"There's a ticket waiting for me," you say. "Under the name of…"
You spy the envelope, neatly labeled "Osberht." It's the work of a moment to pick it up and proceed into the courtyard.
Night is already falling, the sky turning lavender, and the oil lamps in cressets along the walls cast a golden glow over the proceedings. Later in the year they won't be needed, when the sun stands in the sky until late.
Four carts are set up, vendors selling mulled wine and little sweet breads, as well as some heartier hand pies, to those arriving for the performance. The license to sell in the courtyard for a season is quite expensive, you understand, but since only four vendors are allowed, there's a tidy profit to be made in selling to a captive audience. The Odeon doesn't allow you to bring in food from outside to eat in your seats, though there are always people who try to sneak something in.
But you're not here to eat. You make your way instead to one of the two entrances on the other side of the courtyard, the arches that lead through the colonnade into the Odeon proper. You pause in the archway, looking down.
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