You wait as most of the audience disperses, arguing and lamenting and calling for cups of wine from the vendors in the courtyard to fortify them for their walk home. The wealthier theatergoers have called for their litters or their horses and exited the scene. Finally, you see Diar and Nichol making their way toward you, accompanied by Matty, the theater's owner.
You recognize her from Diar's descriptions, a stout and sensible figure with one eye always on the cashbox. Now she looks harried, her dark brocade gown streaked with soot.
"So this is the playwright," she says, looking you up and down.
"It is," Diar says. "He did his best to help tonight."
"I'm sure he tried," Matty says. "But I'm not looking for someone to put out fires. Diar tells me you can write. Me, I need plays that sell tickets. For that, I need a writer who can write."
"I can write," you say. "I brought my manuscript to show to Master Nichol." You prepare to produce it, and then freeze.
Your manuscript. The one you had with you before the fire broke out. The one that is probably now scattered about the theater with the seat cushions and the litter of the audience's discarded snacks.
You can collect the pages, you'll have to collect the pages, but you're certain, looking at Matty's face, that asking for an hour to hunt for your manuscript and put it in order will lose you this chance. "But if you'd prefer something written particularly for you, I'm happy to oblige."
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