"That sounds good to me," Matty says. "I need someone who can write to measure, and at a pace suitable for a working theater, not a precious artist who finishes a play every five years. Come back in three weeks with a new script for me. Something with some fizz, to put rumps in seats. If you can do it, the job is yours."
"The job?" you ask, feeling you're a bit behind the times and desperate to catch up to the correct point in the scenes. You'd only hoped for her to agree to put on a single play.
"Our previous house playwright departed us abruptly," Nichol says. "He expressed the opinion that the number of misfortunes that had occurred of late could only be explained by supernatural means."
"The curse," Diar murmurs.
"There is not a curse," Nichol insists.
"Are you sure?" the red-haired guard says mildly. You realize you're not sure how long she's been watching this conversation.
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