At last, the curtain comes down to the rising sound of applause. Diar pulls off her wig as she rushes offstage and embraces you. "I know how long you've been dreaming about tonight."
"You were wonderful," you say.
Diar laughs. "I was, wasn't I?"
Matty bustles over. "Well, that was a first night," she says. "Not bad, kid. The audience left happy, so I'm happy."
"And the critics?" Nichol asks. You don't mistake his casual tone for unconcern.
"Derivative trash, et cetera, et cetera. Who cares about them? I know what I like."
A young usher runs up to you and hands you a folded note. "From a lady for you!"
"Usually they try it on with the actors," Matty says. "I suppose some like pretty words."
The note is in a bold hand, lettered in charcoal rather than inscribed in ink. The first half is carefully written, as if composed by someone taking pains over the course of the performance. "I had no idea that words could say so much. The play was beautiful. It is like a world, but so brief—" It breaks off, and the second half is scratched in a much more hurried scrawl. "Curse strongest when the Raven is near. Afraid this centers on the royal family. WE HAVE TO TALK." It's signed, "Kit."
"So who's it from?" Diar asks curiously.