"I suppose that's honest work," the tavern keeper says, in a tone that suggests that "as opposed to cavorting about onstage" is not being said. "He's in the back."
You plunge through the gloom to find Nichol sitting at a back table nursing a drink of something that looks stronger than wine and making notes on the script of an unfamiliar play. He raises an eyebrow as you approach, but doesn't actually seem unwelcoming.
"Please sit, rather than standing there as if you're waiting for your exit," he says, and you take a chair.
"I wanted to talk to you about the curse," you say.
"The curse," Nichol says, and leans back in his chair. "You're a generally sensible person, which is refreshing in the theater. What makes you so certain that there's a curse?"
"You want to know why I believe in the curse."
"I do," Nichol agrees. "Am I likely to receive an answer?"