"Everyone, our dear countess marries her beloved today and we have to prepare the cake! Let us make haste to the kitchens to aid her most talented cooks."

Those opening words cut through the idle chatter of the theatre, yet did little to settle the children clambering over the "seating".

It was not an unusual scene. It was not a usual theatre. There was no box seating, no real seating to speak of; it was made up of huge, concrete slabs stacked atop each other which left places to sit as they shrank. Loosely, those ten arcs could handle an audience of half a thousand—a figure that the theatre rarely reached a tenth of for any performance.

Weather not always polite about these things, the seating and the stage did have a roof over them, but it did not cover the space between the seating and the stage. This was not a place for fancy lighting nor grand windows, so a gap for natural lighting was necessary.

Rather, it was a place for children to mess around, mothers and daughters to sit and chat with their drop spindles and their knitting, perhaps workers would stop by on their way home. Not only them, though. All sorts of people from the city—and those visiting the city—could drift in.

After the opening words, the stage had become a flurry of activity. Ten-odd people carried up bits and pieces to cobble together a scene. Prominently, there was a cooking table with cupboards underneath. Towards the back, two sheets hung off poles, dyed grey and then detailed with thick black lines to make it look like stonework, which then had smaller cloth "windows" pinned over parts. In the middle of the stage, a broad chest was dropped down with a clank and a clang. A mop and bucket sat off to one side, while the other side featured a pair of stools.

By the end, a loud silence fell across the theatre. Distant noises leaked in from the city, but the audience, even the children, spoke in hushed whispers if at all.

One man paced onto the stage first, a little short to be called lanky, yet his outfit emphasised his lack of weight with its loose fit; however, those clothes had clearly been made with care. Sun-bleached linen made up the apron and cloth hat, the stitching hidden except for an embroidery on both which marked him as a member of the countess's staff.

After making a full loop of the stage, mumbling under his breath, the sound of footsteps stopped him in his tracks and he looked up.

"About time! What took ya?" he asked, his arms gesturing along.

Two more men joined the stage. One was dressed in much the same way as the first man only that he filled out the outfit, yet still hardly what could be called fat. With him, though, was a shorter man who had eaten well—or at least looked so, hard to tell that a bundle of cloth had been stuffed under his shirt.

That shorter man held his chin high and walked with a strut. The other cook accompanying him led him to the lone stool, then gave half a bow before he turned to the first cook and said, "Gunther, is no good, no good at all."

The cook called "Gunther" scowled, his arms crossed. "What's wrong, then, Jacob?"

"Jacob" put his hands together, a pained look on his face. "Ya know the master baker Mrs Enede sent for?"

"The one from France?" Gunther asked and Jacob nodded. "Ain't that him?" Gunther stuck his thumb over at the man on the stool.

Jacob nodded again.

At that, Gunther threw up his hands. "What's the problem?"

"Well," Jacob said, his hands fidgeting, "turns out he's French."

A simple line, said with no grand spectacle, and yet the group of ladies burst into titters and giggles—not pausing in their spinning and knitting, though. Not too funny.

On stage, Gunther gently shook his head and waited a moment for the audience to settle. "Now, now, not his fault, is it? Can't help who our mam or dad is. If Mrs Enede sent for him, I'm sure he's a decent bloke."

"No, it's not that," Jacob said. "What I mean is he speaks French and don't speak German."

Gunther slapped his hands to his face, loud enough that it echoed—and this time the children laughed. "French?"

"Yup," Jacob said.

"Not German?"

"Nope."

Gunther's head hung low, then he threw up his hands again and paced back and forth a few steps. "Dutch? Czech? Italian? Polish? Catalan? Spanish? Portuguese?"

After every question, Gunther shook his head. "None of those."

Turning to the audience, Gunther showed his most pained expression yet. "English?"

"Ah, I didn't ask that," Jacob said and held up a finger. In a practised, if not fluent, accent, he turned to the "master baker" and asked, "Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"Anglais? Anglais!" the baker said before angrily rambling off in supposed French, Jacob nodding along, adding his own, "Oui," or, "Hum," here and there.

That tirade lasted half a minute and ended with the baker slapping his knee and then crossing his arms in a grand harrumph. Jacob gave him a short, "Merci," and then turned back to Gunther. "No, he doesn't speak English."

For a few seconds, Gunther stared at Jacob with exaggerated blinks. "You speak French?" he asked, voice pitching.

"Oui," Jacob said with a smile and a nod.

"Then, then can't you, ya know, tell us what he's saying?" Gunther asked, pointing his thumb at the baker again.

Jacob quickly shook his head. "Not on Saturday, no."

"What? Why not?" Gunther asked, his voice now stuck in a higher pitch.

"Well, I'm Jewish, ain't I?" Jacob took off the white cloth hat as he said that, revealing another, smaller cloth hat underneath.

Gunther stared for a second and then let out a sigh. "That why ya take Saturdays off? I just thought ya liked to drink," he said, coming down to his normal pitch.

"Oh I do, but not Fridays, no. Look after my sister's kid Friday nights. She works down the pub, so can't take off Friday and Saturday, can she?"

"S'pose not," Gunther said, nodding, only to slow to a stop. "Wait, if you don't work Saturdays, what're ya doing here?"

Jacob held his cook's hat in his hands, expression as if a scolded child. "I can't have some cake if I don't work?"

Gunther took one long look at him, then let out a sigh. "Of course you can. That's what Our Lady said, right? Can't be a celebration if anyone's left out. B'sides, you work plenty hard enough for a bit of cake."

With that said, Gunther hung his head and let out another sigh.

"Still, what we gonna do 'bout the cake?" he weakly asked.

Jacob rubbed his chin, then gestured at the audience. "Maybe one of them can help?"

As if pricked, Gunther shot up straight, eyes wide. "Brilliant!" He rushed to the stage's edge, so quick he almost lost his balance as he teetered on its edge. "Someone here's gotta know how to bake a cake? Anyone?"

A kind of rumble filled the theatre, not by stamping feet, but by the audience themselves letting out a droning note, building and building. While it had no single target, there were some who grew restless—particularly those older daughters beside their mothers.

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Until finally someone stood up and the noise broke into a mild laughter.

"God bless! You've saved us, you have. Please, come up, come up, and what's your name, dear?" Gunther said, each phrase accompanied by a gesture and each gesture enthusiastic and exaggerated.

While he spoke, she moved along to the stairs and then down; when she arrived at the stage, Gunther offered his gloved hand to help her up the steeper steps there, and then ushered her to a seat beside the baker.

Only then did she answer, barely managing a whisper. "Lenne."

"Miss Lenne, is it? Beautiful name, ain't it, Jacob?" Gunther said, turning to his colleague.

"Don't think it would suit you, Gunther."

For a moment, Gunther froze and the audience laughed, then he carried on like nothing had happened. "Miss Lenne, if I can ask, is there a potential Mr Lenne in your life already?"

"Reckon she can do better than you, Gunther."

Again, Gunther froze and the audience laughed and he ignored the jab, keeping his focus on her. For her part, she had been beet-red from the moment she'd stood up, but held a small smile at this time. Her mouth opened, only to think better of it and instead shook her head, then ducked it even lower.

In a single stride, Gunther was at the front of the stage again. "If any of you've got a spare son lounging around, keep Miss Lenne in mind, all right?"

Another light, tittering laughter rolled through the mothers of the audience, whispered remarks shared—and Lenne's mother found the woman next to her rather chatty all of a sudden.

Back on the stage, Gunther was once again in front of her. "Miss Lenne, you know how to bake a cake?" he asked.

"Yes," she said with a bit more voice, but still far from enough to fill the theatre like his so naturally did.

His hands came together in a sharp clap. "What we need for that, then?"

She stilled with a deep breath in her chest before letting it out and raising her chin. "First would be flour," she said, clearly attempting to speak clearer and properly, and then added, "Fair flour."

"Fair flour." Gunther echoed her words as he moved to the chest at the back of the stage and, from inside, he took out a huge sack. With how he heaved, how he strained, how he put his back into it as he dragged it across the stage, it seemed heavy enough to be full of rocks.

When he dropped it next to the table by the front of the stage, a puff of flour burst out the top. He spluttered and waved away the lingering flour. Once it settled, he opened the sack enough to look inside, then reached in and pulled out an oversized horseshoe made of wood.

"Fair flour, huh? We're gonna need some help to pick out the bits."

Unlike before, there was no shortage of volunteers with most of the children eagerly climbing down the seats to get to the front.

"Well, the more the merrier," he said and, after hopping down himself, he even threw some of the giggling children up onto the stage who took too long.

So they started on their job, crowding the sack and pulling out such things as crowns and swords and whatever other small props would fit—and then proceeding to mess around with them.

Gunther went back to Lenne. "What next?" he asked.

Although she tried to keep a straight face, her lips kept twitching and her breath got away from her until she pinched her eyes shut. "Honey is next."

While the play carried on, more people drifted in to watch, little else to do at this hour of the day if there was no work to be done. However, there was also one man in particular who did not look like he belonged here and, as if to make good on that, went to leave.

"Mr Klein?"

The man's next step made clear he would not stop, so Johann hurried after.

"Mr Klein…."

He walked beyond the edge of the concrete, then a few step to the side where he hung his head, gently shaking it. Johann had followed him this far, silenced by this reaction.

Silence, a loud silence thick with the sounds of the city, muffled voices from the theatre, punctuated by moments of laughter, and it lingered for a good while before this man finally spoke.

"You would call this theatre?"

Johann already had a pained expression, but that question had him wince, eyes shimmering. "I, I know it's not… the sort of thing we normally watch."

"It's a farce."

He blinked away the tears that threatened to spill, his heart so painfully tight. "It, it's a silly thing, I know. But it's the first time we're performing one I wrote from scratch, so I wanted you to see it. N-next time, it will—"

"There isn't a next time. Look, I am glad you found… something. Whatever it is, though, is not theatre," Klein said, a restrained heat behind his voice. "I have no interest in whatever happens here."

The tightness in Johann's chest, with every beat of his heart, lessened. "This may not be like the theatre we have visited so much before, yet it is theatre."

Klein merely sighed at that and it was clear he hadn't the motivation to voice his disagreement.

Johann, though, did not wish to give up.

"Did you see those people? They could not even dream of seeing the beautiful plays we have seen, performed by such talented actors that I would believe their every word. However, last week, they watched us perform a play of Orpheus and Eurydice. And when it came time for him to walk without looking back—every time he stopped to ask them if she was still following him, you should have heard them shout.

"They love theatre no less than us."

He had spoken in a quiet voice, tempered, sounding equally as if on the verge of breaking into tears as about to scream. Truly, he was on the verge of both. Never before had he felt so utterly helpless. For all the times he had been unable to find the words to say, of all the times for his own mind to fail him, it had to be now.

He needed his mentor to understand.

No, he needed to be understood.

Klein gave a slight shake of his head. "How could you of all people say that?" he asked, not asking for an answer. "What these peasants love is the spectacle. They lack the foundation to even appreciate true theatre, never mind love it as we do. That, or, perhaps I have misunderstood you all this time."

Johann listened with a rueful smile. "Perhaps you have," he said softly, not quite a whisper.

He needed to be understood; however, that understanding no longer needed to come from his mentor.

"Lady Augstadt did not, though. Not my actors. They know I love theatre so much that I want… everyone to play a part."

Still, Klein said nothing, said no more, until he finally said, "Goodbye."

Johann's mouth pulled into a smile, holding an echo of the dear memories. "Pray give my thanks to Mrs Klein too."

No answer came and, after a sigh, Klein strode off, more hurried than even when late to a play. Johann joked to himself that it was if Mr Klein thought being here would take away his memories of true theatre.

A funny joke, but it did not make him laugh.

For a long while longer, he simply lingered there, lost in the twilight between memories and dreams, until he heard the climax of the show inside. As if he had been dreaming, those troublesome emotions broke apart into nothing more than a feeling of wistfulness. With a rueful smile, he returned to the theatre—if what happened inside could still be called theatre.

What separation there was between stage and seating, between actors and audience, between play and reality had been weak to begin with in this space, now was utterly demolished. Figuratively and literally.

The stage found itself in a disarray so great that it spilled over, loose props scattered across the seating from those children who found swords and shields. What audience there was now crowded the stage's edge and the stage itself. Those actors, still in their roles, directed the chaos with great comedy.

This play about baking a cake for the countess's wedding culminated with a genuine cake being presented for all to share.

He wished Mr Klein had seen this moment, even though he knew, if anything, it would have only worsened his mentor's opinion. In truth, he may not have disagreed with what his mentor would have said. "She's buying favour." "These peasants are only here for the cake."

And he would have asked, "What need has she to buy these peasants' favour? What need has she to bribe these peasants to watch a silly little play?"

What need did she have to bribe his favour?

Johann had no answer to any of those and he rather doubted his mentor would have had any answers either. At least, nothing convincing. Either she was stupid and gave away money arbitrarily, or she worked with a wisdom beyond his fathoming.

The council which oversaw the theatre's maintenance was not the result of someone stupid. Such clean responsibilities, such specific stipends, how she had arranged certain rates from the textiles guild. That his plays occupied only part of what went on at the theatre, other hours of the day in use by preachers and musicians and anyone else who went to the council with an idea.

She had told him the purpose of his plays. At the time, he hadn't realised that she was as much describing as prescribing that purpose. Honestly, he didn't know what she knew, if she knew him as simply a name—or if she had found his very nature.

Someone else, anyone else, it would have eaten at him until there was nothing left. He knew how undeserving he was of this opportunity, of kindness. He knew. But she hadn't treated him like he was special, didn't speak of this as a kindness. This was a punishment he happily chose for himself. Because of that, he had no reason to doubt her.

In the midst of his musings, content to bask in a theatre full of joy—regardless of how much that had to do with the cake and not his play—a child ran up to him. She was young, perhaps six, or more likely eight and not as well fed as a child ought to be. That thought hardened when he heard her speak, polite and calm.

"Is sir the one what wrote the play?"

He knelt down, the concrete floor hard. Sturdy. A place that would exist long after her last patron gave a last donation. "Sir is the one who wrote this play. And who might this little miss be?" he asked, gentle in his tone, in his smile.

She gave a curtsey. "I'm Hedwig," she said, almost a frown. "I go to St Hedwig's where Ms Lucie is teaching me to write. I asked mama if I can write a play, and she told me to ask sir."

While she spoke, she glanced back; Johann followed her look to spot a young woman with an amused smile. Well, for as young as she looked, she still had a daughter.

Then it struck him: St Hedwig's, the school the countess had opened.

He gave a silent laugh before catching himself. "Miss Hedwig can, I'm sure. But why does she want to?" he asked sincerely, more sincere than ever before in his life.

Which he then regretted as her head ducked down, eyes shimmering. "The other kids don't like me. But if I write a play, and every'ne gets cake, they'll be my friend."

The more she spoke, the more he picked up the accent. Czech. He tried to remember when that nonsense with the Poles happened… nonsense that the countess had wastefully involved herself in. Nonsense that had always sounded so distant before.

Stories, she'd asked. Was he interested in foreigners' stories.

Tragedies.

"You write a play, and I'll have to see what I can do about the cake," he whispered.

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