“Our tale, good citizens, lords, and ladies, begins in the palace gardens of our very own city one hundred years ago to this day.” He spread his arms wide. “It is the festival of moons, indeed the very first festival and the guests to the King’s regatta are soon to arrive.”

A drum roll burst out from the right eave and on cue, the huddled actors swarmed out onto the fae garden scene with parasols nestled against shoulders and gentleman on their arms. In twos, they wove in and out of the false walls and paper shrubs, chatting idly amongst themselves about etiquette and gossip and trivial affairs.

“The finest of the city’s nobles, doctors, merchants, and adventurers of great renown come to celebrate the start of autumn at the King’s behest. As they enter the courtyard, covered by a grand tent in crimson they see a devilish scene before them.” The Narrator bowed dramatically and swept himself off stage. Before the crowd had finished oohing he shed his cloak and scooped up a crown and mitre to change into his next role.

“My lords, aghast, revelry must come undone before such despair!” A red headed woman in a canary yellow dress scuttled forwards, backhand pressed to brow in a dramatic flounce. “Look what horrors are wrought!” She gestured at the empty throne which wheeled onto the stage from the left eave on a pulley and gear platform.

“Tis the king!” Her companion marched before his wife and held out his arm defensively, to stop her running to the king’s aid. “Call the guard!”

The crowd formed a half circle about the throne, rumour mongering amongst themselves to add flair. Four armoured women marched from out of the central pillar, the door to Liza’s dressing room disguised as a portcullis painted onto coarse fabric. They encircled the throne, battered halberds and tunics brandished with the shield and sword of Rodham’s sigil.

“Your majesty!” they roared in unison.

The King snorted.

“He lives!” the lady in yellow whelped.

A roar of relief erupted from the audience, who despite seeing the play countless times found themselves swept away in the melodrama. One or two fainted, newcomers to the stage or already too drunk to contain their excitement.

“What is the meaning of this?” The King grumbled. Silver sparks danced from his lips and carried his line out across the square. “Why have I slept through darkest dusk and blackest night?” He stared wide eyed out to the audience, crown eschew and mitre raised in outcry.

“My liege, we feared you were dead.” The captain of the guard approached and bent a knee. Lord Regent stared at her and pointed the mitre at her.

“Not dead, Captain Adele, but trickery is afoot – call the physician at once to inspect the wine!” The narrator come king pushed himself out of the throne ad stumbled, footwork expertly executed to make him tumble and fall away from the crowd onto a pillow concealed by the throne.

“No!” the yellow lady screamed, her cries haunting and echoing with magic. The chandeliers extinguished and the curtains dropped.