96

You spin a spectacular tale. Lights, blown out like…like extinguished lights! A table falling over! Some coins were spilled!

"Enough, enough," Nichol says finally. "Save it for your next manuscript. Although I'm not certain that the adventure of the toppling table will pack them in the seats."

"Do you have any idea why this might be happening?" you ask.

Nichol turns his cup around in his hand. "I'm skeptical of curses by nature," he says. "Possibly I'm just skeptical by nature. But the idea that the Raven and the royal family have done something that's endangered the city seems all too plausible to me."

"I take it you're not a fan," you say.

"It would be unwise to express disapproval of the royal family," Nichol says. "I've learned, over the years, not to be unwise. Now, am I a fan? If the actions of the Raven are theater, they are the worst kind of melodrama. I prefer to reserve my interest for more satisfying forms of theater."

"Melodrama?" you prompt.

"Are you inviting a monologue? Possibly that's unwise." Nichol drinks, and then sets the cup down. "When I was young, the city buzzed with the exploits of the Raven. Our conquering monarch, defending us against the threat of Pomona! And if in the process, he won us lands and wealth, there were certainly no complaints about that. The city of Pomona was defeated, and the Raven and Queen Idris fought a bitter duel in Pomona's main square, and Queen Idris fell stabbed through the heart, and still tried to slash at the Raven's heel before finally collapsing, her evil work forever undone."