Chapter 17
Scandal had shattered the duchy, thrusting Louisa Messena into endless chatter among its people.
At dinner tables everywhere, relatives dissected her latest supposed villainy.
Whispers painted her as heartless, inventing tales so wild that a cheek-horn rumor might have passed without question.
Cutter’s household mirrored the frenzy. He managed a prominent inn in the region.
“Youngsters lack all judgment these days,” he grumbled to his kin. “Imagine swarms of them—girls just like you, Edith—rushing to that show!”
He meant the fresh production of Romeo and Juliet over at White Friars Theater.
Edith choked mid-spoonful of potato soup, hacking fiercely.
“Cough! Cough!”
“You alright there?” her father asked.
“Just surprised, honestly,” she managed. “Folks actually paying to see a tyrant like her perform.”
Edith led the Cutter siblings as their top child.
Prosperity from wide trade networks cushioned their common roots. She wore fresh fabric, braids tidy.
Duchy’s ruin cut merchant traffic at Cutter Inn, slashing earnings in half.
With Cutter fading fast, his nineteen-year-old heir stepped up, mastering hospitality duties.
She dabbed her lips with care using linen.
Outward poise masked inner storm.
Deep down, she craved that very spectacle with pal Elize.
Their seventh round today.
“Sorry, Father,” she murmured inwardly.
“Our livelihood suffers from her chaos—empty rooms everywhere,” he moaned.
“Perhaps blame doesn’t fall solely on her,” Edith ventured. “A twenty-two-year-old couldn’t topple a realm decaying for a decade alone, right?”
Imperial schemes had pinned the fall on the young royal as easy prey.
Words nearly escaped before Cutter cut in.
“Edith, that play’s twisted your mind toward her.”
“What? Never—I promise,” she protested, dropping her utensil.
He exhaled wearily.
“Youth stays blind. Word is she’s tight with the Emperor now—the old one, and that usurping firstborn scum!”
Edith stifled a private groan.
Years at the inn exposed him to every tale, most swallowed whole.
“Time to head out,” she declared. “Elize waits at the bookshop.”
Pressure mounted; she rose.
Cutter’s face softened.
“Sure, run along. Oh—and Peter’s due Saturday.”
Her features twisted at the name.
Peter supplied glassware through family deals.
Ages ahead by fifteen years, his meals brought hungry stares her way.
She brushed them off till now, yet succession loomed urgent amid illness.
“Got it, Father. Heading off.”
Exhaling sharply, Edith slipped away.
“This weekend’s show calls too!” Elize bubbled upon reunion, already hooked on Romeo and Juliet. A contact dangled extra seats. “Snatch them quick—gone in minutes. Us alone! Come on!”
Edith’s mood soured recalling Peter; Elize matched her gloom.
Peter-bashing ensued as they reached White Friars Theater.
Women queued thick for prime spots.
“Damn, tardy again,” Elize muttered.
Her tally topped Edith’s by a couple outings.
She’d dragged Edith initially.
Resistance came natural at first.
Why fund the disgraced royal’s flop?
Inn life exposed her to troops of roving players.
Tavern yard skits blurred together.
Epic warriors, corrupt elites, grand romances—endless repeats.
Plots stayed basic, flair overblown.
Childhood thrilled at sword-clashing battles faked.
Maturity stripped the magic; theater rang hollow.
Countless shows honed her eye sharp.
One performer alone pierced through in all her years.
Molière White dominated White Friars stages.
Nineteen marked his blaze across spotlights, enchanting crowds instantly.
Two nights sealed his reign as top draw. Whispers claimed royal eyes spied from shadows.
Coin spent on premium views let her share thrills with kin repeatedly.
Raw power held her fast.
Twenty-two brought retirement; rivals never sparked since.
Louisa embodied folly in nurse-taunting ways.
Cruelty laced her smirks at elders, lures to rival heirs, theft of kin’s suitor, parental revolt.
Still, vitality surged from her.
Juliet’s rage and loss pulled Edith deep.
Peer turmoil echoed in the fourteen-year-old’s fire—naive rushes, bold stands.
Unlike Edith’s path to Peter’s net, this girl seized passion fiercely.
Doom’s romance turned personal mirror.
Final curtain left her adrift in tides.
“Relight on second go—Capulet glows crimson, Montague sapphire,” Elize gushed post-show. “You’ve logged tons of theater. Spot this before? New for me!”
Silence gripped Edith.
Customary barbs vanished under spell.
No verdict formed amid the swell.
Return proved inevitable.
Seventh drew her back unplanned.
Familiar tale should have sufficed once.
Yet shifts bloomed fresh each round.
Nurse jabs varied—"Fool! Gape here, dolt!”
Veteran cast flowed seamless around Juliet’s tweaks.
Gowns swapped hues; scarlet one day fused Capulet fire, radiant against her frame.
Louisa shone fiercer in crimson.
Eyes mirrored the blaze, sapphire chain evoking gemstone life.
Elites rushed jewelers for matches.
Vain fools decked in blue ice, far from true.
Edith yearned for such gleam herself, bridging to Juliet.
Juliet alone justified return.
Male leads paled beside her depth.
Rehearsals rang shallow, souls untouched.
Beauty wasted sans craft’s fire.
Then Benvolio stirred on viewing seven.
Overlooked as meek side figure before, pink tresses suiting soft fears.
This turn rang raw, blunt edges gleaming.
“Does passion freeze moments? Clocks absent, perhaps?”
Laughter rippled wide.
Edith’s lips curved unbidden.
Benvolio scanned seats, eyes wide.
Confusion flickered—mockery?
Henry sensed truth: cheers embraced his take, not scorn.
She staked her claim silently.
