1

This spot of earth shall be your stage, you decide.

'Tis a tuft of grass behind the public house, glistening with spilt ale. It is hardly ornate, as stages go, though the denizens of Billingsley have done their best to decorate it for you; the passing horses have contributed a surprisingly neat row of steaming footlights, whilst a drunkard marked out center stage most ably with liquid breath.

You press your toe into the green square, thoughts a-race.