Chapter – 18….
“He told me… that if I ever met the ‘bratty noble girl,’ I should kill her immediately…”
During the “memory exercise” for emotions, Henry had honestly told the Lady about his past.
Hearing this, Luisa had replied:
“Then why didn’t you kill her?”
“Sorry? Me? Kill her?”
“Yes. It was your father’s dying wish, wasn’t it?”
“…Well, yes, but…”
“Why didn’t you do it? Tell me honestly.”
Henry hesitated.
Honestly? If he really, truly had to say it…
“Why should I?”
“…….”
“To be honest, I hate killing people. It’s true I did hate you, but… even if you disappeared, it wouldn’t change my life that much. Why would I take that kind of risk? There’s no…”
“Say it. Just say it!”
Her sudden push made Henry blurt it out without thinking.
“You’re just… not worth killing!”
…Ah.
He said it.
Why did he always mess up like this?
Was he going to be murdered by the Lady now?
Henry trembled, his whole body shaking—
But Luisa simply smiled gently at him.
“There it is. That’s you. The real you hiding under that mild face. Show yourself. That’s the only way you can act your own way.”
She wasn’t angry. On the contrary, she looked satisfied—as if she had finally seen his potential.
My own acting.
My own Benvolio.
Everything she said always sounded like a riddle.
The audience was laughing at Henry’s performance, but Henry himself wasn’t sure what kind of Benvolio he was supposed to be.
He only felt amazed that people found him funny.
Maybe that excitement was why—
When Mercutio asked his line on stage:
“Romeo didn’t come home?”
It was a line Henry had spoken dozens of times throughout rehearsals.
Under the hot stage lights, sweaty and tired, he recited the same familiar dialogue.
But today felt different.
The actor speaking that line looked like Mercutio—
truly Mercutio.
Mercutio: the biggest troublemaker of the Montagues, mischievous, boisterous, and the member who had most thoroughly absorbed the family’s hatred toward the Capulets.
And Benvolio—no, Henry—knew that revealing Romeo’s secret tryst with a Capulet made him strangely afraid.
Mercutio’s flat eyes looked like those of a dangerous teenage boy.
The stage set looked like the real streets of Verona.
In this dangerous city, Benvolio wanted to protect Romeo’s love—
Not because he romantically supported it, but because he simply didn’t want any more bloodshed.
It’s not worth it.
That cynical thought slipped through him, and the next line came out.
A line that had always felt like a shirt he’d borrowed from someone else suddenly fit him perfectly.
“Dunno.”
“He must’ve stayed out all night. You really don’t know?”
“…He didn’t come home. I asked a servant.”
The desire to hide Romeo’s night at the Capulet’s and the uncomfortable guilt of lying crashed inside him.
Even after speaking, Benvolio instinctively checked Mercutio’s reaction.
What if Mercutio sensed something?
So Benvolio quickly changed the subject:
“Tybalt sent Romeo a challenge.”
When Mercutio immediately focused on the “challenge,” Henry felt relieved.
At the same time—
He sensed the audience.
Their shared relief.
Why?
Why were they relieved because he was?
Why were their emotions pouring into him like this?
Henry felt a sudden shiver.
He was breathing as one with all these people.
After that, time blurred.
He acted imagining every corner of Verona’s streets.
Though Benvolio didn’t have many lines in the entire play, Henry’s focus never wavered.
Every time Romeo spoke, every time Mercutio spoke, Henry’s Benvolio reacted with real emotion.
He was scared, anxious—
and finally, truly grief-stricken.
When Mercutio died in front of him, Benvolio shed tears involuntarily.
Drip.
“Mercutio…”
It pierced him like when his father had died—
That pain of losing someone close.
Father… don’t die!
He had never loved his father.
To Henry, his father was an incomprehensible man—violent, drunk, always fighting.
But even if he never understood the man, parting still hurt.
Don’t die, Mercutio.
While he whispered that inside—
“……?”
A tear fell onto his hand.
Benvolio lifted his head.
It was Romeo.
Red-rimmed eyes, full of tears.
For the first time.
During private practice, Benvolio had cried a few times, but Romeo—this beautiful boy—had never shed a tear.
Yet here he was.
Crying.
“…Tybalt!”
When Romeo rose in fury, Benvolio felt awe.
So this is… your Romeo.
Then perhaps—
Is this… my Benvolio?
Henry wiped his tears as he came offstage and immediately ran to find Luisa.
“I—I…!”
He didn’t even know how to express this pounding excitement.
But the moment he stood before Luisa’s cold expression, his enthusiasm wilted a little.
Should he really be this proud?
Was feeling the audience and responding to the other actor really anything special?
Doubt crept in just as Luisa spoke:
“Yeah. I saw.”
“……!!”
“You’ve got it. You found your sense.”
Luisa meant every word.
She had watched from backstage.
She saw him doing everything she’d taught him—yet creating a Benvolio entirely different from hers.
Sure, sometimes he drifted from my interpretation… even from the original, turning into a gag character…
But honestly, it wasn’t bad.
Especially the interpretation of Benvolio as someone pretending to be neutral while secretly trying to escape from everything.
It was exactly what she wanted—
and he’d added his own flavor.
Benvolio became a bit dopey, yet still said everything he wanted to say.
A coward can still be silly.
Someone who speaks up can still be timid.
Humans are multifaceted, and acting is a creative, intricate craft because of that.
She had taught him speech, projection, and emotion separately, but when they finally merged—everything became natural, effortless.
Just like Benvolio had stood on stage as if he truly belonged there.
He must have felt it too—
his senses opening.
Normally, he wouldn’t have had confidence even if he did improve, but—
“Your instincts are right. Keep going with it.”
“…Yes!”
And now Henry had Luisa in front of him—
A mentor who actually watched his acting and evaluated him.
Actors gain confidence the moment someone else acknowledges what they themselves barely dared to believe.
And with that confidence, the more they stand on stage, the more they grow.
Maybe preparing the two-person play will be easier than expected…
Even Leo Fier’s sense had awakened after being swept along by Benvolio’s emotions.
Luisa watched Leo’s sudden breakthrough and felt excited for future rehearsals.
Benvolio had shown signs of something different the moment he stepped on stage today, but Leo had shown no such change.
Yet the moment Benvolio’s acting blossomed, Romeo’s acting bloomed as if on cue.
He’d been provoked.
It’s true that when one actor improves, the others rise with them.
Until now, Romeo had been benefiting from Luisa—Juliet’s—performance.
She gave such strong emotions that he could easily react.
But receiving emotion from Benvolio was different.
In that crowd scene, they barely had shared lines—but Leo felt Benvolio’s development.
And it triggered a sense of crisis.
All this time, I kept resisting putting emotion into my acting.
Not because he thought it was embarrassing—
but because emotion was dangerous.
He had been hiding his identity for nine years, living among betrayals.
Showing real emotion felt like exposing his true self—
risking everything he had protected.
But Leo Fier had to grow.
He couldn’t be overshadowed by Benvolio in a two-person play.
He needed to stand out.
Not merely because the play would create her “star”—
but because Luisa had another purpose for the party.
She was planning to cast Leo in The Prince and the Pauper.
Leo would play the Prince.
Benvolio would play the Pauper.
As the Prince, Leo needed to be recognized by someone at the party—
someone who would notice his true identity despite his disguise.
That person was the future Emperor’s chief aide:
Marquess Burbage.
To catch Burbage’s eye, Leo needed to show, through acting, that he retained a prince’s dignity even while pretending to be a street beggar.
No matter how much he tried to hide it, his real emotions had to leak through.
And Benvolio had just given him the spark.
Feeling unexpectedly delighted, Luisa almost ruffled Henry’s hair—but caught herself.
“Good job.”
Henry perked up, then drooped a little.
“Are you… not going to pat my head, Director?”
What was that supposed to mean?
Was he a dog?
Why are the people around me all like this?
Luisa frowned and violently messed up his hair.
“Uwaah!”
“And don’t call me ‘teacher.’ I’m not your teacher.”
“Then what should I call you? I haven’t respected anyone this much since my math teacher back in school…”
She couldn’t tell if he was really simple-minded or just someone who casually said whatever came to mind.
Luisa thought for a moment, tilted her head, and said:
“Director. Call me Director.”
“Huh? What does that mean?”
This world had no concept of a “director.”
Usually a senior actor coached other actors, the producer built the stage, and the playwright wrote the script.
But what else could she call the person who connects script to actor, connects actor to audience?
Luisa tapped Henry on the forehead.
“It means exactly what you think it does when you feel like calling me ‘teacher.’”
“……?”
“So just call me Director.”
“…Yes, Director!”
Hearing that, Luisa felt a thrill similar to what Henry felt earlier.
Director.
That was the word she’d wanted to hear.
