Two weeks later, I had my first piano lesson.
My parents had hired a teacher named Mr. Whitmore—an older gentleman who'd taught at the Royal Academy of Music before retiring to private instruction. He came to our house every Tuesday and Thursday, carrying a worn leather satchel and smelling faintly of pipe tobacco.
"So, Henry," he said, settling onto the piano bench in our sitting room while I stood beside him, "have you ever played piano before?"
"No, sir," I said politely. Which was true—Henry hadn't. Marcus had plunked around on keyboards a bit, but nothing formal.
"Well then, we'll start with the basics. This is called middle C..."
He started explaining the keyboard, the notes, the concept of scales. I listened attentively, nodding at appropriate moments, asking questions that a bright five-year-old might ask.
And then he had me try.
The moment my fingers touched the keys, something *happened*.
It was like my hands knew what to do before my brain could even process the instruction. The muscle memory from the talent template was there, waiting, ready. My fingers found the right keys automatically, pressed with the right amount of pressure, moved with fluid grace.
I played the simple C major scale Mr. Whitmore had just demonstrated.
Perfectly.
On the first try.
Mr. Whitmore blinked. "Well. That was... very good. Excellent hand position. Let's try it again, shall we?"
I played it again. Still perfect.
"Remarkable," he muttered. "Most students take weeks to get their hand position right. Let's try something slightly more complex..."
Over the course of that first hour-long lesson, I watched Mr. Whitmore's expression gradually shift from pleased to confused to slightly concerned to absolutely astonished.
Everything he showed me, I could replicate immediately. Not just adequately—*perfectly*. My sight-reading was prodigious. My ear for pitch was flawless. My rhythm was impeccable.
By the end of the lesson, I'd progressed through what would normally take a student three months to learn.
"Mrs. Cavendish," Mr. Whitmore said to my mother, who'd been reading in the next room, "might I have a word?"
They stepped into the hallway, but I could hear them (super-hearing wasn't part of my templates, but the house wasn't that big and Mr. Whitmore wasn't exactly whispering).
"Your son is..." he paused, clearly trying to find the right words. "He's extraordinary. I've been teaching for forty years, and I've never seen a child pick up piano this quickly. He has perfect pitch, impeccable rhythm, and his hand coordination is frankly *impossible* for a child his age."
"Is that... bad?" Elizabeth sounded concerned.
"Bad? No! It's remarkable! But Mrs. Cavendish, I think you need to understand that Henry isn't just talented. He's *gifted*. Possibly once-in-a-generation gifted. If he continues at this pace, he could be performance-ready within a year. Maybe less."
There was a long pause.
"A year?" Elizabeth's voice was faint.
"Or less," Mr. Whitmore repeated. "I'd like your permission to develop a more advanced curriculum for him. The standard beginner's course would be... well, it would be a waste of his time."
Another pause.
"Of course," Elizabeth finally said. "Whatever you think is best."
When they came back into the sitting room, my mother looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Pride? Concern? A mixture of both?
"Mr. Whitmore says you did very well today," she said carefully.
"It was fun!" I said brightly, because that's what a normal kid would say. "Can I practice more?"
"Of course, darling. Anytime you want."
After Mr. Whitmore left, Elizabeth sat down next to me on the piano bench. She put her arm around my small shoulders and just held me for a moment.
"Henry," she said softly, "you really are special, aren't you?"
*You have no idea,* I thought.
But what I said was, "I just like music, Mum."
She kissed the top of my head. "I know. I just want to make sure you get to be a little boy too, not just a talented one."
*Being a little boy is literally the obstacle preventing me from achieving my goals,* my brain supplied unhelpfully.
But I leaned into her hug and said, "I promise."
Because the thing was, she was right. I *was* special. Unnaturally so. And if I wasn't careful, people would start asking questions I couldn't answer.
I needed to be amazing, but *believably* amazing. Prodigiously talented, but still human.
It was a fine line to walk.
Good thing I'd been given templates that included charisma and likability. People would be more inclined to celebrate my success than scrutinize it if they genuinely liked me.
---
Three weeks after piano started, Elizabeth arranged for voice lessons.
My teacher was a woman named Caroline Thorne—a former West End performer who'd retired after a successful career to teach. She was in her fifties, with the kind of commanding presence that came from years of performing eight shows a week.
"Henry," she said, sitting across from me in our sitting room (which was rapidly becoming my personal performance studio), "your mother tells me you like to sing."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you had any formal training?"
"No, ma'am. I just sing along to songs sometimes."
"Well, let's hear what you've got. Sing me something—anything you like."
I thought for a moment. I needed to pick something that would showcase my range without being *too* impressive. Something a six-year-old might reasonably know.
"Can I sing 'A Whole New World'?" I asked. "From Aladdin?" The Disney movie had come out earlier that year and was everywhere. A totally reasonable choice for a kid.
"Of course. Go ahead."
I took a breath, felt the template activate like a switch being flipped, and started singing.
The moment the first note came out of my mouth, Caroline Thorne's entire body went rigid.
See, here's the thing about the voice template: it didn't just give me technical ability. It gave me a *voice*. Even at six years old, even with a child's undeveloped vocal cords, I had that silver-toned quality the ROB had promised. My pitch was perfect. My breathing was controlled. My tone was pure and clear and *beautiful* in a way that made people stop and listen.
I sang the first verse and chorus, watching Caroline's face cycle through several emotions: surprise, confusion, wonder, and finally something that looked almost like *fear*.
When I finished, there was a long silence.
"How old are you?" she finally asked.
"Six. Well, almost six."
"And you've never had voice lessons?"
"No, ma'am."
"Not even informal ones? Your mother is a dancer, but does she sing?"
"Sometimes in the shower?" I offered.
Caroline stood up abruptly and walked to the window, looking out at the London street like it might provide answers.
"Mrs. Cavendish," she called out.
My mother appeared from the kitchen. "Yes?"
"Your son..." Caroline turned back to look at me, and I saw her hands were actually trembling slightly. "Your son has the most naturally gifted voice I've ever heard in a child. I'm not exaggerating. In thirty years of teaching, I've never encountered anything like this."
Elizabeth's face went through its own journey of emotions. "I... he's always been musical, but..."
"This isn't just 'musical,'" Caroline said firmly. "This is exceptional. This is the kind of raw talent that makes careers. That wins competitions. That..." she trailed off, shaking her head. "I need you to understand what I'm saying. Henry is special."
*Everyone keeps saying that,* I thought. *Yes, I know. I literally had a cosmic being design me to be special. Can we move on to the part where we train me properly?*
"What do you recommend?" Elizabeth asked, and I could hear the worry in her voice.
"Proper training, absolutely. But carefully. His voice is still developing. We can't push too hard or we risk damaging his vocal cords. But with the right instruction..." Caroline looked at me again, and there was something almost hungry in her expression. The look of a teacher who'd just found a potential masterpiece. "With the right instruction, he could be singing professionally within a few years."
"He's *six*," Elizabeth protested weakly.
"I know. But talent like this doesn't come along often. It would be a waste not to nurture it properly."
They talked more about training schedules and techniques and being careful not to strain my developing voice. I sat on the couch, swinging my legs (because six-year-olds do that) and thinking about the future.
*Piano: mastered at prodigy level. Check.*
*Dance: already in advanced classes. Check.*
*Voice: identified as exceptional. Check.*
*Next steps: acting classes, build a resume, start making connections in the industry.*
*Timeline: Start getting professional work by age eight or nine. First major role by eleven or twelve. Music career launch in my teens. First film by fifteen.*
*I have twelve years before 2005, when I want to make my first major impact.*
*Plenty of time.*
---
That night, after I'd been sent to bed, I lay awake and listened to my parents talking in their room down the hall.
(I wasn't *trying* to eavesdrop. Our townhouse just had thin walls. Or at least, that's what I told myself.)
"Three teachers in three weeks, James," Elizabeth was saying. "Three different teachers, all saying the same thing. That our son is extraordinarily gifted."
"It's wonderful," James replied, though he sounded uncertain. "Isn't it? We've always wanted him to excel."
"Excel, yes. But this is different. This isn't excelling. This is... I don't know what this is. Mr. Whitmore says he's learning piano at a rate that should be impossible. Madame Kozlov says his technique is beyond most adults she's worked with. And now Caroline says his voice is the best she's ever heard in a child."
"So we have a very talented son. That's a good thing."
"Is it?" Elizabeth's voice rose slightly. "James, what if we push him too hard? What if all this training and all these lessons steal his childhood? He's *six years old*. He should be playing with toys and making messes and being a little boy, not training like he's preparing for the Olympics."
There was a long pause.
"What do you want to do?" James asked quietly.
"I don't know. I just... I want to make sure we're doing right by him. That we're not living our dreams through him. That he actually *wants* this."
"He seems to want it," James pointed out. "Every time we ask him if he wants to continue with his lessons, he lights up. He *loves* it, Elizabeth."
"I know. That's what worries me. What if he loves it so much he burns himself out? What if by the time he's fifteen, he's so tired of performing that he hates it?"
I wanted to call out, *That won't happen! I have thirty-plus years of perspective! I know exactly what I'm doing!*
But of course, I couldn't.
"How about this," James said. "We let him continue with all his lessons, but we also make sure he has time to just be a kid. Playdates, trips to the park, normal six-year-old things. We don't push him toward professional work until he's older. We let this be about learning and fun, not about career building."
*No, no, no,* I thought desperately. *We don't have time for that! The plan requires strategic positioning starting NOW!*
"That sounds reasonable," Elizabeth said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. "We nurture his talents, but we protect his childhood."
"Exactly."
*Damn it.*
I lay in my racing car bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, and revised my mental timeline.
*Okay, fine. I have to seem like a normal kid who just happens to be talented. I can work with that. It'll take longer, but it might actually be better. A more organic rise. More believable. Less likely to burn out or attract the wrong kind of attention.*
*Patience, Henry. You have time.*
*You have all the time in the world.*
Outside my window, London continued its eternal hum of traffic and life. Somewhere out there, the world was spinning toward the future I knew was coming. The internet revolution. The social media explosion. The transformation of entertainment.
And I would be ready for all of it.
But first, apparently, I had to have some playdates.
---
"Henry, this is Oliver and Emma," my mother said the following Saturday, ushering two children into our house. "They're from your class at school. I thought you might like to play together this afternoon."
Oliver was the kid who wanted to be a footballer. Emma was the one who wanted to be a princess. Both were perfectly nice children who, in my mental calculation, had a zero percent chance of being relevant to my long-term plans.
But this was about appearing normal, so I pasted on a friendly smile.
"Hi," I said. "Want to see my room?"
We spent the afternoon doing what six-year-olds do: playing with action figures, watching *The Lion King* on VHS (which had just come out and was absolutely dominating the box office—I knew it would become the highest-grossing film of 1994), and eating snacks that my mother had arranged on a plate to look aesthetically pleasing.
It was, frankly, boring as hell.
But I played along, made appropriate excited noises about Oliver's football tricks, and complimented Emma's drawing of a unicorn. I was charming and friendly and exactly the kind of kid that parents called "well-adjusted."
When Elizabeth came to check on us, she found the three of us sitting on the floor, playing with Legos.
"Are you having fun, darling?" she asked me.
"Yeah, Mum!" I said with what I hoped was convincing enthusiasm. "Can we have playdates more often?"
The relief on her face was palpable. "Of course, sweetheart."
After Oliver and Emma left, my father came home from the theater. He found me in the sitting room, practicing piano (because I actually *did* enjoy it—the template made music feel natural and satisfying in a way that was genuinely pleasurable).
"Had a good day?" he asked, loosening his tie.
"Yeah. Oliver and Emma came over."
"I heard. Your mother says you all got along well."
"They're nice," I said diplomatically.
James sat down on the couch, watching me play. I was working through a simplified version of a Chopin piece that Mr. Whitmore had given me—simplified, but still well beyond what a normal six-year-old should be attempting.
"Henry," he said after a moment, "can I ask you something?"
I paused my playing and turned to face him. "Sure."
"Do you like having friends over? Or would you rather be practicing?"
It was a loaded question, and I knew it. My answer would determine how much they'd push me toward "normal" kid activities versus letting me pursue my training.
I thought carefully about my response.
"I like both," I said finally. "Oliver and Emma are fun. But I really love music and dancing too. Can't I do both?"
James smiled, some tension leaving his shoulders. "Of course you can. We just want to make sure you're happy, not just talented."
"I'm happy," I said, and it was true. This life, this family, these opportunities—I *was* happy. Happier than Marcus Cole had ever been. "I promise, Dad. If I ever get tired of lessons or want to stop, I'll tell you."
"Good man." He ruffled my hair. "Now, play me something. I've had a very long day dealing with a very dramatic leading lady, and I need some beautiful music to remind me why I love theater."
I turned back to the piano and started playing.
And for a moment, I wasn't thinking about strategic career planning or world events or the future I was building. I was just making music, and my father was listening, and it was exactly what it appeared to be: a boy playing piano for his dad.
Sometimes, I realized, the best strategy was to stop strategizing and just live.
—
**Spring 1994 — Age 6, Going on 7)**
"Absolutely not."
I looked up from my breakfast cereal at my mother's firm voice. She was holding the phone to her ear, her expression somewhere between annoyed and protective.
"I appreciate the offer, but Henry is six years old. He's not ready for professional work... No, I don't care how 'perfect' he'd be for the role... Because he's a *child*, and children need to be children, not performers... Thank you for understanding. Goodbye."
She hung up with more force than necessary.
"Who was that?" my father asked from behind his newspaper.
"A casting director. Apparently, word has gotten around about Henry's 'exceptional' talents." Elizabeth sat down at the table, looking tired. "That's the third call this week. Everyone from advertising agencies to theater companies wants to audition him."
James lowered his paper, one eyebrow raised. "For what?"
"Everything. Commercials, theater productions, even a small television role. Apparently, there's quite a demand for 'unusually talented and photogenic' children."
They both looked at me.
I kept eating my cereal, trying to look innocent while internally screaming, *THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT! WHY ARE YOU BLOCKING MY PATH TO STARDOM?*
"What do you think, Henry?" my father asked. "Would you want to audition for things?"
This was it. My moment to advocate for my career without seeming pushy or unnatural.
"What kind of things?" I asked cautiously.
"Well, there's a production of *Oliver!* at the West End. They're looking for boys to play orphans. And there was a commercial for breakfast cereal that—"
"*Oliver!*?" I interrupted, unable to contain my excitement. "The musical?"
Elizabeth nodded slowly. "Yes, but Henry—"
"Can I audition? Please?" I set down my spoon, giving them my best earnest-six-year-old expression. "I love *Oliver!* We watched it in school! And it's just singing and acting, right? I already do that in my lessons. It would be like... like homework, but fun!"
My parents exchanged one of their silent communication looks.
"It would be a lot of work," James said carefully. "Rehearsals, performances, late nights. You'd have less time for playdates and playing with toys."
*I don't care about playdates and toys! I care about building my career!*
"But I'd be doing something I love," I countered. "And you always say I should do things I love."
Damn, I was good. Using their own parenting philosophy against them.
Elizabeth sighed. "James?"
My father folded his newspaper, his expression thoughtful. "You know what? Let him audition. If he gets a part, we'll try it. If it's too much, or if he's not enjoying it, we pull him out. But he should at least have the chance to try."
"Yes!" I pumped my fist in the air (age-appropriate celebration), then caught myself. "I mean, thank you. I promise I'll work really hard."
"I know you will, darling," Elizabeth said, though she still looked concerned. "That's what worries me."
—
**Two Weeks Later**
The Theater Royal Drury Lane was the kind of building that made you believe in magic.
I'd been here before, of course—my father had brought me to several shows. But walking in as a potential *performer* felt different. The air seemed to hum with possibility.
There were about twenty other boys there, all around my age, all dressed in their audition best. Some looked nervous. Some looked cocky. Most were accompanied by stage mothers who were clearly more invested in this than their children were.
Elizabeth had come with me, but she was keeping a low profile, sitting in the back of the theater while I waited in the wings with the other hopefuls.
"Henry Cavendish?" A woman with a clipboard called out.
I stepped forward, my heart racing—not with nerves, but with *excitement*. This was it. My first real audition. The beginning of everything.
I walked onto the stage, and the moment I stepped into the lights, something *clicked*. The charisma template activated like a switch, and suddenly I wasn't a nervous six-year-old. I was a *performer*.
"Hello, Henry," said a man sitting in the front row—the director, presumably. "I'm Michael Crawford. Thank you for coming today."
*Not THE Michael Crawford,* I thought. *Different one. Common name.*
"Thank you for having me, sir," I said clearly, projecting my voice the way Caroline had taught me.
"Your mother says you've been taking voice and acting lessons?"
"Yes, sir. And ballet and piano."
Several people in the front row exchanged glances. I could practically hear them thinking: *Stage parent alert.*
"Well, let's see what you can do," the director said. "We're going to have you sing 'Where Is Love?' from the show. Do you know it?"
Did I know it? I knew every song from every major musical production from the last fifty years. I knew the lyrics, the melody, the emotional beats, the staging.
But what I said was, "Yes, sir. We learned it in school."
"Excellent. Whenever you're ready."
I took a breath, centered myself, and began to sing.
Now, here's the thing about "Where Is Love?" from *Oliver!*—it's a heartbreaking song sung by an orphan boy desperately searching for belonging. It requires real emotion, real vulnerability. Most six-year-olds can't access that authenticity.
But I had Marcus Cole's memories. I knew what it felt like to be alone, desperate, dreaming of something better. I channeled every bit of that longing into my performance.
My voice, even at six, had that silver-toned quality. Perfect pitch. Perfect control. But more than that—*feeling*. Real, genuine emotion that made the song devastating.
When I finished, there was a long moment of silence.
Then the director stood up.
"How old are you, Henry?"
"Six, sir. Almost seven."
"And you've never performed professionally?"
"No, sir."
More silence. More exchanged glances.
"Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes? We'd like to discuss something."
"Of course, sir."
I walked off stage with as much composure as I could manage, but the moment I was in the wings, I let myself grin.
*I crushed it. I absolutely crushed it.*
---
**Ten Minutes Later**
Elizabeth and I were sitting in the lobby when the director came out.
"Mrs. Cavendish, might I have a word?"
They stepped aside, speaking in low tones. I watched my mother's expression shift from guarded to surprised to concerned.
When she came back, she looked somewhat dazed.
"Henry, they'd like to offer you a role."
"Really?" I tried to contain my excitement. "One of the orphans?"
"Not exactly." She knelt down to my level, her hands on my shoulders. "They want you to play Oliver. The lead role."
My brain short-circuited.
*The LEAD? At six? In a West End production?*
That wasn't just good. That was *extraordinary*. That was career-launching. That was—
"Can I do it?" I asked breathlessly. "Please, Mum, can I?"
"Henry, it's a huge responsibility. Eight shows a week, rehearsals, press obligations. It's basically a full-time job."
"I can do it," I said firmly. "I *know* I can do it."
Elizabeth looked at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. Doubt? Hesitation? But she wouldn't find any. I wanted this more than anything.
Finally, she sighed. "We'll need to talk to your father. And we'll need to make arrangements with your school. And you'll have a tutor to keep up with your education. And the moment it becomes too much, we stop. Understood?"
"Understood!" I threw my arms around her neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
She hugged me back, but I could feel the tension in her shoulders.
*She's worried I'm growing up too fast,* I realized. *She's worried she's losing her little boy.*
If only she knew that her little boy had never really been just a little boy at all.
—
**April 1994**
The next six weeks were a masterclass in professional theater—and in being a child actor who didn't annoy everyone.
I showed up to every rehearsal on time, lines memorized, ready to work. I took direction well. I was polite to the crew. I didn't complain about long hours or difficult choreography.
But I also made sure to be *six*. I asked questions when things were confusing. I got excited about snacks during breaks. I made friends with the other child actors (there were several other boys playing orphans, rotating through performances).
The key was balance: exceptional talent, normal behavior.
My castmates were a mix of experienced West End performers and newcomers like me. The adult playing Fagin was a veteran actor named David Morris who'd been in the business for thirty years. He took me under his wing almost immediately.
"You're a natural, Henry," he said during a break one day. "I've worked with a lot of child actors, and most of them are either too stiff or too wild. You're actually *acting*. Where'd you learn that?"
"I don't know," I said with a shrug. "I just try to think about what Oliver would feel, and then I do that."
David laughed. "Method acting at six. God help us all when you're a teenager."
*If only you knew,* I thought.
The director, Michael, was tougher to please. He pushed me hard, demanding emotional authenticity in every scene. But the thing was, I *had* emotional authenticity. I had thirty-four years of life experience to draw from, even if I couldn't exactly explain that.
"This scene," Michael said during one rehearsal, "Oliver's just been told he can't have any more food. He's starving, desperate, and finally gets the courage to ask for more. I need to see that desperation. I need to *believe* you're hungry enough to risk everything."
I thought about Marcus Cole, eating cold cereal for dinner because there was nothing else. About going to bed hungry because the money had run out three days before payday. About that gnawing, humiliating desperation.
I delivered the line—"Please, sir, I want some more"—and I made it *real*.
The entire rehearsal room went silent.
"That's it," Michael said quietly. "That's exactly it. How did you..."
He trailed off, staring at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"I just imagined being really, really hungry," I said simply.
And technically, that was true.
—
**Opening Night (May 21st, 1994)**
My father arranged for us to have a pre-show family dinner at Rules, the oldest restaurant in London. It was supposed to be a celebration, but I could barely eat. Not because I was nervous—I wasn't, really. I knew my lines, knew my blocking, knew I was going to be great.
But because this was *real*. This was happening. Henry Cavendish, age six, was about to make his professional debut as the lead in a West End musical.
"How are you feeling, darling?" Elizabeth asked, squeezing my hand across the table.
"Excited," I said honestly. "And ready."
James raised his glass of wine. "To Henry. May this be the first of many opening nights."
*Oh, you have no idea,* I thought, clinking my glass of lemonade against his.
---
Backstage at the theater was controlled chaos. Costume changes, vocal warm-ups, last-minute notes from the director. I went through my pre-show routine—vocal scales with Caroline (who'd come to support me), a few stretches, a quiet moment to center myself.
"Five minutes," the stage manager called.
This was it.
I walked to the wings, feeling the energy of the crowd filtering through the curtain. The theater was sold out—not because of me, obviously. People were coming to see *Oliver!*, a beloved classic. But I was going to make sure they remembered the boy who played the title role.
The overture began. The curtain rose. The show started.
And I was *magic*.
Every line was perfect. Every song was flawless. Every emotion was real and honest and heartbreaking. I wasn't just playing Oliver—I *was* Oliver, a boy desperate for love and belonging.
The audience was captivated. I could feel it, the way performers do when they've truly connected with a crowd. They laughed at the right moments. Gasped at the dramatic scenes. And when I sang "Where Is Love?"—the song that had gotten me the role—I heard someone in the audience actually sob.
The finale came. The curtain fell. And then the applause started.
It was *thunderous*.
The curtain rose again for bows. When I stepped forward for my solo bow, the audience gave me a standing ovation.
At six years old.
On my opening night.
A *standing ovation*.
I beamed at the crowd, bowed deeply (thank you, ballet training), and felt something inside me settle into place.
*This is what I was meant to do. This is who I was meant to be.*
Marcus Cole had died with his dreams unfulfilled. But Henry Cavendish was going to achieve everything he'd ever wanted and more.
—
**The Next Day**
My parents tried to keep the newspapers away from me, but I snuck into my father's study early the next morning to read the reviews.
**The Times**: *"Young Henry Cavendish is a revelation as Oliver, bringing a maturity and emotional depth rarely seen in child performers. His voice is extraordinary, and his presence commands the stage. This is a star in the making."*
**The Guardian**: *"While the production is competent overall, it's six-year-old Henry Cavendish who steals the show. His performance is nothing short of remarkable—equal parts heartbreaking and hopeful. Keep an eye on this one."*
**Daily Telegraph**: *"Henry Cavendish's Oliver is the finest child performance I've seen in a West End musical in twenty years. Astonishing."*
I carefully put the newspapers back exactly where I'd found them and went to breakfast with an innocent expression.
"Good morning, darling," Elizabeth said. "How does it feel to be a professional actor?"
"Pretty good," I said, loading my plate with eggs and toast.
She studied me carefully. "You're handling this all remarkably well. Most children would be overwhelmed."
*Most children didn't have my advantages,* I thought.
"I'm just having fun," I said aloud. "It's like playing pretend, but with costumes and an audience."
James came in carrying the newspapers. "Have you seen these, Elizabeth?"
"Not yet. Are they good?"
"They're *exceptional*." He set the papers on the table, open to the theater reviews. "Every single one is praising Henry. The Telegraph called him the finest child performer in twenty years."
"Oh my," Elizabeth breathed, reading over his shoulder.
They both looked at me like I was a particularly fascinating science experiment.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"Nothing, darling," Elizabeth said. "We're just very proud of you."
"Thanks, Mum."
I went back to my eggs, hiding my smile.
*Phase One, complete. Professional debut: successful. Critical acclaim: achieved. Industry attention: captured.*
*Now for Phase Two: build the resume, expand the skills, and position myself for the next level.*
*By the time I'm a teenager, I'll be unstoppable.*
---
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