“Please do not touch that, young man.”
The voice was unmistakably feminine, soft and low, yet with a melodious richness that at the same time somehow managed to soothe and command authority. Startled, Smythe jerked back his hand. He felt a bit embarrassed. He, of all people, should have known better. His uncle had taught him the significance of having respect for other people’s properly, especially their blades.
“Forgive me,” he said, uncomfortably. “I did not mean to offend. I… that is, I was…”
“Drawn to it?” She came into the firelight.
“Aye,” Smythe said, softly. He blinked. He was not even entirely certain where she had come from. He had not noticed anyone come from behind the shelves dividing the main portion of the room from the sleeping area, but neither had he seen her in the room before. Yet, suddenly, there she was, as if she had somehow suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. Smythe felt Elizabeth shrink behind him, as if trying to conceal herself.
Yet, as he beheld Granny Meg, Smythe realized that she did not look anything like what he might have expected. She was of average height, with long, thick, silvery gray hair that fell in waves down past her shoulders to her waist. Her eyes were large and luminous, the sort of eyes that it was difficult to look away from. They were a pale shade of blue-gray, like cracked ice on a pond in early winter. Her features were sharp and elfin, bringing to mind some nocturnal forest creature. Her chin came almost to a point, her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and her nose had a delicate, almost birdlike sharpness. Her pale, flawless skin was practically translucent. It almost seemed to glow with vibrancy. Smythe could not begin to guess her age.
Clearly, she was no longer young, but her skin, while faintly lined in places, had no wrinkles and there were no liver spots upon her hands, neither moles or blemishes upon her face. She was slim, girlishly so, and willowy, with a figure most young women would have envied. She wore a simple homespun gown of dark blue cloth with some vine-like embroidery around the low-cut neck. The skin at her throat also belied her age. Smythe would have put Freddy’s age at around sixty-five or even seventy or more. In any case, he was obviously a man well advanced in years. Granny Meg, how ever, did not truly live up-or perhaps down-to her name. She could have been in her fifties, or her sixties, or her seventies… it was impossible to tell. She was certainly not young. But she was the most singularly beautiful older woman Smythe had ever seen.
“Good evening, Granny Meg,” said Burbage.
“And a good evening to you, Master Richard. It is good to see you again. How is your father?”
“Well, thank you, mum.”
“You are Granny Meg?” said Shakespeare, as if giving voice to Smythe’s thoughts. “The name does you an injustice. You scarcely look old enough to be beyond your middle years.”
She turned toward him and smiled. “I am old enough to be your grandmother, young man.”
“If, indeed, you do speak truly,” Shakespeare replied, “then never in all my days have I seen a woman who wore time so lightly.”
“How prettily you speak,” she said. “Yet, as you are a poet, I think that you shall write more prettily still. About time… and other things.”
“Odd’s blood! How could you possibly know I am a poet?” Shakespeare asked, taken aback. “However did you divine it?”
“ ‘Tis true,” Elizabeth whispered in Smythe’s ear, “she is a witch!”
“ ‘Tis no great feat of divination,” Granny Meg replied, with a graceful shrug. “Your pretty speech betrays you. And there are little ink spatters low upon your doublet, such as would occur when one sits and dips a pen too quickly and, in a rush to set words down, fails to shake off the excess ink. Together with the fact that you came with Master Richard, who keeps company mainly with his fellow actors and with disreputable poets, and it was no great leap of intuition to deduce your calling.”
Smythe grinned. “ ‘Twould seem, Will, that even a disreputable poet can learn a thing or two about detailed observation.”
Shakespeare gave him a wry look.
Granny Meg then turned toward Smythe. “You, however, do not strike me as an actor.”
“And yet, I soon shall be,” said Smythe.
Granny Meg pursed her lips. “Well, perhaps. But methinks I see another role for you. Perhaps no less dramatic. And as for you…” Her gaze fell upon Elizabeth. “Come here, girl.”
Elizabeth now went to her without fear or apprehension. Indeed, thought Smythe, it would be difficult to feel any such emotion in this woman’s presence. She seemed to radiate a peaceful calmness, a grace and serenity that spoke of wisdom and experience. And… something else. But what it was, Smythe did not know.
As Elizabeth came up to Granny Meg, the older woman gently touched her underneath her chin and lifted her head slightly, to gaze straight into her eyes. “I sense a great turmoil within you, girl. A most profound disquiet. Perhaps even desperation… You have recently seen death.”
Elizabeth gasped and pulled away. “You had no ink stains from which to deduce that!”
“Some signs are merely more subtle than others,” Granny Meg replied. “Give me your hand.” She reached out to her. Elizabeth hesitated briefly, then held out her right hand. Granny Meg took it and turned it palm up, then traced several lines upon it with her long and graceful forefinger. “You shall have a long life,” she said. She smiled then. “And many lovers.”
Elizabeth snatched her hand back.
“Come, all of you, sit at the table,” Granny Meg said. “Freddy, could we have some tea, please?”
“Are you going to read the tea leaves?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, we are going to have some tea,” Granny Meg replied.
Burbage chuckled. “Granny Meg, we have come to ask a favor…”
“This much I had surmised,” she replied, “but it can wait. There is something else I must do first.” Seemingly from out of nowhere, she produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. She stopped at one point and selected one, the Queen of Pentacles, and placed it face up in the center of the table, then continued to shuffle. After a moment or two, she handed the deck to Elizabeth. “Take these, girl, and shuffle them, as I did.”
“I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it near as quickly,” Elizabeth replied, watching her dubiously.
“Do it as slowly as you like then. The point is just to mix them up.”
Elizabeth took the deck and started to shuffle the cards awkwardly. “I have never seen cards such as these,” she said. “They are quite beautiful. What sort of game are they for?”
“They are called tarot cards,” Granny Meg replied. “And they are not used in any sort of game.” She shrugged. “Well, some people might call this sort of thing a game, I suppose. And their results would, of course, come out accordingly.”
“How long should I do this?” Elizabeth asked.
“Until you feel that you have done it enough. There is no set time or number.”