Imagine their disillusionment.
And then Mehiel’s falcon‑cry of a voice that was not a voice, and his eyes like living suns as he bowed down in the space that was not a space and spread his wings before a Kit who was not Kit. Kit who was whole, and who was not in pain. «God is good. I shall not be able to save thee again, poet.»
Farewell, Mehiel,Kit answered. I expected no salvation. I expect we shall not meet in Heaven, Angel of the Lord.
«Thy life thrice,» the angel answered. «Rheims, Deptford, Hy Brйаsil. Be healed one last time, child, and may our paths cross nevermore.» Barred black and gold, the bright wings blurred, and Kit stepped back, or dreamed he did.
«Consummatum est!»Mehiel shouted. And rose. And was gone.
“Consummatum est,” Kit whispered. He opened his eyes, lashes sticky with his own red blood, and cursed because his hands were bound and he could not bury them in Murchaud’s hair.
There was a scar in the center of the scar in the center of his breast and another on his back between the shoulder blades and to the left of his spine, where Murchaud’s weight had driven the blade through his body and into the featherbed. Beside the witch’s mark, in fact, and just opposite it.
And there was blood: so very much blood, indeed. Blood through the ticking and onto the floor.
Blood, and blood only. That was all.
Epilogue
“I hate” she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heav’n to hell is flown away
“I hate “from hate away she threw
And saved my life saying, “not you.”
–William Shakespeare, Sonnet 45
April 22, 1616
Annie helped Will lean back in the pillow‑upholstered chair as he finished coughing. He was weak, too weak. He couldn’t get air into his lungs and the fever that burned him wasn’t even strong enough to grant the surcease of delirium, just the misery of aches and sweat.
He thought it was a natural sickness, at least. We’ve seen an end to the Promethean plagues. That’d something. And something I’ve lived this long, with Kit’s help and Morgan’s.
And who would have thought ‘twould not be the damned palsy after all?
Annie soothed his forehead with a cloth, her grayed brow wrinkled with concern. Will opened his eyes as a second shadow fell across him. Kit, bringing a basin cool from the well.
Will sighed. “Was ever man so unworthy, so well loved?”
“Unworthy?” Kit scoffed. “Who’s worthy of love? It makes us worthy by loving, I wot.”
Annie said nothing, but Will knew the twisted mouth she gave Kit for approval.
Will coughed again, too weak to raise a rag to his lips. Annie did it, and when she lowered the cloth it was spotted red. Will did not miss the look she traded with Kit, or the way Kit looked down and to the left. “Do you suppose I’ll be damned for sorcery, like poor Sir Francis?” Which wasn’t quite what Will had planned to say, but talking weakened him too much to retract the question and start over.
“You must not think such things,” Annie said. “Tomorrow’s thy birthday, husband. Surely thou’lt heal?”
Kit met her eyes again when Will did not manage an answer, and set the basin aside. Annie cleared her throat and turned hastily away. “Sorcery was the least of Sir Francis’ sins, ” Kit said, stroking Will’s hair back from his brow.
“I’ve lost my ring, Kit,” Will said. “At Judith’s wedding–” His trembling fingers tried to tighten, and Kit took them in a savage grasp.
“You won’t need a ring with Annie and I to hold your hand.”
Will turned his head to regard the smooth line of Kit’s jaw behind the beard. “Thou didst age nary a day, my love.”
“The price for dying young.” Kit stepped away to make room for Annie as she came back with a cleaner rag.
“Love,” she said. “Thou shouldst rest. Thou shouldst sleep, and thou wilt heal–”
Will closed his eyes. The cold water did help, but his thoughts were startlingly clear for a fevered man, and from what he knew of deathbeds, that was no hopeful sign. “I don’t want to go to Hell, as Sir Francis did.”
“Thou dost wish not the Promethean Heaven, either. You’d know not a soul.” Kit, still joking, but his fine‑fingered hands were knotted in the sleeves he had folded them over.
Will forced a wavering chuckle. “Nay… . Oh, there’s going to be such poetry, Kit. I am sorry that I will miss it.”
Annie cleared her throat. “You’re not going to Hell, gentle William,” she said, and wet her cloth again. Kit rose when she gestured him away and left the fireside to lean against the wall. Will saw his face, and turned his face away. Oh, Kit. Were you ever privileged to love where love was not given first elsewhere? Even once?
“Annie. Kit will tell you–”
“Kit told me,” she said, and Kit cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. “Will, the priest is here.”
“Priest?”
“A Romish priest,” she said firmly. “If after thirty‑four years of marriage, you think I’m going to Glory without you, you’re a bigger fool than I imagined, Will Shakespeare!”
Kit, leaning against the wall, stood suddenly upright, turned his head, and laughed. “Annie, you’re brilliant.”
“Hardly,” she said, taken aback. She twitched her hair over her shoulder and turned.
Kit’s expression practically shone with excitement. “A Romish priest. Whose doctrine is that bodies must be buried in hallowed ground, and that the soul remains with the flesh until the End of Days.” He paused, and looked down at the rushed floor, laughing harshly. “Apparently, God can’t be arsed to check under the cushions for the souls that slip out his purse.”
“Aye,” she said. “It’ll give you a chance to get what you owe Will sorted out before Judgement Day, and find this kinder God you’ve been pratting about for the last three days. Lord knows, Kit Marlin, it’s likely to take so long, for thee.”
Will huddled under his muffling blankets, sick with stubbornness. Repent of your sins and be forgiven.No. He would not. He would not repudiate Kit, on his deathbed or for any reason. “Nay. I shall not repent of thee.”
“Will‑“
“Wife,” he said. “Do not ask it.” He looked to Kit for support, but Kit, looking as if his heart were squeezed in a bridle, shook his head.
“Do you,” Kit commanded, and Will flinched–not at the command, but at the distancing–and saw Annie look away. “Do you repent of me, and you are Heaven bound. Thou didst brave Hell for me one time. ‘Twill serve.”
Will glared. “And wilt thourepent, Kit?”
“I will not.”
“I will not leave thee alone in Hell.”
“You will. Imprimus, I have no plans to die. Secundus, you married Annie. You willhonor your loyalty to her.”
“The world…” Will said, frustrated. And turned his face aside. He would not see Kit weep. Kit would not care to have him do so. The list of what the world would not allow was long for mourning over.