The door opened, admitting the spare black‑robed shape of Robert Cecil; Will twisted the candle upright and stood, hot wax splattering his fingers as his trembling knocked it loose. He bowed, careful not to set himself on fire, and tucked the candle back into the candelabra. “Mr. Secretary.”
“Master Shakespeare, ” Sir Robert said, and shut the door firmly. “Sir Thomas passed along your note regarding the disposition of your … investigation … of Masters Baines and Poley. I would have preferred a personal report.”
“I am afraid that was impossible,” Will said, coming forward. “If I had been in London, I believe I would be dead.”
Cecil limped to the end of the table. “We’ve had the house under observation.” He pulled a chair out but did not sit. “The Inquisitor’s body has not turned up.”
“Then it’s still in the house, ” Will said, as if the situation could not be more plain. He picked wax from the crease of his thumb with his left hand, steadying his right when it would have trembled. It didn’t help, and he dug in his purse for a shilling, hoping the gesture looked absent. “He’s most certainly dead, Mr. Secretary.”
“I did notreceive a satisfactory explanation from Sir Thomas of how you yourself managed to escape, although I’ll not complain of any man who brings me the demise of a Papist pawn.
Will looked down, watching the silver coin cartwheel across his knuckles in the candlelight. “You’ve not had Baines arrested yet?”
Threadlike lips writhed as Sir Robert tried and failed to repress a smile. “We are arranging a suitable frame for your painting of Baines as counterfeiter. And an excuse to search the house. If he’s buried a body in his cellar, so much the better; at the very least, we can force Essex to act to protect him, and perhaps the Earl will show a soft underbelly.” Cecil sighed. “You know he supports James as the heir.”
“I know the Queen thinks it treason to speak of it, Sir Robert,” Will said.
Cecil coughed into his hand. “And yet speak of it we must.”
“Nay, Mr. Secretary.” Will shook his head. “Baines, Oxford, and Essex, and their Prometheans, are my concern, and the safety of the Queen we have. When that changes, I’ll address it, but I leave finer matters of politics to those who are equipped to understand the implications.”
Cecil watched Will silently, running his hands over the back of the chair, his brow furrowed as if he added sums in his head. “Marlowe would have argued the succession for an hour.”
“Marlowe cared about such things,” Will answered, feeling disloyal. Well. He does.
“And what do you care for, Master Shakespeare?”
Marley,Will almost said, and stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t have been worth Cecil’s bewildered look. “The realm,” he said, which at least was true. Cecil stayed silent, and Will couldn’t resist. “The coins are hidden in the straw tick of a bed on the second floor. You’ll want to have the house searched before spring.”
“Before the housemaid turns them out with the straw, to dry in the sun of the garden?” It drew a smile, at least. “Very well, Master Shakespeare. One thing more – ”
“Aye?”
Sir Robert pushed the chair he had not sat in back against the table. “Your play for Her Majesty?”
“Aye.”
“Make it a potent one. An you value the realm of which you speak.”
Will nodded, running his thumb across the raised profile of Queen Elizabeth on the coin in his hand. And decided not to tell Robert Cecil just yet that he wasn’t entirely certain that the magic the Queen’s poets put into their words was still effective, given the fate of Edmund Spenser, and the way Elizabeth herself seemed to crumble before his very eyes.
Will wasn’t surprised to find Kit waiting in his rooms when he returned to Silver Street, shaking the cold rain and the night out of his hair. Half a dozen candles gleamed on table and mantel, and Will didn’t like the dark circles under Kit’s eyes, like the smear of an ink‑marked thumb, or the snarls drying in Kit’s uncombed hair. Or the hollow expression he turned on Will when Will opened the door and came in, already unlacing his jerkin, his cloak bunched over his arm.
Will paused just inside, making sure the door latched behind him. “Ill news.”
“Aye.” Kit stood and stretched, crossing to the fire he’d built up either to warm himself or in anticipation of Will’s return. He was dressed in a plain linen shirt and black wool breeches; another, waterlogged, shirt and a jerkin were laid across the back of a chair not far from the fire. “Where hast thou been?” “Sir Robert,” Will answered. He stepped out of soggy boots and found a flannel for his hair. “The entrapment of Baines and Poley proceeds apace. We hope. Art planning to impart thy news?”
“Bulldog.” Kit rose and came to Will, close enough that he could feel the warmth and moisture rising through Kit’s shirt, steaming from curls sprung tight in the humidity. Kit reached out and took the flannel from Will’s hands to dry his hair. Will ducked to permit the intimacy, smiling. “Dost think thine entanglement of Baines will succeed? ”
“He’s close to Essex,” Will answered. He reached to touch Kit’s arm, and Kit stepped away with a smile that was half apology. “And he and Poley both useful to the Queen – ”
“Aye, I think it unlikely too. Still, perhaps we can give him a bad moment. I went to Stratford, Will.” “And?”
“Thou toldst me not that Annie knew something of us.” “Ah.” Will nodded, half to himself, and crossed the room, intending to pour wine for both of them. “I should have known she’d read through the riddle of thy presence. What didst thou tell her?”
A low chuckle, honeyed with that pleased smugness that always put Will in mind of a satisfied tomcat. “That, dear William, is her business and mine. An thou wishest to know such things, shouldst arrange to be present when they are discussed. Thou’rt still wet through, love: take off thy shirt and dress thyself dry. I brought thee that Bible, but Ben or I shall have to read it thee.” “Greek?”
“Aye.”
Will turned in time to catch the clean woolen shirt Kit tossed. He tugged soft, scratchy cloth past his face while Kit cleared his throat once or twice, fussing with the wine cups; by the time Will had the shirt comfortably settled, Kit pressed a goblet into his hands. Kit’s hesitance–the way he turned his eyes aside when Will tried to catch his gaze – burrowed into Will’s composure as if with hook‑tipped nails. “Kit.” Will disciplined himself, leaning back against painted plaster, long fingers curved around the bowl of his cup. “Is thy news so dire?”
“Dire enough. I interviewed the oak wood – ”
“Interviewed the oak wood.” Will said it more to taste the sound of the words than because it needed saying. “What didst thou discern?”
Kit shrugged, staring at Will as if he expected Will to look down. The fireglow and the candlelight snagged in his right eye and flickered golden, the left side of his face cast into shadow. “I’ve questions to ask in Faerie before I come to thee with final answers.”
“Dammit, Kit – ”
“Nay.” A clipped, flat gesture with Kit’s right hand. Will swallowed his protest with a hasty mouthful of wine, and waited for Kit’s explanation. “I won’t lead thee to a hasty conclusion on a matter so dear. Don’t ask it of me.”
There was more darkness in Kit’s eyes than the angle of the light, Will decided. “What thou’rt doing– It takes a toll of thee, this witchery. Does it not? ”
Kit turned down, away. He brushed a bit of lint off the shoulder of his shirt. “It leaves me stronger than before,” Kit answered. “Full of strange echoes of power, and knowing things no mortal man should know. I know not who I am, Will.”
That hollowness–the only word Will could think of– echoed in Kit’s voice, and Will itched to go to him. “Thou’rt Christopher Marlowe,” he said. “Poet, playmaker, Queen’s Man, and the friend and lover of a lucky few who cannot hope to deserve thee –
He didn’t understand why Kit flinched at his name, or the watery grin which he offered Will when Will’s voice trailed off. “Aye, thou dost deserve better,” Kit muttered, and set his cup aside and turned to open a shutter. “‘Tis raining still.”