Ink and Steel

“How did you know of my dreams?”

“Sweet, Murchaud isn’t so sound a sleeper as that. They are somewhat spectacular.” She smiled.

He blinked, considering. “Morgan, thank you.” It fell from his lips unheralded, and he paused a moment to examine the sentiment behind it. —‘Thank you for saving my life?’ ‘Letting me awaken with some shred of my dignity intact, after last night’s display?’ ‘Just being there?’— He didn’t know.

He stood and collected his clothes from the back of her chair, and struggled into them while she laughed. “People will talk.”

“Let them,” he answered, and licked his palm to push his hair back from his face. Impulsively, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.

She covered the place with her hand, her expression unreadable. “Such haste.”

“I’ve an obligation,” he said, stamping his boots down, still quite dishevelled. Anon?”

“Anon,” she answered, and did not rise to see him to the door. But he could hear her laughter chasing him as he fled back to his own room, and … Someone had been there before him. A single candle burned on the mantel, and propped up beside it was a tall silver blade. Something shimmered before them, half real. A bundle of papers of mismatched size and color, ragged at the edges, so thick it was rolled and tied with a grosgrain ribbon instead of folded and sealed.

Kit hesitated in the doorway, his sleeves unbuttoned, head aching and stomach sour, his rich court doublet hanging open over last night’s crumpled shirt. Do you ever feel at the mercy of conspirators, Sir Christofer? Why, no. Never in my life.Sblood, he cursed, and kicked the door shut with his heel before he crossed the room. He snatched the letter from the mantel, and brought it across the room to the window and the last light of sunset to read. Sorting the pages rapidly, he recognized sheets of plays and poetry, Will’s hand and someone else’s, shoving them all aside until he found the thick ten pages of letter.

“Oh, Will.” Head pounding but no longer spi

   Act II, scene xx

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth

September, 1598

Thou wouldst have hated Ben Jonson, Kit .& as I write that line, & read it over, it strikes me; I write as if to a dead man truly, & now I wonder if I have in some madness invented thy survival. Ben is brilliant. I mocked him for writing in humors, & he presented a comedy Every Man, tis called that I ca

A fool and more than a fool, Will cursed himself under his breath, stepping into the stirrup Tom Walsingham made of his hands. He bent his head close to Tom’s ear.

“Why am I shi

There was that. He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and gripped his dagger in his teeth, steadying himself against the wall. Tom’s strength surprised him. He’s three years older than I am, damn it.

Tom’s shoulders moved under Will’s soft-soled shoes, his hands bracing Will’s thighs, and Will was glad of the growing darkness in the garden, as his face heated at a sudden image of Tom, and Kit. Will spat the dagger into his hand and slipped its narrow blade between the shutters. On the second try, he caught the bar. On the third try, he lifted it successfully, and held his breath as it clunked rather than clattered to the window ledge between the shutters and the glass. The sash shifted easily, and the space was sufficient for a ski