Hell and Earth

And thou’lt go to Lucifer after all, but shed of the thing he wished of thee.

Kit’s last thought through the pain was that he was glad–so glad–that he could not see Murchaud’s face as he died.

Murchaud, who pulled the dagger free and gathered Kit close to his breast, while the sharp heat of blood spread between them and Kit felt warm arms and stickiness and the wetness that might be an elf‑Prince weeping all recede on a river of dark, as he remembered something long forgotten–that he had come this way before, not once but twice, in Deptford and at Rheims.

Pure white light enfolded him and he smiled at the lie. It would not be Heaven awaiting beyond that gate, but there was something to be said for the refinement of that deception. Some must come this way, Kit imagined, who did not honestly know what to expect.

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, So

April 22, 1616

A

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?

A

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.”

A

Will coughed again, too weak to raise a rag to his lips. A

“You must not think such things,” A

Kit met her eyes again when Will did not manage an answer, and set the basin aside. A

“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 A

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 A

“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.”

A

“A

“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. “A

“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 stubbor

“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 A

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 A

“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.