“The blasted heath? Or the blastedheart?” Kit asked wryly, but he found himself stepping back from the angel and the devastating truth in his words. Something within Kit’s breast stirred with a pain like trapped and beating wings. “How many men does the Devil call friend?”

The broad wings folded with a breeze that savored of lavender. Lucifer too stepped back. “As many as offer him understanding.”

Barely on a breath, a murmur, a whisper–and the sound of Lucifer’s spoken voicestaggered Kit nonetheless. It resonated through the crystal under Kit’s feet, through the chamber of his lungs and heart, striking sparks from his hair and his fingertips. That tolling bell, that falcon’s cry, that shriek of joy and agony that Kit recognized from his dreams hung inside his mind, and he knew it now for the voice of the angel within.

“Oh, my,” Kit whispered, as the Devil reached out and took his forearms in white fingers, and smiled again, and met his gaze. Lucifer’s eyes shone transparent, blue as the sunlit vault of Heaven, and Kit held his breath. Thou art–

«I always suspected that thou didst thy Mephostophilis love, a little.»

Kit laughed and would have broken the eye contact, but the Devil’s smile held him. He shivered and swallowed, and with an act of raw will managed to look down. “Rather I fancied myself a sort of Mephostophilis – ”

«And not Faustus?»

“Who would wish to be Faustus?” Kit said, and stepped forward, and boldly, chastely, kissed Lucifer on the mouth. The Devil permitted the caress, returned it–a gentle, considering tasting as unlike the blinding passion of another time as kiss from kiss could be. Kit did not step back after, but spoke against Lucifer’s smooth‑skinned jaw, feeling the prickles of his beard rasp the angel’s cheek. “Poor damned fool, reaching beyond any sane measure of wisdom for something he could see, but scarcely understand. I would not wish to be him, but aye–I understood and pitied him.”

«And hast thou who wert Christofer Marley not reached all thy life for that which eluded thy grasp?»

“Thou must find somewhat less unwieldy by which to address me,” Kit said, but the Devil would not be diverted.

«If thou art Mephostophilis»–Lucifer spread wide his bright, beckoning wings – зthen I am Faustus. Come and teach me thy pity again.»

Act IV, scene xi

Antonio: A witchcraft drew me hither:

That most ingrateful boy there by your side,

From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:

His life I gave him and did thereto add

My love, without retention or restraint,

–William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night,Act V, scene i

Curfew and the failing light forced Will home before sunset that night; he walked through London’s crowded streets, his breath streaming before him like a cart horse’s in the cold. He turned his ankle on an icy stone, but a passerby caught his elbow and saved him from a nasty fall, and he made it to the double‑gabled house on Silver Street intact. And wasn’t sure if he was startled or passionately unsurprised to find Kit waiting for him, curled on the narrow bed with his back to the corner, his cloak pulled up to his chin like a child’s favorite blanket. Will saw with gratitude that Kit had built the fire up and set wine to warm beside it.

“Back from Hell in one piece, love?” Will tossed his gloves on the table and crouched at the hearth, pressing his palms to rough, ashy stone for the warmth.

“Never out of it,” Kit replied. “It turns out Mephostophilis was right. Who would have imagined it?”

“Thee.”

“Aye – ” He sighed, and didn’t stand. “If thou’rt pouring the wine, bring me some.”

“Of course.” Will did, and stood, and leaned on the edge of the bed facing Kit. “Ben rather didn’t handle thy vanishment well. But thank thee for coming to prove thy health to me – ”

“I imagined he might not.” Kit sipped the wine Will pressed into his hands, and made a face. “I let it sit too long.”

“‘Tis better than a chill in the belly ” Will answered complacently. “No, Ben’s troubled on many fronts. He’s started a little war of wits with the redheads, and Chapman has it he’s angry with me because Her Majesty–much improved in health, I mention in passing – ” Kit grinned, showing wine‑stained teeth, ” – has commissioned a play for Twelfth Night. Another comedy.”

“I saw the pages on the table.”

“Thou’rt incorrigible.”

“I am. I liked the tragedy you’ve half done better, and the history was quite good.”

“Kit, how long have you been here?”

“An hour or six.” Kit hid his face behind his wine. “Her Majesty was never much for blood when she could be made to laugh. Pray, continue.”

“A masque of Ben’s was passed over.” Will shrugged and drank his wine, redolent of the spices Kit had stewed in it. “He’s fussing.”

“Over a masque?”

“Times have changed,” Will said, and set his cup aside. “Masques and satires are all the rage. I have to finish the Henry quickly: there’s a rumor that history plays will be forbidden. Books have burned, and not just Catholic treatises – ” He stopped himself. Kit raised his chin and blinked long, dark gold lashes.

“Books?”

“Nashe,” Will said unwillingly. “Harvey too. And new printings forbidden. I think our enemies have some hold over the Archbishop now. Whitgift. Or perhaps he simply fears the Puritans and their rising strength. And Elizabeth doth love him.”

“Oh, poor Tom.” Kit fell silent for a long moment, and leaned back against the wall. “Masques and satires the fashion. And comedies.”

“Aye, and comedies – ”

Kit smiled. “But the great William Shakespeare is immune to fashion. I’ll wager what you like that your Hamletwill out‑draw whatever Ben puts on.”

“Kit – ” Ah, what do you say, and how do you say it?“Oxford and Southampton have been making… grappling runs. They want me to poison the queen.”

“With arsenic? A pretty trick, when she will not dine in company.”

Will shook his head, and said, “With poetry.” And then he turned and twisted his hand around his wrist, and said, ” ‘Twere treason even to hear them, Kit.”

Kit licked his lips. “Wilt testify to what they asked?”

Will snorted. “Would Elizabeth hear me?”

Something in what he said had started Kit thinking. His fingers moved idly on the base of his cup; a line drew itself between his brows. “Mayhap,” he said, and then finished his wine at a draught and gave the cup over to Will for disposal. He hitched himself forward and let the cloak fall open over his habitual black doublet, this one sewn with garnets and tourmalines.

“You’re a sumptuary fine waiting for a magistrate,” Will said cheerfully, abandoning other concerns.

Kit laughed. “They may leave the writ with my landlord. Will–” He reached out, and to Will’s startled pleasure, laid hands on his shoulders where the neck ran into them, pressing slightly. “I’ve looked into Hamnet’s death.” Murder.Kit didn’t say the word, but it shone in his eyes.

“And?”

He sighed, squeezed once more, and drew back. “I’m – investigating.”

“You know something.”

Kit’s supple lips pressed thin, twisting at the corner. “I know who gave the order and why.”

“Kit.” A forlorn pain he’d almost managed to forget drained the blood and breath and warmth from Will’s body, left his fingers wringing white and shaking. Kit laid a hand over Will’s, and almost managed to make it look as if the gesture did not pain him.

“Will – ” Kit sighed. “It’s a fey thing. I don’t know if human justice … Dammit. Yes. I could kill someone. And I know whom to kill. And I could bring thee his head on a pole, and call it thy son’s murderer brought to justice, love.”