Nashe claimed Kit with a firm arm, introducing first himself – “Kit’s school friend, also Tom, he’ll have told you what we got up to at Cambridge with that play that almost got us all expelled. And why, when in London, didst thou to that hack Shakescene and not thy brother’s old friend Tom!”–and then every member of the great and varied crowd. Burbage neatly cut Phillip Henslowe off Kit’s other arm, and between him and Nashe they got Kit seated and feted and served with warmed wine.

Will himself smiled and tucked his hands into his pockets, and went to slouch at the fireside beside Ned Alleyn, who looked tall enough to have been leaned there for a prop. “We don’t see you out much these days, Ned – ”

“I’ve money enough not to miss slogging through the mud behind a cart on tour. Why are you still at it, Will?”

Will paused and stretched his shoulders against the rough fieldstone chimney. Robin Poley brought him a cup, and Will ruffled the boy’s hair before he remembered that Robin was too old for that now. “It’s in my blood,” he said at last, hopelessly. “The playing and the poetry. I’ll be too sick to tour soon, I suppose – ”

“Aye,” Ned answered. “Enjoy it while you can. I hope poor Master Marlowe doesn’t think his brother always received so warm a reception.”

Will shrugged. “Let him take the news home to Kit’s parents. It can’t have been easy on them.” He fell into the role of innocence so easily that it took him a moment to remember that the dark‑haired young man holding court in the corner, looking charmingly flustered and confused by the attention–and then perhaps not as shocked as he should have been when Mary Poley all but slid into his lap in a tangle of dark hair and kilted skirts–wasn’t Tom Marlowe at all, and wouldn’t be taking any tales home to Canterbury.

Will watched Kit’s face as Mary introduced him to Robin, and saw Kit’s eyes narrow a little before his brow smoothed, and he took the young man’s hand in a firm, unhesitant greeting. And then Burbage was leaning forward into the conversation, and Will caught enough of his shouted anecdote to know that he was telling “Tom Marlowe” an embellished version of the story of the ghost of Kit Marlowe accosting his killers on a rainy street –

To which Kit responded with startled and delighted laughter. And Will sighed, contented, and went to see the landlord about bringing out the feast.

It being a Friday, alas, they would eat fish. Not out of Papist superstition any longer, ironically, but of Elizabeth’s desire that the good fisherfolk and fishmongers of England not be put out of trade by something so frivolous as a change of religion. Still, as befitted the name, the Mermaid was known for its fish in pastry, so all was not lost.

Will encountered his brother Edmund returning across the hall, and made it back neither to Ned Alleyn’s side nor the table where Kit and Mary and Nashe and Robin and Burbage formed the focal point of the party. Rather he found himself standing in a little enclave with Edmund and John Fletcher, haphazardly snatching bites from passing trays and laughing as he hadn’t laughed in –

– months.

An abundance of food lowered the rumble of conversation to a contented mutter, and when Will turned to check on Tom Marlowe nй Christofer again, it took a moment to locate him. Finally, Will raised his eyes to the gallery and saw Kit standing with young Robin Poley, leaned against the railing like old friends, the boy pointing down and across at something that the man had leaned close to comment on. Kit caught Will’s eye, and the smile he sent down might have melted Will like a candle end.

Lovesick fool,Will thought, and looked down before someone could notice his silly grin and draw an entirely correct conclusion.

A bustle near the door drew Will’s attention from the careful study of his boots and the much‑trod rushes. Will turned, hoping with all his heart that it wasn’t Ben Jonson intent on troublemaking, but instead it was a pair of tall young men, one fair and one dark, each better favored than the other and both fabulously clad in white and gold. The blonder and taller was Robert Catesby, dressed as a member of a Lord’s retinue. The darker and broader wore a Baronet’s ruff and a knight’s chain about his neck, as if they had just come from court or some festivity.

The sight of the two of them there, in the Mermaid, killed Will’s smile and had him moving toward the door, his cane hitting the floorboards in steady staccato as he closed the distance. Edmund fell into step, the amiable redheaded hack John Fletcher on his other side.

“Will,” Edmund asked, “what’s Will Parker doing here?”

Will shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s Baron Monteagle now, though – ” And Essex’s man, knighted by him in Ireland along with the rest of the useless retinue.

“Who’s Will Parker?” asked Fletcher, blinking.

“Francis Tresham’s brother‑in‑law. Which makes him Edmund’s and my cousin by marriage,” Will said, and somehow despite his limp outpaced Fletcher and Edmund enough that when he bowed before Parker the other two were half a step behind him. “Lord Monteagle.”

“Cousin,” Monteagle addressed him, in that rich dark voice that the player in Will had always envied. “I have a business proposition for you and your partners in the Globe. Perhaps we could discuss it in private?”

“A business proposition?” Will smiled, the fearful tautness in his chest easing. For one mad moment he had thought something had gone terribly wrong, but if it was only a favor to a relative, even if he was a peer –“We have a patron, cousin.”

Catesby fell in beside them as they turned. Edmund led Fletcher aside, and Will caught Burbage’s eye, and Will Sly’s, and summoned them over with a stagy jerk of his head.

Monteagle laughed. “Oh, no. It’s just, I had planned a party tomorrow for a friend, and the arrangements. Well. Your Globe rents for performances, does it not? ”

Burbage joined them, Sly a half step behind. Will opened the door to one of the private dining rooms at the back of the Mermaid and poked his head inside; a quiet conversation broke up and a group of players made themselves scarce for the unexpected appearance of a peer. Places were exchanged, and Sly shut the door firmly.

“Can you three speak for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, Master Players?” Catesby, his voice not so rich and refined as Monteagle’s, but clearly precise. Monteagle wandered away, trailing a white‑gloved finger along the woodwork like a master of servants in search of dust.

“I can,” Burbage said, with a smile that softened it. “As much as can any man speak for a parcel of rogues.”

Will exchanged glances with the other two players. “What do you need, Master Catesby? ”

He cleared his throat as if to answer, but it was Monteagle who spoke, cleaning his fingertips daintily on a lace‑edged handkerchief as he turned back. “A command performance? On a bit of an extreme schedule, I’m afraid.”

“Extreme?” Burbage, in charge.

“Tomorrow,” Catesby clarified, looking uncomfortable. “The facilities we had planned to use became unavailable.”

“Tomorrow!” Sly touched his lips with his fingertips, and cleared his throat. “I mean, sirs, it would be a challenge, may it please my lord.”

“It would have to be a play in repertory,” Burbage said thoughtfully.

“Richard the Second.”

“Oh.”

Will laid a hand on Burbage’s shoulder. “The Master of Revels–cousin, Her Majesty has let it be known that she is not overfond of that play– ”

The Baron smiled. “The Earl of Southampton will be in attendance, dear cousin, and he is very fond of Richard the Second.Surely, for our family’s sake, you could see your way to a private performance.”

And will a gang of players, sturdy villains all, deny a request on behalf of an Earl?Burbage moved a half step back; Will recognized the gesture. Richard was giving him the floor.