It was almost worth it, he thought later, to be clean and cleanly dressed, and to lay himself down in a bed furnished in white sheets and woolen blankets, while a cold November rain pearled on the glass. A crooked‑winged raven huddled in the embrasure beyond, and Kit remembered the story he’d spoken of with Murchaud, by the bier of Arthur, King of the Britons. I wonder if the legend that Britain will fall if the ravens ever abandon the Tower of London is linked to the story that Arthur’s soul became a raven when he died?

But the story’s not true. I know where Arthur lies.

«All stories are true.» something whispered against his ear. He meant to answer the angel, too, but the last thought he managed before warm old sleep claimed him was that his pillow smelled strangely of Will Shakespeare’s hair pomade.

Despite everything, it helped him sleep.

Act V, scene xvi

Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil‑porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.

–William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act II, scene iii

“There,” Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface of the Darkling Glass. “There is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette.”

“Not mine, surely.” But Will stepped closer, leaning forward over Murchaud’s shoulder. “Can we see inside?”

“‘Tis dark,” Murchaud answered. “But fetch a lantern and I’ll send you through to have a look.”

“Fair enough,” Will answered, and went to find a page. He returned with the requested lantern, as well as a pry bar and a rope. “How do I get him back?” If I can get him out at all.

“I’ll come with you,” Murchaud said gently.

Will swallowed, his pulse dizzying. “Just as well,” he said, hefting the silver crowbar in his hand. “There’s no guarantee I can lift that lid alone.” He hesitated, and looked up at Murchaud as Murchaud took his hand to lead him through the mirror. “Does a Prince of Faerie love a mortal man?”

“It’s not encouraged.” The Elf‑knight stepped forward, and Will went with him.

Faint light filtered into the rough, cold chamber. Will’s breath smoked in raw air; he was surprised to notice that Murchaud’s did not.

The Elf‑knight stayed close to the unfinished stone wall, as far from the massive iron cover of the oubliette as practical. He was dry‑washing his hands as if they ached, until he noticed Will looking. Then he folded his arms one over the other and waited in a stance as falsely relaxed as parade rest.

Will leaned on the pry bar and bent over the oubliette, worry pressing like a thumb into the hollow of his throat. The chisel tip of the bar left a paler gouge in the floor when he lifted it again. “It’s unlocked,” Will said. “That likes me not.”

“Can you lift it?”

“No.”

The Elf‑knight came forward, tugging black hide gloves over each long finger.

“Take the far end, ” Will offered. Murchaud bent down beside him and grasped the butt of the bar once Will had seated it under the lip. With a well‑oiled creak, the cover lifted a few dark inches. Will gagged at the reek that filtered out. He and Murchaud shared a grim look, and Will said, “‘Tis recently occupied.”

“We must look,” Murchaud answered. “Hold the bar.” He took his hands away slowly enough that Will, sweating, could take the strain. Will’s forearms trembled with effort, but for once his hands weren’t shaking–with palsy or with fear.

“Your Highness,” Will said. “‘Tis steel – ”

Murchaud ignored him, squatting with easy strength and slipping his gloved hands into the crack. He grunted – once– his only outward sign of pain. And stood and raised the lid as if it weighed nothing, laying it open so gently as to make no sound. He leaned it back against the hinges and pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and then he turned away. “Lower the lantern, Master Shakespeare.”

Will sighed, tied the rope to its handle, and slowly let it drop into the pit, terrified of what he might find. He struggled to let the rope out smoothly so that the candle wouldn’t flicker. “Leaving me to face this alone?” he asked Murchaud when the lantern was two‑thirds of the way down.

“Nay,” the Elf‑knight replied, returning. He’d stripped the gloves off, and Will could see the blistered and peeling flesh on his hands. “Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that made Will pause and look up.

“There are reasons it’s not encouraged,” Will said, understanding.

“What is not encouraged?” Murchaud was looking down now, leaning ever so slightly forward into the pit and watching the light flicker on its damp mortared walls.

“For elf‑Princes to love mortal men.” The lantern swung lower, revealing a blessedly empty pit. Will breathed a shuddering sigh and let the rope go slack, his hands falling to rest at his waist.

A faint smile softened the elf‑Prince’s face, half concealed by his fine black beard. “So our Kit is learning,” Murchaud said, turning to look at Will. “You are breaking his heart, Master Shakespeare.”

Will began pulling the lantern up. “And I should leave such tasks to you, Your Highness?”

“It’s a heart, I think, has been broken enough.”

“Ah.” The lantern retrieved, Will turned away. “Shall we search the cellars for him?”

‘He washere. But he is long gone.”

“How do you know?”

“The troll told you. And besides” – a delicate wrinkling of that aristocratic nose –“I can smell him.”

“Can you smell where they tookhim?”

“Alas.” Murchaud stepped back. “The trail is cold.”

“I’m a fool,” Will said suddenly, dropping his left hand from his earlobe. He looked up at Tom, who leaned in silent contemplation against the casement, frosting cool glass with his breath. “A fool and twice a fool.”

Ben closed Kit’s Greek Bible carefully over the ribbon and set it aside. “How a fool, Will?”

“Because here we sit, wracking our brains on how to save Kit and thwart Salisbury, the Catholics, andthe Prometheans, and the answer is in our very hands.” He reached for his cane and struggled up before Tom could help him. “My cousin William Parker. Baron Monteagle. Who owes me his life, I might add, and is close with Catesby and his lot.”

Tom blinked. “How does that assist us, Will? Perhaps if we could sort one plot from another we would stand half a chance of averting them, but they’re intertwined as nettles, my friend.”

“Look at what we know.” Will raised his left hand and ticked off points. “Kit saw signs in the heavens that the fifth of November was the day on which the Prometheans would arrange their sacrifice. He saw the downfall of old ways, the death of Kings.”

“The King has been useful to Salisbury,” Ben said. “I do not think Robert Cecil stands to overturn the monarchy.”

“No,” Tom answered. “But the Catholics do.”

“And the Prometheans,” Will answered. “And knowing how they operate, we must assume that Baines and Poley and their lot are using my Catholic cousins as some sort of a stalking‑horse or distraction – ”

“Fawkes and Catesby have been fussing about Westminster a great deal lately,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair. He lifted his enormous hobnailed boot and propped it on the low bench before the fire. “And they’ve been less than forthcoming of late. Parliament meets in four days. I imagine what happens will happen then.”

“What if they assassinate the King?”

“Hell,” Ben answered. “The King, the Queen, and both their sons will receive the House of Lords that day. If anything happened, it would be all England’s peerage and the royal family down to Princess Elizabeth – ”

“Who is all of nine years old.” Tom laced his fingers together as if he really wished to strangle something.