“Would you doubt it?” Her look was answer enough.

“Annie, what happened?” She lifted her shoulders and shrugged. The hasty dye at her collar had rubbed off onto the linen of her smock. Her palms were calloused enough to rasp his skin, no lady’s white soft hands.

“Fffuh,” she started, and her throat must have closed on the words. Will heard the front door latched; no one spoke. A stealthy creak that was Edmund climbing the stairs to bed. Saving candles, Will wondered, or too weary still with grief to face a long evening in company? He held his peace and held Annie’s hands, and she neither flinched nor closed her eyes.

“Fell,” she said again, more clearly, leaning back on her stool until only his grip held her upright, their arms taut between them like a rigging. “Fell from an oak. Dashed his brains upon a stone.”

“Annie.”

“Hush,” she said more clearly, and shook her head. “If you had been here …”

Each word might have cost her blood. Will clutched her hands in terror.

She continued on a second breath.“… nothing would have changed.”

“Annie, my love,” he said as the tears silenced her, finally. “Come upstairs.” He pushed a tangle off her cheek. “I’ll brush your hair.”

“Will, come home.” She stood when he tugged her upright, leaning heavily on his arm. “I am home… .”

“Or let us come to London.”

“Plague,” he said.

She stopped, one foot raised, and pivoted toward the hearth, drawing him. “We should bank the fire. Everyone’s abed.”

Will crouched on the sun-warm hearthstone. The poker had a curved point on the back like the beak on a halberd; he raked coals together with the edge and knocked ash over them, and the last bit of a log that had fallen out of the fire. He stayed there, hiding his right hand between his knees, fingers steadied by the twisted iron handle. Warmth bathed his face, his fingers, warmed his breeches until he felt the weave of the cloth.

Annie reached down and pulled his right hand into the light. “Worse?”

“No better,” he answered, drawing the poker back so it scraped a white line through ash and across the stone.

Annie flinched. “You re thin.”

“Eating’s…” He pressed a hand to his throat. “Hard. And there’s famine in London.”

She swallowed and leaned closer. “Stratford as well. I wish thou wouldst have a care for thyself.”

“I am taking care of myself, Annie.”

“Shall I warm you a posset before we go up?”

“I subsist on the things,” he said. “I wish only thy company. Let us to bed, wife.” He hung the poker on the rack, muting the clatter with his hand, and thrust himself to his feet. She swayed as he slid an arm around her waist and drew her against his side.

Upstairs, he petted her until she slept; she rarely cried, his Annie. Even when he thought she better might. And held her until a sliver of moonlight fell through the shutters, revealing the dark hollows bruised like thumbprints under her eyes, and she rolled away to bury her face against the wall.

Will rose in his shirt and smallclothes and crossed the floor. Breathless warmth surrounded him as he threw the shutters back and leaned out over the garden, imagining the colors of the late-summer blooms whose nodding faces reflected the flood of moonlight thistle, daisies, and poppies. The Dutch bulbs would be over, but the too-ripe scent of late honeysuckle lay on the air like the scent of rot, and Will drew his head back inside.

Someone, Edmund? had carried his bags up the stairs. Must have retrieved them from John the carriage man at the inn. Will lifted the smaller case and dug in it for paper and pen, finding first the sealed and bundled pages of his uncollected letter to Kit. He pushed them aside to uncover his ink horn, silencing the rustle of papers as best he could, and left the case standing open when he went to the window. The moonlight was bright enough. He wouldn’t need a candle. Will laid his sheets on the ledge and worked the plug out of the ink horn before sliding the nib inside. He let the excess ink ooze back into the palm-sized container, propped it against the edge of the window, and hesitated, the quill almost brushing the creamy sheet. A Midsummer Night’s Dream,he thought, remembering the impossible blue of Lucifer’s eye. I’d dream myself home safe in bed, and Hamnet clattering down the ladder to shake Annie and me awake

The ink dried while he watched the moon-silvered garden. He dipped again and set it to the page in better haste, and wrote:

Ill met by Moone-light, proud Tytania …

Will drowsed, half waking, and mumbled as Anne smoothed his hair back to let the sunlight rouse him. The morning was unkind to the weary lines around her eyes. “The household is awake.” The clatter of pots confirmed it. “How was your sleep?”

“Broken.” He sat upright to knuckle the crusts from his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Show me the grave today, Annie?”

She hesitated, reaching for her kirtle. “Of course. We…”

“What?”

“Thy father had a mass performed.”

“Christ, Annie, I don’t care what religion my boy is dead in.” It came out sharper than intended, but she didn’t flinch. Her brows rose, as if she were about to deliver a tongue-lashing, and her mouth opened and shut. She covered her eyes.

“Will, I’m sorry. It was hard, that thou wert gone.”

“Would that I had not been. Would that none of this were necessary at all. Would that I were still in Kent with lord Hunsdon’s Men. Would that I could have taken…”

“Stop it, Will.”

“I’m home now, Annie.”

“For how long?” She turned her back on him as she wriggled into her petticoat-bodies. Annie waited long enough to be certain he wouldn’t answer, and turned over her shoulder.

“That traveling priest is here more than you are, Will. If he were Anglican, I’d say I should have married him.”

“Traveling priests and cottage intrigues,” he said, lacing his points with hands that almost didn’t tremble. He heard her indrawn breath and rolled over it, refusing to look her in the eye.

“I would not fight with you, Annie.”

Her shoulders went back and she whirled on him, whispering so her words would not carry. “Well, and what if I would fight with you, Master William Shakespeare? Or shall I put that want on the shelf with all mine other wants, and will you talk to me of duty?”

She leaned forward, hands on her hips, her hair still unbraided and tangled over her shoulders. The little room seemed even closer as she stamped one bare foot among the rushes and then threw up her hands in exasperation at his silence. He felt as if he might choke on all the things he could not say to her.

“Annie, my love.”

“Go back to London,” she said, and turned away to open the door. “If your plays are more to you than your children. Go.”

“It’s not …” he began. But the door swung softly shut behind her, and Will let his mouth do the same. Damn, he said, and narrowly avoided punching the wall.

A sunny afternoon followed Will from the graveside. Fleeing its relentless cheer, he pushed open the door of Burbage’s Tavern and nodded to the landlord in the cooler, airy common room. “Good day, Bill.”

“Will.” He hesitated, a rag in his hand, and cleared his throat. Three or four other men sat about the lower level of the tavern, the silence hanging between them redolent of an interrupted conversation. “I’m sorry.”

“We re all sorry,” Will said into the heavy quiet. He nodded up the smooth-worn wooden stairs. “Have you anyone at work in the gallery today?”

“Not until suppertime. Sit down over here.” A gesture at one of the long trestles, flanked on both sides by sturdy benches. “I’ll see you get some dinner, for all the bread’s gone cold by now.”

“They fed me at home,” Will lied, taking a seat in a sunbeam, which caught flashes of silver from the coin that he fussed. He couldn’t face choking down bread and cheese before these pitying men.