Will realized that the other poet had changed clothes, or his shirt and doublet at least, and washed the rusty red spatters from his hands. He keeps clothes in her rooms. That answers one question. Or does it?

Morgan laughed and unpinned something winking gold from the cambric of her shirt, coming back to Will. “Have you a place for an earring, Master Shakespeare?” He lifted his hair, showing the bit of silk that kept the hole from closing. Kit nodded when Will caught his eye, and so Will ducked his head and let her untie the cord and slip it from his ear. A little gasp as she tugged the hole open and slipped something into it: a substantial ring, warm from the heat of her bosom. “There,” she said. “A favor from a lady. A favor that will permit thee, Master Shakespeare, to come and go from this land to that land as thou wilt, without years cut from thy life whilst thou in Faerie dwelleth.” Kit came forward beside her, rubbing at his eyepatch as an exhausted man might rub his eye. As Morgan stepped back, Will touched the earring, feeling heavy gold swing. “A rich gift, Your Highness.”

“We have a special love of poets here,” she said. “Don’t we, Sir Christofer?” She turned to kiss Kit on the cheek. Will saw his friend pale, but Kit did not step away, and in fact smiled as if at a favor. The door shut behind her, concealing the sway of her hips, and Will touched the earring again. “Do you trust this?”

“Her word is good. When you can get her to give it.”

“An impressive woman.”

“If thou knowst what’s wise,” Kit said, “that will be the last time thou thinkst so. Come, lay thee in my bed and rest. I’m too long slept, myself: I’ll sit and read thy Jonson’s plays while thou dost slumber, and wake thee when thy clothes arrive.”

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and leander

Once Will fell into exhausted slumber, Kit dragged the fireplace armchair to the window for better light, muttering amiable profanity as ornately worked legs snagged on the carpets. Taking up the remaining papers, he settled down to study. Jonson’s play he set aside, for perusal when his concentration improved, while he spread the sheets of Will’s comedy across his knees and held them up, unfolded one by one, to read.

Five or ten leaves in, he stifled laughter against his sleeve and read faster. At the end of the third act, he turned the already-read pages over and laid them on the floor, sitting back in the chair to regard their slumbering author. He gazed for long minutes, blinking thoughtfully, and at last picked up the remaining sheets to read: more slowly now, and with attention.

“Ganymede, eh?” But it was no more than a murmur, the shape of a name on his lips. He read the play twice over before he set it aside, and then he stood and paced the width of the room once or twice, stealing glances at Will now and again, shaking his head each time. Will showed no signs of stirring, sleeping the sleep of utter weariness, and Kit at last stopped pacing and returned to the window and Jonson’s play. The wit was sharp, the rhyme fitting, if the tone a little dismissive of both players and audience but Kit could not concentrate long enough to read a page complete. He laid them aside and picked up Will’s play again, thumbing through it to read a line here and there. Again shook his head, and again laid the papers aside. At last, in frustration, he stood and fetched a bundle, thread, and a needle-book from the clothespress: a task to busy his hands enough, he hoped, to silence the breathless longing that had sprung painfully to life in his breast.

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You like It

Will found himself turning and turning again, trying not to stare at on eimprobable being after another as Kit led him through the soaring hall. It took concentration not to crowd Kit for the transitory feeling of safety the brush of his shoulder gave. Will stole another look at his friend’s ragged cloak, almost a motley, a panoply of richest fabric stitched with a tight and tidy hand. Court garb in Faerie. Will looked longingly at the wine in his glass, but set it on the edge of the table.

“Go ahead and drink,” Kit said. You’ve a Queen’s surety you may return home without fear. The Fae keep their word. And now, come and meet my lover.”

“Another one? Haven’t you enough problems?”

“Mix with the men of power and rise.” Kit shrugged. “They teach that at Cambridge, too.”

The banter, the sparkle. It was tinsel, Will thought, understanding. There’s a reason no one ever let you on a stage, Marley.But as Kit led him forward, he followed on.

Faustus:

Was not that Lucifer an Angel once?

Mephostophilis:

Yes Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.

Faustus:

How comes it then that he is Prince of Devils?

Mephostophilis:

O by aspiring pride and insolence,

For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus

The rill of Cairbre’s harpstrings shivered through the air as Murchaud brushed a courtier aside and came across the floor currently otherwise occupied by clusters of conversationalists to Will and Kit. Kit bowed, found it useless as Murchaud closed the distance between them and took Kit’s doublet in both hands, lifting him to his toes to claim a possessing kiss. Kit’s ragged new cloak, only a single layer of a few dozen patches yet, dragged at his collar as Murchaud bent him backward. He pressed one hand tothe Elf-knight’s breast, feeling the racing beat of his heart under velvet and silk. Murchaud released him and stepped back, left Kit wiping his mouth on hishand, stinging with the suddenness of the release.

Kit turned to Will, still tasting the kiss, watching the blood rise in Will’s ghost-pale cheeks. “Your Highness, Master William Shakespeare,” he said formally. Will, Murchaud ap Launcelot, Prince of the Daoine Sidhe.

“Fitz,” Murchaud corrected. “How did you know that?”

“Your mother hinted strongly, Kit said, his eye on Will,” who shifted a flustered gaze from one to the other of them as if uncertain where to rest it.

“Welcome to Faerie, Will. Things are a bit different here.”

“Your Highness,” Will said, bending a knee. Kit thought he looked striking in a saffron-colored doublet pinked in peach and gold, the padding enough to make him seem a little less painfully thin. If nothing else, those cheekbones and the startling blue eyes would have made up for a multitude of sins

Kit. Stop.

“Call me Murchaud,” he answered, to Kit’s surprised pleasure and then jealousy. “We needn’t stand on ceremony. Come, let me introduce you to my wife.”

He took Will’s elbow and led him toward the dais, Kit trailing uncomfortably. The Mebd was garbed in gold and white, the floor-length sleeves of her gown wrought with fantastical chains of green embroidery. The dress resembled an antique style called a bliaut, belted with golden chains encrusted with emeralds. She drifted down the steps with her arms spread wide, poised like a dove at the bottom of the dais, her train spread behind her glittering with crystal and silver thread.

“Kneel,” Murchaud instructed Will as they came before her. Kit stepped forward and dropped a knee: uneasiness still troubled his stomach as Will sank correctly beside him and Murchaud bowed low. The Mebd looked from one face to another, and smiled. “My lord husband. Sir Kit. And Master William Shakespeare. Has ever a court been so graced with jewels of verse as ours?”

“Your Majesty,” Will answered, bowing his head. “You do me more credit than I deserve.”

“Nay,” she answered. “Sir Christofer, we see thou hast claimed thy rank as journeyman-bard. We are pleased.”