Elizabeth glanced at Smythe and smiled wanly. She looked a little pale and she was breathing shallowly, through slightly parted lips.

“This card,” Granny Meg pointed to the second to the last card, “represents your hopes and fears. It signifies how you would like things to turn out, or else how you fear they may turn out. ‘Tis the Emperor. A father figure. The representation of power and stability and protection. A great man, one with the qualities of reason and conviction.”

She pointed to the final card. “This is your final outcome. It represents how your current situation shall be resolved. And here we have the Wheel of Fortune. The card of destiny.”

“What does it signify?” Elizabeth asked, anxiously.

“The end of troubles,” Granny Meg replied. “Fortune, change, a moving ahead, either for better or for worse.”

“It sounds like a good outcome,” Smythe said. “I would say ‘tis most encouraging.”

Elizabeth seemed somewhat relieved, but still, she was uncertain. “You are sure ‘twill all turn out well in the end?”

“These things are never certain, girl,” Granny Meg replied. “Conditions could change at any moment. As things stand right now, this is what your situation portends. But there is much around you that is uncertain. A roiling, turgid cloud of intrigue. I sense that it does not truly have anything to do with you, but that you are caught up in the middle of it.”

“What sort of intrigue?” Shakespeare asked.

“That I cannot say,” Granny Meg replied. “But I sense great powers at work behind it all. As if great winds were gathering from far off to produce a fearsome storm. And somehow, for some reason, she has found herself at the center of it all, trapped within the tempest.”

All throughout rehearsal the next day, Smythe kept thinking about Elizabeth, wondering how things had gone for her after they had taken her home. Had the story they had concocted for her been believed? It had been Burbage’s idea on their way to the Darcie residence to have Elizabeth tell her parents that Granny Meg had seen favorable omens for the marriage and that Elizabeth had therefore changed her mind about it and was now willing and even eager to proceed. This would, of course, mean absolutely nothing in that Gresham had been killed, but as Burbage pointed out, her parents would probably not know that yet and it would allow Elizabeth to tell them something that they both wanted to hear.

Burbage had explained that this ploy would predispose them to accept the story, because people always tended to believe what they wanted to believe, regardless of any facts to the contrary. On the face of it, his reasoning had seemed to make sense at the time, but Smythe somehow could not shake the feeling that something somewhere had gone wrong. And it affected his performance. Not that there was much performance to affect. He had only one entrance and one line, but he couldn’t even seem to get that right. Here was his dramatic stage debut, about to occur in the very next performance, and he was making a horrid mess of it.

“No, no, no!” Shakespeare said, standing in front of the stage and holding the book as Smythe missed his entrance cue for the fifth time in a row. “The cue is, ‘I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!’ And then you enter from stage left, come to the center of the stage, and say your line. You do not enter before the cue has been given, nor do you enter while the cue is being given. You enter after the cue has been given. God’s wounds, is that so difficult?”

Smythe sighed. “No, ‘tis not difficult at all. I am sorry, Will. Truly, I am.”

“Aye, you certainly are sorry,” Will Kemp said, as if the comment had been addressed to him rather than the other Will. “You are the sorriest excuse for a player that I have ever seen.”

“Oh, come on now, Kemp,” said Speed, from stage right. “Give the lad a chance.”

“Aye, ‘tis only his first time,” said Fleming. “I am quite sure that you were not perfect your first time on the stage, either.”

“Perfection is one thing,” Kemp replied. “And doubtless ‘tis entirely unreasonable to expect perfection from a novice player. But with this one, even bare adequacy seems utterly beyond him!”

There were times, thought Smythe, when he wanted nothing quite so much as to hammer Will Kemp into the ground like a tent peg. Instead, he held his temper, took a deep breath, and said, “You are quite right. I have been making a thoroughgoing mess of it. I shall try once more. And I shall keep trying until I get it right.”

Will Kemp sighed dramatically. “Send out for victuals,” he said. “We may be here all night.”

“All right, everyone, I think a break would be in order at this time,” said Shakespeare. “We shall resume from this point in a few moments. But let us take a little time to clear our heads.”

“With some of us, that will take less time than with others,” Kemp said, wryly. He turned and stalked offstage.

Smythe stared daggers at his back.

“Tuck,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the edge of the stage and gazing up at him. “What the devil is wrong with you? Are you unwell?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” said Smythe, sitting down on the edge of the stage. He sighed. “I just keep thinking about Elizabeth.”

“What you need to be thinking about is the play,” said Shakespeare, irritably. “The way you have been acting-or perhaps I should say not acting-you have already convinced Will Kemp that you have no ability as a player whatsoever. The rest of the company is disposed to be somewhat more lenient, since this is only your first time upon the stage, but if you keep this up, their patience will wear thin, as well.”

“I know, I know.”

“After all,” said Shakespeare, “ ‘tis just one line! How difficult can it be to remember just one entrance cue and just one line? You come in on your cue… you walk to center stage… you say your line… and then you leave the stage. I do not see how I could possibly have made it any simpler for you!”

“You are quite right, Will. ‘Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled.”

“See here, Elizabeth will be fine,” said Shakespeare, placatingly. “Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. ‘Twill only drive you to drink.”

“You speak from experience, do you?”

“Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; ‘tis all I ask.”

“I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance.”

“Then stop cocking it up, for God’s sake!”

“I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise.”

“You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate.”

“Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene.”

“Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now ‘tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?”

“You needn’t be so peevish about it!”

“No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, ‘Milord, the post horses have arrived.’ And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?”

Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. “I know. ‘Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right.”