A hesitation, and Kit felt her smile like a brand. “Poets, rise. You will grace us tonight? You, not thou. Both of us. She means to make a little rivalry between us. Faerieand their games.

Will glanced sidelong at Kit, who nodded, barely. Will answered, It shall be as you wish it, Your Majesty. We will be pleased to. If I may beg a boon… ?” Kit nibbled the edge of his mustache, keeping his eyes on the floor. Careful, Will.

And, Ganymede. Jove’s fancy-boy, his pretty cup-bearer, and by extension, thepainted boys who worked in London’s alleys. Do I want to know if it means what I think it means, that Will named so his woman-dressed-as-Lad?Kit’s stomach knotted again.

“Ask what thou wilt, Master Poet.”

“To stay in your court a little, that I may sing its praises the more extravagantly when I return to England.”

She made a show of considering, but Kit risking a glance perfectly understood the small smile playing at her lips.

“Thou mayst stay, she said. A little.” And before Kit could do more than nudge Will warningly with an elbow, “—thou mayst leave when thou wisheth. For the rent of a song or seven, while thou art with us. Art agreed?”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

“It will be as we have said.” She smiled, and graced Kit and then Will with a touch of her hand, and then took Murchaud’s arm and permitted it to seem as if he led her away, although Kit could see the hesitance of the Prince’s step.

“Are they all like her?” Will asked under his breath.

Kit shook his head. “She’s the most Fey. Yes. Foolish to ask, but dost feel ensorceled?”

Will turned a stare on him, and then stopped, lips thinning as he considered. “How would I know if I were?”

“An excellent question,” Kit admitted. “Let me know if anyone pins a pansy to your bosom. Will you write to Burbage to see to your affairs?”

“I’ll tell him I was called away, aye. We won’t have a playhouse until after Christmas, as it is.”

Tear down the Theatre,Kit thought, shaking his head at a bit of his world gone forever. Sharp as a stone in his shoe. Murchaud did warn you the world changes, and you will not.

“Ah, there’s someone you should meet. The lady Amaranth.” Kit stole a sidelong glance at Will, whose jaw was literally hanging open. “Striking, is she not?”

“Astoundingly. Is she venomous?”

“She assures me she is. I have never sought an opportunity to discover it first hand.”

“Methinks tis probably as well.”

“Aye,” Kit said, taking Will by the elbow. “I do agree. I’ve spoken with Morgan. Thou wilt share my quarters, an it please thee. The bed’s big enough for four, and to be frank I find it strange having so large a room to myself. And it will present a barrier to keep thee from Morgan’s clutches. And perhaps buy me some peace as well.” The thought of returning to Murchaud’s bed made him sick. Rosalind. Dressed as Ganymede. Oh, Will. Oh, God in Hell.

“Amaranth,” Kit said as they came up to her. “Meet my friend William Shakespeare.”

“Will, lady Amaranth. Charmed,” Will said, and to his credit bent over her cold, scaled hand and brushed it with his lips. Amaranth’s snakes swelled, pleased, about her elfin face as she mocked a smile.

“Master Shakespeare,” she hissed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Will glanced at Kit. Kit shrugged. “We stay current,” he said. What poem do you plan to recite?”

Will closed his eyes, as if considering. “Something you haven’t read, I think. Are you reciting Hero?”

“They’ve heard it,” Kit said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. The ragged hem of his cloak swayed against his calves. “The Mebd hinted she wanted me to play Bard, so I thought I would sing something not of mine own composing.”

“When do we …”

Kit pointed with his chin to the dais. “Go and tell Cairbre there you’re sent to claim the stage. He’ll advise you when.”

“Come with me?”

Kit smiled. “Aye, I will. Amaranth, will you accompany?”

She tilted her head in gracious refusal as she flicked herself into a tidy tower of coils. “I must seek Master Goodfellow, she said. Anon, gentle Poets.”

“Anon, my lady,” Will said.

Kit bowed slightly, but did not speak as she glided away. “She likes thee.”

“How knowst thou?”

Kit flinched as they turned toward the small stage. Cairbre had been joined by Morgan le Fey, who gathered her gown thank God she’s decently dressedin both fists as she seated herself before the virginals.

“I can tell.”

“Your Morgan plays?” Will asked in his ear, a tender thrill in his voice that drew another shiver from Kit. “Very well,” Kit answered, and walked forward.

Kit leaned against the pillar between two silk-shrouded windows, arms folded over his breast, and unsuccessfully fought a smile. Will was correct: he didn’t know this poem, and its simple style masked Will’s eternal cleverness very well. Half Kit’s mind was elsewhere, hastily revising the words of a whimsically chosen song to remove references to the Divine. But with his remaining attention, he watched Will put on a player’s confidence and take the stage like a master, broad gestures and subtle expressions as he declaimed.

… Truth may seem, but cannot be;

Beauty brag, but tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

Applause, and Will soaked it in for a moment before doffing his borrowed hat and taking a long, savoring bow. Kit watched, his stomach still twisting. No Ned, nor will he ever be, but the man has grown. Even if he is losing his hair. Congratulations, my love: an ovation in Faerie, such as most poets only dream.

Will’s smile, when he stood, cast his face in the architecture of delight. He turned to Kit, summoning him on an airy gesture. Sweet Christ harrowing Hell, how am I supposed to sleep in a bed with that man all night after reading that play?

Kit mounted the steps, acknowledged to a ripple of applause, and leaned down and whispered in Cairbre’s ear, enjoying the expression on the Bard’s face when he said, “That Tudor song I taught you, Sir”

“Bold, Cairbre said,” and laced his fingers over the strings of his harp.

“This is not mine,” Kit said, turning to the Fae, “but is said to have been written by a King himself not known for his faith to his ladies.” He drew breath, and found Murchaud in the crowd as Cairbre and Morgan gave him the first plaintive notes.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company.

Your vows you’ve broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity.

The Prince’s eyes widened in shock at the boldness of the gesture. And after that kiss, he shouldn’t be surprised.

Kit looked away, to find the rest of his audience, aware that his voice hadn’t the richness of Cairbre’s deep baritone, but finding its notes with confidence. Kit sang a line for Amaranth, and one for Geoffrey, and discovered other eyes in the crowd as well. A sly glance at Morgan, giving her a phrase or two as she ran her fingers over the keys, and she smiled back as if enjoying his bravura. Goodfellow’s glance, there, and a tight little smile as the Puck tugged at his own short motley cape. Kit smiled back, and gave him a verse, for the only friendship Kit had known in Faerie. And then he turned his head and gave Will a verse, one of the changed ones, his throat tight enough that he prayed not to squeak like a mouse. To Murchaud, the last verse, and to the Mebd’s cruel, amused, approving smile and her whisper in her husband’s ear, “See, love? Your pet has teeth,” and then he closed his eyes and back to the beginning again, for the final hanging, dying line.