When Will said nothing more, he turned away again and went to wash himself in the icy water before finding a clean shirt and leaving the basin to Will.

“Tis nigh on afternoon. Not surprising; we scarcely slept till morning. Have you plans for the evening?”

“Will we be expected at dinner?”

“Dinner is cold shoulder. The court prefers to gather for supper, and for sport and entertainments after. Thou’rt still nine days wonder enough that thou shouldst appear. I certainly will.”

Kit’s clothing seemed to have expanded overnight, some brighter colors among the blacks and greens Morgan favored on him: clothes narrower in the shoulder and longer in the arm.

“Your wardrobe has arrived.”

“Does it involve a clean shirt?

Aye, a selection.” Kit stepped aside so Will could pick through the pile.

“Wilt explore Faerie?”

“Is it safe?”

“No.” Kit said. “But I’m only writing a play on Orfeo gone to Faerie now, or perhaps tis Orpheus gone to Hell. I could accompany you.”

“If it’s not an inconvenience. Is there a difference, between Faerie and Hell?”

“When I’ve seen Hell, I’ll tell thee.” A light knock interrupted. “A moment!” Kit caught his cloak up from the bed and hesitated.

“Will, is this thine?” Something gleamed in the middle of the coverlet, as if it had been slipped beneath Kit’s cloak. A quill he guessed it a swan’s quill, by the strength and color the tip cut to a nib but with the vanes of the feather unstripped.

“I think not,” Will said, hunching to twist his hose smooth at the back of his knee. “A pen?”

“Indeed.” Some unidentifiable thrill ran through Kit as he held it, a sensation like beating wings, and with it came undefinable sorrow and joy. He set it on the table near the bed but was unable to resist one last, soft touch. “I wonder how it found its way onto the coverlet. Who’s there?” Tucking his shirt hastily into his untied breeches as a second round of knocking commenced, he hastened to the door and unlatched it.

Morgan stepped inside and regarded Kit with amusement. “So you rise to greet the nightingale, and not the lark?” And then, over his shoulder: “Good day, Master Shakespeare.”

“Your Highness.” Will came forward, fastening his buttons one-handed. “A fine reception last night.”

“I thank you. There’s dancing tonight,” she offered, brushing past Kit to lay a hand on Will. “I wished to speak with thee. Kit, Cairbre wishes your attendance when you are decent.”

Kit swung his cloak up. “Will, wouldst care to accompany me?” I am not leaving him alone with Morgan le Fey.

“I shall send him along when I’ve finished with him,” she promised. “Don’t worry. It shan’t be long.”

Kit looked from one to the other: Will had a certain bemused curiosity on his face, and Morgan’s tone was one step shy of command. He sighed and finished dressing. “Very well.” He bowed over Morgan’s hand. “Treat kindly with my friend, my Queen.” Knowing she would hear everything he put into the title, both promises and obligations.

“I shall be sure to,” she answered, and there was nothing for it but to excuse himself and go.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee,

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

How can I then be elder than thou art?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 22

”Now, Master Shakespeare,” Morgan said, after the door drifted reluctantly closed behind Kit, “this illness thou’rt concealing so effectively. We’re going to discuss it.”

Will blinked and sat down on the edge of Kit’s bed. “Not such effective concealment if you noticed it in the span of a few hours acquaintance.”

“I am she who notices such things,” she said, dark eyes sparkling. She settled on the floor, her gown puddling around her, and drew her knees to her breast. “What afflicts thee, other than the tremors and the shortened stride?”

“Lack of balance,” Will answered, amazed at how easily the words came. Do not trust what the Faeries offer,he reminded himself. “Easy exhaustion. My throat aches, as do my breast and back, and I have no appetite. Of late I notice the palsy in my left hand too.”

“The next stage of the illness,” Morgan said, resting her chin on her crossed arms and her knees, “is likely a more shuffling step and a nodding palsy, and a paralysis of the face. If it follows the course I’ve seen. Thou’rt no more likely to suffer dementia than any man, for what comfort it offers.”

“Likely,” Will answered. “My father is well aged and still in his right mind, though ill for years. I have my hopes.”

“Thou shouldst.” She rose, uncoiling, posed for a moment like a caryatid, and as she came toward him he saw her feet were bare upon the carpets. The loose gown caressed the heavy curve of her hips and breasts such that it left Will’s throat aching more than his illness could excuse. “I’ve aught for thee: a tincture of hellebore and arnica, and powdered root of aconite.”

“Monkshood?” Will thought of nodding blue flowers. “All poisons, Your Highness.”

“Aye,” she said. He would have stood when she came before him, but her long-fingered hand on his shoulder pressed him down. “Herbs of great virtue are often dangerous.” She smoothed her fingers under the line of his jaw, where his blood fluttered close to the skin, and felt of it for a moment, unhurried.

She smelled of something sharply bitter and over it a musky, resinous scent: warmed amber, he thought. The frustrations of the night flooded back at her touch, and he prayed she thought the shiver that ran through him was illnes sand not the raw, physical reaction that it was. Always a weakness for older women.He bit down on a chuckle. Much older.

She nodded and stepped away, her hand lingering for a moment. “I’ve brought a salve imbued with amber oil and camphor as well, to anoint the sore places. Some say it helps.” A facile shrug, and then she dug in her pockets for a tin box, a stoppered bottle no bigger than an ink horn, and a casket of carven stone. “We can try poison nut if none of these avail. Thou needst be cautious of the dosage: there is no remedy for monkshood or arnica poisoning, and neither is a pleasant death.”

Will held out his hands: they trembled less as she laid each gift in his cupped palms. “Thank you, Your Highness. You will show me how?” She nodded and went to the fireside, leaning against the edge of the hearth, watching him with a sort of birdlike brightness. He stilled his face to hide the longing in it.

“None of this is a cure, gentle Shakespeare.”

“I understand.” Curiously, he examined the bottle; it was carven from the tine of a stag’s horn, and the stopper was finished with a knotty gray pearl. He laid it on the bed beside him, along with the other trinkets. Your Highness.”

“Ask it, William. I have little time for reticence, as Sir Christofer will no doubt inform thee.”

“Why am I permitted my freedom and vouchsafed your aid, and that of the Mebd, when my friend Kit is so obviously bound here against his will, and indurance?”

“A good question, she said, and went to find glasses on the sideboard. “Thou shouldst not too much drink ale or wine with those herbs; a little will not hurt, but be sparing. But I can offer thee a drink of lemons and ginger.”

“A good question that will go unanswered,” he said with some amusement, smiling as she placed the cup in his hands. It steamed, and the metal warmed his palms: more casual witchcraft.

“Nay,” she said. “I’ll answer thee.” She sipped her own drink, and Will only held his for a moment and watched her face and the way her hair moved against her cheek, showing bands of silver among the black.