Ink and Steel

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.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company.

Shock, not applause, and Kit let the old armored smile slide over his face like a visor at the paleness in Murchaud’s cheeks and Kit’s own unexpected success. I’ve found a way to scandalize Faerie at last, he thought, and took himself down from the stage.

   Act III, scene iii

Mercutio:

Without his roe, like a dried herring: O flesh, flesh,

how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers

that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a

kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to

be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy;

Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; This be a gray

eye or so, but not to the purpose.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet

Will knew something had happened, that Kit’s rendition of “Greensleeves” had somehow been a challenge, the smack of a gauntlet against an unprepared face. Knew it more when the music that resumed after Kit left the small stage was wordless, and Morgan excused herself, smiling, and went to climb the dais beside the Queen and the Prince. Who shortly thereafter removed themselves from the hall. Will, rested from the afternoon’s nap, mingled joyously with musicians and poets, with the Faerie players that Kit had recruited for his masques and plays, until at last Kit found him and tugged his sleeve toward the stair.

“It looks desperate to be the last one at the party,” Kit said. “Unless you were planning on leaving with the brunette.”

Will glanced back at her. She smiled coquettishly behind a fan of painted mauve silk, and he waved and turned away. “The fangs are a bit disconcerting.”

“She’s Leannan Sidhe. You’d never be the same.” Kit lit a candle at the base of the spiral stair, and Will climbed in silence beside him.

“Leannan Sidhe?” He tried to mimic Kit’s pronunciation.

Kit hesitated, his hand still warm on Will’s arm as they made their way upthe stairs. “Blood drinkers. A man can’t be too careful, in Faerie.” Will watched Kit open the door. “Black Annie,” he said. “Only men, not children. She’s got a special affection for poets.”

Kit ushered Will inside, latched the door, and found cups and a bottle in the cupboard, upon which he left the candle. “Tis said her love gives inspiration.”

“And have you availed yourself of this inspiration?”

Will took the cup Kit offered him and held it under his nose. The scent made his eyes tear. “Brandywine?”

“Better. Tis called uisge. Be careful.”

As Will sipped, and coughed, and Kit laughed at him. “No, dying young once was enough. But I wanted to talk to you about your play.”

The fire of the liquor sliding down Will’s throat did nothing to calm the tension in his shoulders. He told himself, any ripples shivering across the tawny fluid in his cup were just the effects of his palsy, and set it down before he could spill it. “You disliked it.”

“I could not adore it more,” Kit said, refilling his cup. He leaned against the great carved post of the bed, curtains rumpling against his cloak. As if irritated, he unfastened the clasp and leaned forward enough to free himself of the tattered finery, tossing it to the bed. The single candle cast gentle shadows across his face; he drank and continued talking into Will’s silence.

“You’ve cast me again, haven’t you? As you like your Rosalind. Your Ganymede.” Will laughed. “You caught me out. The first to notice it enough to warrant a mention.”

“How could they miss? Ganymede, Leander, dead shepherds. A crack about a great reckoning in a little room and another about incompetent historians? You should not take such risks.”

“Not a risk if no one notices.” Kit laughed, staring down into his cup. “Kit in skirts, I should be offended, I suppose, but she’s a delightful girl. Although to call her Ganymede were an ungentle jest”