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Scene 38




Will sits at his table, in his room. Scribbled-on papers litter the floor. Ink blots mar the table top, and a large bluish black block of solid ink sits nearby, waiting to have water added to it, and thus be converted into usable ink. Beside it sits a bag of fine sand, used to dry the ink after writing.


Will sat at his table, his head in his hands.

How was he supposed to write? His words, never plentiful, now came haltingly and slow to his hesitating pen.

The dream he’d had—of the three women and their threats—and Ariel and her suspicions, all danced in his head, a ceaseless, threatening jig.

How could Ariel believe that Kit Marlowe was possessed by Sylvanus? When had Kit done anything less than honorable?

No. Nothing was wrong. Kit had lost his son and mourned for him, and Ariel would soon see the folly of thinking Kit the vessel of the evil elf, Sylvanus.

Will reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink.

The pen hovered over the new blank leaf of paper in front of him.

Venus and Adonis. He must write about Venus and Adonis.

Something, something, rosy-fingered dawn.

His mind almost touched the words he should use, stretching toward them like fingers.

But—if Kit Marlowe didn’t harbor the wolf, who did? Surely Sylvanus was still loose, surely dangerous, whomever he’d possessed?

The words vanished from Will’s mind, and into it, another voice, another thought poured—clear as words screamed in that very room. Oh, help, help, help me, Ariel screamed. You are our only hope.

Will stood up, startled. His chair fell with a crash to the floor and splintered into many bits. His ink bottle spilled, pouring blue oblivion over the few words he’d scratched on the page.

Still holding the pen in his hand, Will looked for the fairy queen. Where was she, and why had she screamed?

His heart still racing, he remembered what Ariel had said, about hearing a mind cry from Quicksilver. Was this then it? A mind cry?

Had Ariel been taken then? Taken to the same place as Quicksilver? The place where Quicksilver would soon die?

But that meant Marlowe truly must be guilty . . . . No, it could not mean that.

Will righted his ink bottle, set his pen down in the midst of a pool of spilled blue, and stared at Marlowe’s glove, which was fast becoming dyed a deep azure.

Yet Will remembered the fear in Kit’s eyes when the two men had flanked him in Paul’s.

Kit had gone away with them, and soon after had come to Will with a job offer, with an invitation to dinner, with marks of kindness such as Will could never have anticipated.

And it was not that Kit believed Will to be a great poet. No. Will knew better. Something had changed, but what? Had Kit thought to involve Will in some secret dealing? Will remembered the invitation to Mistress Bull’s in Deptford.

And then how Kit had told him not to go there, under any account.

What did it all mean?

Will’s hands shook so that he couldn’t attempt to write, couldn’t attempt even to right the mess on his desk. The puddle of ink had started dripping onto the floor, staining the rushes and the floorboards beneath.

Will wiped his hand on his doublet.

He was their only hope? He?

He supposed that meant Marlowe really was the harborer of the wolf. And if that were the case, what could Will do?

The two sovereigns of Elvenland had gone to face this adversary, and both had lost.

Why should Will go now, after them? Will, who had no knowledge of magic, no power of deception? Will, who until just now had believed fair behavior to bespeak fair thoughts and hadn’t realized that a man may smile and smile and be a villain?

Will’s heart beat a marching rhythm, but he did not know where to march. He swallowed hard. He must do something. The three old women—aspects of the female element, Ariel had called them—had told him he was their champion. Those shadows of human thought that enformed multidinous reality had chosen him. Silver had come to him for help. He’d failed them all.

But now Ariel herself had asked for his help, and how could he fail her?

Kit had told Will not to go to Deptford. Yet if Kit were evil, then Will must do the opposite of what Kit had entreated.

Therefore, Will must go to Deptford, go as soon as possible.

Will covered his eyes with his inky hands. To go to Deptford, he must ride, and Will had no horse. He looked toward the mattress that hid his purse.

Will was fast becoming penniless once more.

Groaning, he went to get the money.

Groaning, he thought what a fool he was to be doing this.

When magical might collided, shaking heaven and earth with its clash—what could a mere mortal do?

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Framed