Ah, yes.Miaow!I say in agreement.
‘I want you to find out more about him and what he is currently working on. Hang around like a stray so he takes you in and becomes attached to you. This way, you can look over his notes when he goes out. And if your ploy is successful, you can live with him rather than here at Whitehall since you are now considered fae. You will report back to me about his progress once a week so I am the first to know when he finishes a new play.’
She grins delightedly at her own cleverness, displaying a row of brown teeth, and I resist theurge to shake my furry head. Even in middle age, the queen is full of cunning schemes. It never fails to amaze me.
***
I begin spying that very afternoon—after the queen requests a saucer of milk for me. I would have preferred a saucer of blood, but I lap at it to appease her.
Shakespeare lives in Bishopsgate, a crowded squalid slum populated by actors and smelling of chamber pots. Darius walks me over there under his coat and releases me into the street. It’s pouring with rain, and I have to dodge cartwheels and stomping muddy boots. I hiss at Darius, and he grins and waves before squelching off. With my drenched fur, I suppose I look all the more pathetic. A cold, wet stray.
Shakespeare’s dripping candlelit garret is visible from street level, but how am I to reach it? I pad over mud and dung to an adjacent doorway, shake my wet fur, and wait. Soon, the door to his dwelling opens, and a couple of men exit. They stand there gossiping like old women for an age. From their garish garb and affected manner, I presume they are actors. They keep looking up at the sky and are seemingly concerned about getting their beards wet. I shake a paw, and droplets of foul mud fly off. At least they’re not up to their claws in horse shit.
Finally, they make a splashing run for it, and I slip through the door before it closes. Padding up the twisting wooden staircase, I go round and round until I’m dizzy and swaying on my paws. There is one door at the top. I sincerely hope it’s Shakespeare’s.
Butting my head against the wood, I miaow pitifully.
The door swings open with a flourish, and a male voice booms, ‘Pray, what is this racket when I am trying to write?’
I am scooped up and brought to head height and inspected by a young man with a round face, trimmed moustache, and goatee.
Miaow?I offer.
‘How didyouget in?’ he mutters.
I give a theatrical shiver for effect, and he seems to take pity on me. I am placed on a folded blanket by a smallsputtering fire.
‘You can stay there until your fur dries,’ he says. ‘Then out. I cannot have a pet. Too much distraction. And I need complete silence if I am to concentrate on my writing.’
I purr quietly to show my appreciation while he huffs and puffs. Kneading the blanket, I watch as he sits down again and takes up his quill. ‘Now where was I?’ he murmurs. ‘Oh yes...’
His quill scratches furiously over the paper, and I’m lulled by the sound of it. I stretch out by the fire to warm my tummy and promptly fall asleep.
When I wake, the fire has burned low, and evening has fallen. Shakespeare is not in the room; he must’ve gone out and forgotten about me. I yawn and stretch; now is the perfect time to find out what he is writing so I can report back to the queen.
I leap gracefully onto his desk and pad over the mess of jumbled paper with my now-dry paws. Much of the paper is blank, even though he seemed to be writing a lot.
But once I bat a few pages around, I discover he has indeed started writing a new play!
One sheet bears the titleA Midsummer Night’s Frolic.On the next is a barely decipherable scrawl of words. But I make out the gist of it. ‘Hermia’ and ‘Lysander’ seem to be having a complicated love affair. The last part is dialoguefor Lysander, and Shakespeare has written:Love wanders down a road full of inconvenient rocks.Then crossed it out and tried again:The journey of love is a long and twisty affair, with ruts and puddles and mud everywhere.
There’s an ink splotch and quill jab marks underneath. It looks like he’s given up and gone to the pub for a creative ale or two.
Hmm, perhaps I can be of assistance so he can continue when he returns? I change back to my human form. Grasping the quill, I dip it in the ink and cross out the last sentence, which is a bit vague. Then write in a perfect copy of Shakespeare’s messy script:The course of true love never did run smooth.
There. That is far more eloquent!
Footsteps sound in the stairwell; and I hastily dunk the quill in the ink pot, crouch, and mutter the cat spell.
When the door opens and Shakespeare staggers in, I’m curled on the blanket, flicking my tail.
‘Hello, kitty witty,’ he slurs at me, waving a hand, and pitches forward, only just managing to stay upright. I stare at him. Shakespeare is sozzled!
He pulls out his chair, levers himself into it, and lights a candle. It takes him three attempts.
‘Now where was I? Oh yes. Lysander. Fucking Lysander and his road of rocks,’ he grumbles, taking up his quill.
He blinks at the page. Ink dripping off the end of the nib.
