Claret goes in first, fearless as always, but I can see the tiny cracks in her resolve; the hands clenched in fists, the bundled feet that shuffle, as if she’s not sure whether an attack is imminent. I follow suit, taking in the empty room. It’s cleaner than I thought, neater. Raised wooden benches line the walls, dotted with a few pillows and no more thanten tables flanking them. A hearth on one side. No fires burning, but some heat does linger, and my bones feel such intense relief I almost sag. I will myself to show restraint, keep examining our surroundings. A narrow staircase up ahead, that presumably reaches lodging rooms above.
I would kill for a bed …
Focus, Anassa.
In front of us a sturdy bench, lined with stools stacked on top of each other, leads back to what must be the inn’s kitchen, from whence a pleasant smell of pottage wafts. My stomach gurgles, quite unladylike.
Shakespeare closes the door behind us, and as if summoned by a spell, the matron of the inn appears. She must have been behind the bench, unseen. A comely woman, with grey hair wrapped around her crown in sensible braids, wearing a brown wool dress and an apron that may at one point have been white. ‘Ah, Mister Marlowe … Back, are ye? Had to give your room away when you dinna show last night.’ Mister Marlowe? Is this woman confused? But no, she gazes out the window, hands on hips, and asks, ‘Is that good-for-nothing Crinan back with ye?’
Several strange things happen, then, making me question whether I’m awake or dreaming. I see Claret’s hand flying inside her cloak, her face ashen. Shakespeare stutters, unable to come up with an excuse that would make sense, one that would keep our crime from spilling over, staining us all. And the woman …
The woman looks simultaneously younger and older, starry eyed and flower crowned, radiating with a beauty that would bring men to their knees. Yet when she opens her mouth, her teeth are crescent moons, sharp like a shark’s, with bloody bits of sinew hanging from them …
No, not sinew.
Threads. Blood-red, shorn short.
‘Are you –’ I start, but find my words elude me. Images of the weird sisters three cackling around their cauldron in the woods, of the Three Fates cooking up a stew for us on that beach, of keys and doors and death all mingle in my head in a cacophony of colours, of sounds, of smells, until it’s all too much, too much. My vision swims.
The blood-red threads snake towards me like serpents as I fall.
I wake up in a bed, uncomfortable and scratchy, the straw digging into my skin through the threadbare sheet. That’s how I know I’m still alive, not back in Shepherd’s realm; through the continuing compilation of annoyances this world delivers upon me, upon my body.
I must have fainted, then. Probably too exhausted and wound up, afraid of what the inn maid’s connection to Crinan could mean for our safety. How likely could it be that what I saw was real? Her teeth, the threads … Not very, I decide. Not in this world. And anyway, if there was a real threat, I wouldn’t just be lying here, pillow under my head, blanket wrapping me carefully. Someone took care of me. Claret … Where is she? As I reluctantly prop up my torso on the bed, the crowded room takes shape: low wood beams, rising diagonally over my head, a small window to the right, cracked open. At the foot of the bed is a wooden bench, half-covered with clothes. On it, a leather pouch big enough to hold a book, its pages curling softly. Shakespeare’s things, I’m certain. A little bird lodges within my throat, wings shaking, filling me with fear.
Did he do something? Separate us once again?
But as I scramble to get up, I feel it. Claret’s white dress, the one she wears under her cloak, left on the bed like a discarded cloud during a summer’s day. Oh … My fingers linger on the fabric, longer than appropriate. How powerful this dress must be, to clothe and contain this thunder of a woman … Warmth spreads across my cheeks, my chest, as I remember how she looks in it, how every scandalous curve of her body –
All right, that’s quite enough for now. Think. If Claret’s dress is here, but not her cloak, then that would mean she can’t be far away. We’re not in danger.
I shake my head. Of course we’re not in danger. Shakespeare would never leave his pouch behind, his precious books, if this room wasn’t at least somewhat safe.
Something pulses to the edge of my sight, on the left, something black and feathery. I half expect to see a raven – but it is just my cloak, bundled up carefully, placed upon a stool beside the bed. My hands fly to it, desperately checking its depths. Ah. My key is still here. And underneath the cloak, a simple green wool dress beckons, more suitable for a cook than for a queen. Yet I am grateful for it, as well as for the pair of worn brown boots I find next to the bed. I remove the covers and get up, eager to find Claret, to confirm she’s unharmed. It’s only then I notice that my feet are clean, unbundled, with all my toes still miraculously attached despite our long walk in the snow.
How long have I been out of it?
I get dressed quickly, gritting my teeth as itchy wool attacks my skin. It’s too tight in the shoulders and too loose everywhere else, and almost short enough to be shameful. The inn maid’s dress, I reason. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. With this infernal dress on, I peek out thewindow. Daylight, but barely, with indecisive snow more akin to rain. The woods flank the south side of the road, a reminder of how close we got to perishing.
After some hesitation, I leave my cloak behind me. I open the door, and immediately the sounds of laughter, of conversation, of tankards of ale being slammed on to tables, climb up the stairs like eager pups. An inn’s expected, normal ruckus. Nothing that signals grief or anger at Crinan’s disappearance. I tell myself we’ll be all right as I shut our door behind me and head to the ground floor, each wooden step creaking something fierce, announcing my arrival. Thankfully, there’s enough noise and people; the empty room I saw this morning has transformed into a bustling dining hall, where smells of roast meat and sweat, char and drinks and stew mingle together, nauseating. So many humans cramped so close to one another …
I find I do not care for it.
Then I spot them, and the image stops me in my tracks. Shakespeare and Claret, sitting side by side on a bench, looking like long-time drinking buddies rather than people who can barely tolerate each other. They raise their glasses towards a second man, perched on a stool across from them, curly brown hair reaching his shoulders. He sits straight, like my husband’s soldiers did, back in the world that was inspired by this one – yet was so different, because that world didn’t have Claret. My eyes go to her, eager. She wears her cloak open, a butter-coloured dress underneath making her look so much like strawberries and cream it takes my breath away.
How aren’t all the men here salivating?
I see some looks from the surrounding tables aimed inher direction, but any hunger in them is transient, tempered, laced with ale-addled mirth and curiosity.
Claret’s gaze finds me, sharp and inquisitive and tender, twin fires dancing together with relief. ‘You finally woke up,’ she says as I approach the table. ‘Scoot over,’ she commands Shakespeare, to make some room for me to sit beside her. Miraculously, he obliges without fuss, giving me a brief but genuine smile before returning to his conversation. What has transpired between them while I was lost to the world? The bench is beside the fireplace, now lit, and both his face and Claret’s have turned rosy from the heat – and, presumably, the drinks. I sit with them, a strange pang in my heart at their newly minted camaraderie.
‘We were worried.’ I feel more than hear Claret’s voice as I settle in next to her, thrumming against my skin, more intoxicating than any glass of aqua vitae. ‘Both of us, so much. I’ve never seen a man sweat like that, pace like that, comb his hair with his fingers as he mumbled at your bedside. We took you upstairs when you fainted; Mary helped me get you cleaned up and settled.’ She gives me an assessing look. ‘Her dress doesn’t fit you. But this world is cold, and it seems we have a trip ahead of us.’
I choose to brush away the information about Shakespeare’s supposed agony. Clearly, he was acting, or he has a plan. Instead, I want to ask Claret what she means about a trip, and who this man they’re talking to is. But a tankard filled with frothy ale and a bowl filled with stew land in front of me, almost sloshing me with their contents.
‘There she is, our sleeping lass. Ye gave us quite the fright.’
I look up, taking in the inn maid. Mary. No weird threads or fated visions, this time. She smiles a round ofyellowing, crooked teeth, yet so entirely human I could kiss her. ‘Thank you so much for everything,’ I say, patting my dress in acknowledgement.
