‘Exquisite, huh?’ she asks, the tease, as if she has to ask, as if she didn’t spend the night bringing me to the brim of bliss with her kisses, her touches.
I push her back against the carriage, falling into her kiss like it’s a knife. Her lips part at the same time as mine, her tongue darting in my mouth eager to claim me, mould me, melt me –
A rustle, in the trees ahead. Footsteps.
We part haphazardly as Shakespeare approaches, and if he’s half as smart a man as I have known him to be, he won’t ask. He won’t need further explanation than our flushed faces. Still I look at him, ensuring that he sees the challenge in my gaze. That whatever delusions he may harbour of me acting only as he wrote me should die a painful death if they haven’t already.
The man sighs, as if our closeness, my bond with Claret, inconveniences him. But, to his credit, he stays silent. Instead he takes out a bundle from his pouch, wrapped in fabric. ‘I think we all need to eat something. I packed this for our trip yesterday, when Mary was still amenable.’ He sits on the ground by the carriage, urging us to do the same, and unwraps the cloth to reveal a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, some ham and apples.
My stomach gives a violent rumble at the food, but I don’t feel embarrassed because both Shakespeare and Claret have already dived into the bread, tearing it apart. We’re all so hungry we make short work of our meal, eating in silence. Shakespeare takes out a flask and passes it around, and I’m surprised to taste aqua vitae, like the drink Shepherd served us. After we’ve all drunk our share, Claret only taking the smallest sip and coughing before handing the flask back to him, I decide it’s time to strike.
‘How did you find us?’
‘In the barn? Well, I searched everywhere else –’
‘Before, in that forest. With that … man.’
I don’t say Crinan’s name. We’re all still shaken by his sister and her men, hunting us.
Shakespeare takes a big gulp of his drink, as if trying to bide his time. ‘Well …’ he starts, looking at us both with an expression that’s both tired and wary, ‘what you must understand is that this doesn’t happen often. Ever. Stories crossing into each other’s world, escaping … Shepherd holds all the keys for a reason; she maintains the order of that place. What you did –’
‘What we did was choose another path,’ Claret states, matter-of-factly.
‘I see that now.’ A pause, as if he wants to say more, to comment on the kiss he interrupted, on the way he found us tangled up this morning. Another sigh. ‘But at what cost? Shepherd’s kingdom is only safe for its inhabitants as long as her power is undisputed. She fights a constant battle to keep that world safe from the wraiths, to have it be a resting place for characters before they pass on to their next adventure.’
I scoff, bringing to mind that horrid garden. ‘Restingplace … I’m sure Ophelia would beg to differ. Somehow drowning all the time wouldn’t be my chosen definition of “resting”.’
He gives me the most withering look. ‘Dreadful, her condition. And so very useful, it would seem, if someone were to stage a disappearance.’
‘Enough,’ Claret says, and we both stop in mid-sentence, insults forgotten. Her tone is regal, resolute. ‘So, Shepherd did send you? To bring her two wild hens back to the coop? Yet you’re too lenient for a rooster, too worried for a guard dog. Why are we going on this little trip to Elgin? Why not drag us back by our hair – or die trying?’
‘Because,’ Shakespeare starts, his eyes on the remnants of our meal, ‘it’s my fault. Or rather, my responsibility. When Lady Mac—whenAnassabroke into my study … that shouldn’t have been possible. No story should challenge its creator with such fervour, such impunity. But you two …’ He combs his hair with both hands, a gesture I’ve learned to understand means nervousness, frustration. ‘I don’t even know what you two are.’
The silence stretches for a bit too long.
‘Perhaps Shepherd is right,’ Claret says eventually, and I am too stunned to object. ‘We’re all just stories, in the end – but some of us are old enough to remember being otherwise. And memory can be the oddest thing. In the part of her prison meant to look like my world, the people there remember an entirely different name for her.Seshat.Daughter of Thoth, Aegyptian god of knowledge. Ruler of all stories ever written.’
She says these last two words, ‘ever written’, slowly, as if it’s a hint. I recall Shepherd commenting on how old Claret’s story is, almost as old as her, and wonder if that meansthere’s a balance that could be upended – to our favour. But Shakespeare misses it entirely. His face lights up like a little kid being given sweets. ‘Oh, this makes so much sense! I should have seen it, the Egyptian motifs, her resemblance to Cleopatra …’ He gets up, starts pacing, and I can tell he’s eager for a quill, some ink. His fingers make a little dance in the air, tracing ghost words. ‘Cleopatra … I must remember this when I wake up.’
‘Wake up?’ My voice is shriller than I’d like, but I can’t help it. ‘Do you think this is a dream? Did getting chased by filthy, pitchfork-wielding peasants feel like a dream to you?’
‘No, of course there’s danger here.’ He puts the emphasis on the last word. ‘Here, we could all die. For good. And no door or key or Shepherd will be able to save us. But that is why I volunteered, though she was loath to let me. To help bring you back, safely. And perhaps I could get to meet Gruoch and that infamous husband of hers …’
Ah, there it is. He is as hungry to meet the real Macbethads who inspired his play as I am – if for different reasons. ‘So you’re helping us, out of the kindness of your heart.’
‘Let us not speak of hearts, or kindness, my wonderful villainess.’ He bows to me, only half-mockingly. But there is something in his eyes, some sort of cautious respect I hadn’t noticed earlier. Like recognizes like.
‘So.’ Claret’s voice snaps me out of it. ‘We have a cat queen, not in control of her own kingdom. And bringing back us two rebels will help.’ There’s a glint in her eye as she lets that statement settle for a bit, heavy with implications I can’t fully grasp yet. I want to ask her what she means, what she knows, but she gets up abruptly. ‘Andfor whatever reason, you two are dead set on complicating things further by going to meet another queen. Fine. I’m going to get some sleep, as I’m guessing we still have hours of voyage ahead of us. One of you should keep watch.’ She doesn’t explicitly say that to Shakespeare, but her intent is clear enough.
I get up, uncertain, watching her disappear inside the carriage. I gaze at Shakespeare.
‘Oh, go ahead,’ he says, shooing me. ‘I need some time with my thoughts and you will only frustrate and distract me.’
I hear the kindness hidden in his words. ‘Thank you, Will.’
He cocks an eyebrow. ‘Such insolence, calling me by my first name. You really are a wild thing, aren’t you?’
I smile, and leave without a single scathing word.
