‘I thought Gruoch was my innocent, the one I had to save,’ she responds. Then, turning her back on us, Anassa takes three steps to the left, following a path from memory. ‘Needless to say, I was wrong. About her. And about Will. It should be …’ She closes her eyes, lifting her hands blindly, trying to feel for the air. ‘… Right here.’
I hear a click, and a door appears, ornate and black and framed with a red curtain on both sides. Anassa opens it. A humble room, similar to that inn in Tomnavoulin. His room, perhaps.
Anassa holds the door open, not without struggle either. It fights her like a mule, kicking wildly, red curtains rising ominously. ‘There is … a bed there,’ Anassa directs us. Then, as if to herself, ‘The bed wasn’t there before.’
Somehow we manage to push Shakespeare through the door. It takes all three of us, Ophelia lifting his head, Helene his feet, me his middle – while also making sure I don’t stop putting pressure on his wound.
We place Shakespeare on the small bed in the corner,under so much papyri pinned on the walls you can barely see the dark wood underneath. The papyri flutter, creating a cool breeze. It’s difficult to smell anything other than blood, this close to him, but I think I catch a whiff of something sour. Ale, perhaps. A glance at the dirty floor reveals an empty jug by the bed, and I’m not prepared for the wave of tenderness that rushes over me. I remember him pacing around an unconscious Anassa, back at that inn, his every other step punctuated with a nervous sip from his flask. The way he filled my mug with that sweet, apple-flavoured drink, when he saw my worry about Anassa’s prolonged sleep. And later, as I drove that carriage on the long road to Elgin, how he tried to keep my spirits up with jokes, with funny poems about men getting drunk that he concocted on the spot, to make me chuckle. ‘My friend,’ I whisper in his ear, hoping at least some part of him can hear me, ‘if you make it out of this alive, promise me you’ll drink less.’
I notice Helene has stepped back, heading towards the door. ‘I can hold it,’ she tells Anassa, ‘if you want to say your goodbyes.’ Ophelia is already crying, patting his pillow, too afraid to touch his face with all those cuts. Anassa hovers behind me, her gaze travelling to the small, dank room, illuminated only by a small window. Moonlight, or something like it, seeps through, falling directly on a wooden table piled high with more papyri. In my time, not even a king could have afforded all this writing surface – and he doesn’t seem to live a kingly life. ‘This must be his world,’ Anassa muses. ‘If what he said is true, this must be England, centuries after Gruoch’s time. And with a Scottish king on the throne …’
I let her ramble about these unimportant things, knowing she needs the time to process the inevitable.
Then, Ophelia gasps. ‘His skin …’ She leans in closer, parting his hair, her gaze befuddled. ‘The cuts are healing, look!’
It shouldn’t be possible – and yet I see it too. The shards of glass melt like ice, leaving behind unbroken skin, dotted with dewdrops. Colour comes back to his cheeks, slowly but surely. And his wound … Hesitantly, I lift my bundled cloak from his chest. No blood. His clothes are stained with it, but in this strange, anaemic light it could be anything. Wine, or mud. I step back, feeling the hands of the Moirai in this, so prominent their meddling that they might as well be in this room with us. ‘Seems like none of us is allowed to die just yet,’ I inform Shakespeare.
A promise, to him, to the Moirai, and to myself.
Shakespeare stretches on the bed, eyes closed, and turns to his side, his almost death but a bad dream. His face relaxes in a smile.
‘My sweet prince,’ Ophelia whispers, placing the lightest kiss upon his brow. Next she says something I can’t quite parse, something not intended for my ears. Then, like a sprite, she runs to Helene’s side.
My sister looks exhausted. She hasn’t said a word, hasn’t rushed us, but I can tell this door doesn’t want to be kept open for long. That Shepherd’s realm and this one shouldn’t be allowed to overspill.
What about us, then? What would happen if Anassa and I stayed? Would we be allowed to make a life together, close to our friend? Or would we turn to water, melt like those shards of glass upon his waking? I find Anassa’s eyes, and I know she’s been thinking the same thoughts.
‘I’d love to,’ she blurts. ‘There’s so much life outside this window, Claret! I’d love to stay and fly these London skies,I’d love to walk the streets with you on human legs. I’d love to see his stories played out, applauded by his audience, lauded by his Scottish king … We could be loved here, in this time. And we could love. But …’ She gazes to the door that leads to chaos. ‘I don’t think we’re supposed to.’
I nod. ‘We leave him, then. It’s not like he will miss us. We’ll barely miss him.’ Salty water in my eyes calls out my lie, but I ignore it. I approach the bed, retrieve my cloak.
His hand flies out in sleep, finds mine.
I freeze – but he’s still lost in dreams. ‘I think on thee, dear friend. All losses are restored, and sorrows end.’ His voice is soft and sleepy as a kid’s.
I smile. ‘That’s not a funny poem. But it’s a good one. You should write it sometime.’
Shakespeare mumbles something incomprehensible and rolls over in bed, his hand slipping away from mine.
‘We should go,’ I say with a sigh, turning to Anassa, only to find her hunched above Shakespeare’s table, scribbling furiously on a blank piece of papyrus. With … her finger?
‘What are you doing?’
‘I couldn’t find his quills. He should really keep his study tidier. I tried a raven feather, but they told me no, they’re not for writing,’ she responds, eyes never leaving her work.
I shake my head, long past the threshold of what makes sense. I can’t read the markings she’s making, but I’m amazed with how she’s making them, her blackened fingers becoming less and less wraith-like in the process, as the thirsty papyrus absorbs the black.
Something shimmers on the wall to my left. Merely a shape, caused by the flickering light from outside, but for a second I could swear the wall is thinning and beyond it I can see –
Shepherd. Standing upright, mouth open, ready to devour.
I shake Anassa’s shoulders. ‘We must hurry! Say your goodbyes, please.’
‘I did,’ Anassa says, patting the papyrus with fingers pink like a newborn’s. ‘It’s all here.’ She strolls out of the room, head held high, never once looking back.
I reach the door, but as Anassa is about to close it, although time is of the essence, I hesitate. Will he be all right? He seems healthy, his breathing steady. Will he remember us?
Shakespeare smiles in his sleep. ‘My vile lady villains,’ he begins, but the rest melts together in a stew of dreams, punctuated by snores.
