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To brighten my day, and take a wee revenge, I sought out other youths in those secret night spots by the river. While not nearly as attractive or kindhearted as Barnaby Stubb, most of these new fiddly-diddly lads were amiable enough. But not all was fun and games. There came that awful evening when thick and smelly Erasmus Snogger approached me for sport. I protested most effusively. Erasmus, nineteen years old and built like an ogre, grew violent. He pushed my head in the dirt, tore my britches down, and tried to bugger me. I struggled as best I could, but he was more than twice my size. I cried out, hoping someone might rescue me or at least find my lifeless body in the river should I die from his brutality. Before Erasmus was able to succeed in his odious aim, Barnaby Stubb was upon us and gave the brute the most terrific thrashing, blackening his eye and splitting his lip. Erasmus, with chattering teeth, promised to never come near me again. Once we were alone, Barnaby held me to him, stroked my wounds, and I knew for certain he was my one true love.

But alas, when next Barnaby Stubb came to me, he told me the blackest news. His father, not wanting Barnaby to become corrupted like the young ruffians of Shoreditch (meaning me), had decided to send Barnaby to a brewer’s apprenticeship in the far-off lands of Devonshire—which might as well have been East Anglia for the likelihood I would ever see him again. While I was happy that his dream to be a brewer was coming true, I was exceedingly devastated, since I would be left friendless, undefended, and bereft of him who I thought was my one true love. By the first chills of September, Barnaby was gone, and I cried myself to sleep for several days, (mostly) refusing other boys’ attempts to entice me. I grew to believe that my wounded heart had turned to stone, and I would forever after be banished from love’s sweet grace.

Oh, foolish youth! How wrong I was!

It was only three years and five months after I lost my Barnaby, and merely a matter of weeks after my confrontation with Burbage, at the cusp of my eighteenth year on Earth, when I first laid eyes on the Poet: the man who would become both the prime mover of this story, and the one who would entirely change my destiny.

He first appeared at the Nags Head alehouse accompanied by a group of rowdy men. I knew they were actors instantly, because they were not only loud but articulate in their loudness. My eye was instantly drawn to the Poet, and the several customers who swarmed him with affection.

“Well done, sir!” one called out to him.

“God’s blessings! Sold out again, I heard!” another man said, offering his hand.

“Will there be a follow-up soon, pray tell? We’re all waiting!” yet another begged.

There was a peculiar calmness to the Poet, and I found him attractive, though in a way that others missed. While all agreed that I was inarguably and desperately beautiful, the Poet’s physical bounty was more subtle. He was not particularly tall, though at least two inches my superior. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and handsome enough despite his prematurely thinning hair. His beard was thick and trimmed to a rakish point, and he was fit, though not as well-sculpted as some of the other players. But thankfully, he also lacked an actor’s arrogance. What captured me most were his eyes (oh his eyes!)—black onyx discs set into snow-colored whites, glinting with a mockingbird’s curiosity everywhere he looked. He devoured all that was around him.

“How now, good sir,” I whispered to a grizzle-bearded man standing nearby. “Who be that bully rook over there? That sharp-bearded one with all the men shaking his hand and patting him on the shoulder?”

“Why that’s the ordinary poet with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

“Ordinary?” I asked, thinking it an insult. “So he ain’t much good at it, is it?”

“No, you ninny-hammer,” the man snorted. “An ordinary poet is what they call the man who writes exclusively for a particular group of actors. This one creates plays for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

“Jesu! Is it so?” I said, having heard most admiring things said of that particular company of players.

“’Tis. He’s also an actor—though only moderately good in that position. They’ve been selling out the Curtain with his new plays about the old wars. They say he might be another Marlowe, though it’s too early to tell.”

“And his name, sir?” I asked.

When the man finally said the Poet’s name, I recognized it at once. Shoreditch, although a reeking cesspit, had recently become known as a center of all sorts of lowly entertainment. There were several playhouses just up the block from the Nags Head, past three gambling dens and two bawdy houses. The alehouse was always abuzz about this or that new actor, stage poet, or trollop.

“Thanks to you, sir,” I said, as my interlocutor took his leave for whatever poison he was after. I continued to watch the Poet’s interactions with his admirers. While he was kindly to all those who approached him, there was also something distant in his expression—as if his body were sitting at the table while his head was dreaming of some far-off land. I would soon learn how his mind, like a nest of ants, was always building, always feasting, always procreating. Even at those moments where one felt certain he was paying attention, there were, in truth, always secret battles and dances going on behind those black eyes.

After a few moments, the Poet must have felt my orbs on him, since he abruptly turned and stared directly back at me. Usually, I would have lowered my eyes out of respect, being that he was one of my betters. But instead, we held each other’s gaze for several moments. He did not sneer with disapprobation but instead looked at me curiously. Then I saw a faint, familiar smile curl the edges of his mouth.

I know that smile! The gentleman is signaling he wants me. Does he mistake me for a lass, even though I’m in my boy’s clothes? Or could it be that he is … the same sort of sinner as me ?

The nature of his desire was of little importance at that moment. He clearly had a full purse and thus was a mark to exploit. That I also found the Poet handsome made the prospect of my con even more enticing. I will stretch out the caresses a little longer before I go for his coins. And since he appears a goodly man, I shall only steal a little.

I tossed my head toward the rear of the alehouse where the privies were, but he then abruptly looked away as if our wordless exchange had never happened. I cursed myself for not being more subtle. A pox on me! I’ve scared him. Did I misread his desire?

I decided to move closer to see if I could spark his interest again, but as soon as I began my approach, my whore of a mother, like a lioness on the hunt, sprang toward the Poet’s table, hoisting her hips, pinching her cheeks, and baring her yellowed teeth. She likely wanted to ingratiate herself before another strumpet got to his purse. Of course, at that moment, the other strumpet was me.

Too far away to hear, I watched in dumbshow as she bargained, heaving her loaf-like bosoms into his face, while (no doubt) dropping hints of how her prices were the most reasonable in all of Shoreditch. I feared she was close to sealing the deal, but then the Poet looked back in my direction and pointed straight at me. My face flushed, and I dodged from their sight. Worried he might be snitching on my behavior, I snuck through the kitchen to a nearer doorway where I would be able hear all.

“Tell me, madam,” he said. “Who was that exquisite youth—the fair-haired one just standing over there a moment ago?” His resounding actor’s voice was like the bells of Saint Paul’s and traveled above the din with ease.

“Oi,” my mother scoffed. “You must mean my boy. True, he is a pretty thing. Resembles me when I was a girl, though without the best bits.” She jiggled her doughy breasts. “Alas, if only his wits were as plentiful as his prettiness. He’s shit for a serving boy.”

“He works here?” he asked.

“Indeed, he does, sir,” she answered. “He’s not of much use being scrawny and horribly arrogant for—pardon me, sir—a bastard.” My mother was not shy in exposing her own shame, if it made men aware of her accessibility. “Not to mention …” She lowered her voice. “The way he sometimes prances and flits about like a girl … if you receive my meaning.” She let her hand rest upon the Poet’s leg before moving it toward his codpiece. “I prefer a red-blooded man like yourself.”

Christ’s wounds! I wanted to strangle her.

“I see,” he said, removing her creeping hand from his leg.