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Because it is an enemy to thee.

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

“Excellent, Alex!” The Poet banged on the floor of the stage. “You’ll play this part one day!”

I hated to admit it, but Alex’s performance, with his lower, manly voice, was quite warm and intoxicating. This made me feel especially challenged to do extra well. So, I widened my eyes, flipped my rag-wig, and filled my voice while also keeping it whispery like a young girl—the perfect balance to Alex’s.

JULIET:

My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words

Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound.

Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?

“Better, Hughes!” The Poet winked to show me I had met his pen with my performance. “This was what I meant!”

ROMEO:

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

“No, Alex!” the Poet shouted, leaping atop the stage. “Get closer! We want the audience to yearn for you two to kiss!” He pushed our bodies close, and Alex repeated his line, but the Poet still seemed unsatisfied. He then took Alex’s place, taking my hand, and looking deep into my eyes. “Neither, fair maid,” he spoke the words he had writ, “if either thee dislike …”

He did not move for a long time, keeping his eyes locked with mine. I relished the touch of his hand and his hot breath against my face. He leaned in as if his kiss was about to descend upon my lips. I prayed it would—even if it were play-acted. As I was about to whisper my rejoinder, bringing my lips even closer, he leapt away from me, pulling his hand from mine as if he were embarrassed. His discombobulated eyes cast themselves over my shoulder.

I turned to look at what had caused his reaction and saw a darker-skinned woman wearing a green velvet dress. Several of the men closest to her, gawked grotesquely at her bosom pouring from her décolletage like loaves of over-baked bread. From the way the Poet smiled at her, I quickly determined that they were friends. But what sort of friends I did not know. Then I noted that protruding from her mound of wiry black curls was one long-stemmed rose—the same sort I had seen lying on the Poet’s bed.

Disturbing thoughts flooded my head. Could she be his mistress? The depth of her dark beauty was evident to all, including me. And while her clothing and carriage deemed her of a higher class, I considered she might be a whore from a local bawdy house who had come to collect a bill. While the Poet was not the usual debauch like other writers and actors, Sam told me he had heard the Poet did venture to a nearby leaping-house now and again.

“Get on with it,” the Poet commanded, gesturing for Alex to take his place. “Take it back, Hughes. Start from ‘My ears have not drunk, etcetera.”

“My ears have not drunk … fifty tongues?” I stammered.

“The line is ‘a thousand tongues’,” Alex snapped.

“Sorry,” I said. “A thousand tongues—”

“Change it to ‘a hundred tongues,’ ” the Poet shouted.

“Right,” I said. “A hundred thousand tongues … ugh, sorry.” Three more times I destroyed the words. My mind flitted about like fleas on a dog. Then I heard the strange woman laugh loudly and mutter something to the Poet about what she might do with a hundred tongues. I could feel the fire burn the blue from my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I called out to Ed Knight. “What’s my next words?”

Before the master of the book could respond, Alex snorted bitterly. “How is it you don’t know your words? I’m not even playing this role, and I have both Romeo’s and Tybalt’s lines by heart!” He stomped on the stage and threw the dagger he held in his belt onto the floor. “Will! I can’t work like this! He’s not even trying.”

“That’s not true!” I shouted. “Liar!”

“Hughes!” the Poet called out. “Calm yourself. You two were doing splendidly. But he’s right, Hughes, you do need to be sharper on your lines.” He called to the uninvited woman, “Rose, pull up a bench and watch.” Then to us: “Lads, let’s just take it back from—”

Rose? Her name is Rose. And she wears a rose in her hair. How common. I could no longer contain my fury. “Bollocks!” I hissed. “I remember my words, Alex, it’s just our practice is being interrupted by …” The lady dared to smirk from her spot in the yard as I pointed at her. “Her! She’s distracting me!” I stormed off the stage and pointed at her. “Why are you laughing at me, madam?”

“I wasn’t laughing, boy,” she said, barely blinking. “I merely came as I was invited. I would think an actor should be more immune to distraction. Your talent for concentration will grow with your beard … hopefully.”

All in attendance laughed. Is she trying to make me look the fool in front of the Poet?

My eyes narrowed and I growled, “How dare you.”

She raised her perfectly arched, black eyebrows. “I dare as I like, my pretty little tadpole.”