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“As if either of you had a choice,” Burbage said in a huff before walking off mumbling under his breath about how he was the reason for the Poet’s success and how he should be more respected.

“What a twat,” the Poet huffed once Burbage was far enough away. This surprised me since he rarely spoke ill of Burbage in front of anyone. “Welcome back, my lad!” he said, a broad smile on his face.

I told him of the horror of what happened to Little Goat, but like Augustine, he said there was little he could do. The only way they’d been able to take on Little Goat the first time was that the Lord Chamberlain’s Men paid a price to end his contract, and his facial scar made him no longer desirable to the Children of the Chapel. “This whole business of child kidnapping must stop,” the Poet grumbled. “It gives the entire play business a bad name.”

“Please try,” I begged, my eyes beginning to fill again. “Little Goat helped me so much this past year, going over my words with me, listening to my woes. I don’t know what I’ll do without him. He was all I had other than …” I crumbled into the Poet’s arms, my tears drenching his doublet. Wanting to avoid the stares of passers-by, he led me into a hidden entranceway where we would not be seen. He then pulled me back into his arms and hugged me tightly. It was the first time the Poet embraced me in such a way. Still, it felt most natural. I wept there for a long time, and even after my weeping stopped, he continued to hold me and stroke my hair like I was his babe.

“There, there, my lad,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ll talk to the other sharers and see if someone can do something. But I need you to cheer up right now; we’ve new plays to create, and you are my center.”

I looked up at him with puddled eyes, allowing them to say what was in my heart. He did not pull away as he had in the past. The wind of his breath warmed my face, while his languid eyes reflected themselves in my own. He stroked the wet from my cheek. “Look how rosy your cheeks get when you cry in earnest. That tiny wobble in your voice. I’ve seen your beauty in anger and joy, but it is this brokenhearted beauty that touches me so.” He kissed my forehead, then tilted my face back to his. “It cuts me deep, your pain.”

My lip began to tremble again, and then, out of nowhere, he lightly kissed my mouth and held it there for several seconds. He did not venture his tongue, nor even open his mouth as I truly wished. But it also was not the kiss of an older brother. What is it then? I wondered to myself as I quivered at the warmth of his lips. When the kiss ended, I ventured up to his mouth again like a starving chick, hungry for the contents of its mother’s beak, but the Poet pushed me away gently. “Easy, my lad.”

“Why?” I whispered. “I’ve waited so long—”

“I understand,” he replied. “You’re not yourself. None of us are. We will need to be strong at this loss of Little Goat.” My face twisted in confusion as he appeared to ignore what had just happened. “It is important to remember,” he continued, “it will only be a year or two at most before Little Goat is free again. The Children of the Chapel rarely keep boys past fifteen.” He stepped back and looked at the pages in his hand and coughed awkwardly. “Now, for the sake of moving on, let us discuss this season’s newest play. I have made great progress. The play will feature you as Cleopatra, the dark, beauteous Queen of the Egyptians, and Burbage shall play her lover, the handsome and brave Antony. It was to be called The Tragedie of Cleopatra and Antony, but Burbage insists I reverse it. Though the A before the C does sound better anyway—”

“Please, sir,” I begged. My head swirled with fog and lightning while the warm remains of his kiss clung to my lips. And yet with how he spoke so casually, I feared the world, once more, was turning upside down, and I needed to separate the real from the imagined. “A moment ago … what just happened between us?”

“I was comforting you, lad,” he said. “Why?”

“But … those sonnets you gave me after the feast. You said your love laid in my breast …?”

“Pish,” he laughed. “I was merely being poetic.”

“But you sent Rose away.”

His face grew dark. “I never sent anyone away. She chose to leave.”

“She left you?” I said, growing more confused.

“She did, and it hurt me deeply, but in life, all that which blossoms eventually rots.”

“But then why did you write me what you wrote me? Why did you just …?” I gestured to my lips, wherein he had just kissed.

“My heart hurts for you, lad. For the loss of your friend. Please … let’s not discuss it any longer.”

He started blathering on about The Tragedie of Antony and Cleopatra, and how it would provide me an even more spectacular death scene than Juliet’s. But while he spoke, I recalled Alex saying how the Poet wanted all his players to love him, so we would give his words our all. But how had they freed themselves from the hunger? Or had they not? Did people like Alex just push the love down, hiding it from all, even himself? Did Rose simply run away, hoping the longing would naturally disappear into the air like perfume left too long in a bottle?

“Any questions?” the Poet asked.

“No,” I said, having heard little of his disquisition. There was no use begging for more clarity. I returned to my first purpose. “I ask only a favor, sir. I know you said there is little we can do, but can you ask once more if there’s some way we might gain Little Goat’s freedom sooner?”

I saw a relief in his eyes that I was no longer speaking of that regrettable (to him) moment.

“I’ll do what I can, lad. I promise. While I have scant hope, it can’t hurt to try. But I need you to be at your best this season. We’re hoping to build a new outdoor playhouse. It will be the likes of none that has ever been seen. But to fill its pit and galleries, we’ll need to expand our reputation even more. The company is depending on you. I’m depending on you.”

Twenty-SevenThe Rival Poet

Wherein Mister Willy Hughes encounters a poet of a different hue.

But now my gracious numbers are decayed,

And my sick muse doth give another place.

—from Sonnet 79

The first week of April brought utter madness. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men were performing six days a week—a different play every afternoon. Meanwhile, we were practicing and developing several new plays. While doing all that, we apprentices were still expected to deliver pamphlets, raise the flags of comedy, tragedy, or history above the playhouse, beat our drums, and call out the afternoon’s plays around the markets. My only moments to ruminate over my ruined heart were in the minutes before I fell asleep. For this I should have been grateful, but I was desperately searching for the key to freeing myself from the incessant and pitiable longing. And so it came—or rather, he came.