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then?” Realizing I’d asked yet another question, I added quickly, “An you don’t mind me asking.”
    “If ‘not going well’ is the Yorkshire way of saying ‘a total shambles,’ then yes, I’d say that’s an accurate assessment.” Helifted his tankard and, finding it empty, rapped it on the table. When the innkeeper had filled it, Mr. Shakespearetook a long draught of ale and then sighed again. “At this point the play has no title. I suppose I could name it after the main character, Timon, but that seems a bit dull.”
    “You called
Hamlet
after the main character,” I pointed out.
    “Yes, well, this is not
Hamlet
. More’s the pity.”
    “Most of the wights seem to ha’ Roman names: Lucius, Sempronius, Flaminius. Is that where it’s set, then?”
    “That was my plan, originally. But considering how cold the climate is these days for Catholics, I thought it would be wiser to choose some non-Papist country.”
    At a nearby table, a quartet of well-dressed wights who had clearly swallowed too many tokens, as they say, had been trading drunken insults for some little while. Now their dispute suddenly turned physical. It might have escalated into a duel with rapiers and daggers had not one of their number suddenly been seized by the urge to bring up all the ale he had consumed, even more quickly than it had gone down.
    When the cursing innkeeper had chased them out and set about mopping up the mess, I said, “I don’t ken how you manage to write anything down here, wi’ all the hurly-burly.”
    “I seem to work better where there’s life going on about me. It’s far too quiet in my lodgings—not to mention cold. Besides, I like to read the dialogue aloud. My landlord disapproves of theatre folk enough as it is; if he were to catch me ranting to an empty room, he’d likely call a constable and have me evicted. But here”—he gestured at a table across the room, where a grizzled man in a dyer’s apron was apparently having a spirited discussion with a meat pie—”no one even notices.” Mr. Shakespeare took another swig of ale. “All right, then. Where did I leave off?”
    I did my best to read his scrawl. “
Flavius:
‘The greatest of your having lacks a half to pay your present … belts’?”
    “
Belts?
“ echoed Mr. Shakespeare. “Where does it say ‘belts’?” I pointed to the word in question. “Oh. It’s
debts
. Go on.”
    “
Timon:
‘Let all my land be solid—
sold
.’ That’s where you stopped.”
    He stared out the window again, fingering his earring. “
Flavius:
“Tis all engaged, some forfeited, some …’ No. ‘Some forfeited and gone. And what remains … and what remains will hardly stop the mouth of present dues; the future comes apace.”‘ He glanced at the paper. “Am I going too rapidly?”
    “Nay, I’ve got it. See?” Though Mr. Shakespeare’s hand was difficult for anyone but himself to decipher, mine was impossible, for I had used the system of swift writing taught to me by Dr. Bright, my first master. The passage I had put down looked like this:

    Mr. Shakespeare waved the paper away. “I’ll take your word on it, Widge. Let’s proceed.” But before he could dictate another word, a slim, beardless fellow with black hair that was pulled back into a horse’s tail strode up to the table and, without a by-your-leave, blurted out, “Will! I must speak to you! At once!”

6
    M r. Shakespeare turned to his brother with a look that would have made anyone with an ounce of tact apologize and return at some better time. Instead, Ned glared accusingly at me, as though I were the intruder. “Don’t you have something else to do, Widge?”
    I, in turn, looked to Mr. Shakespeare. “Shall I …?”
    “Yes, yes, go on,” he said. “We’ll work some more this afternoon.”
    I slid from the booth and Ned took my place, so impatiently that he trod on my foot. As I headed upstairs, I heard Mr. Shakespeare say wearily, “What is it
this
time,