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households both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene—” he began.
    “’Tis never,” Edmund repeated.
    “From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean—”
    Edmund made a sound between a scream and a shout. He turned to me, and his face, which had been almost relaxed when he came out of the shower, was full of horror.
    “Witch, by what enchantment have ye conjured up me brother William’s play?”
     
    Chapter Four
    “William Shakespeare is your brother?”
    “Aye, if my parents are my parents and the world is the world,” he said.
    “You said your last name was Shakeshaft.”
    “Shakeshaft, Shakespeare, ’tis the same thing—the family goes by either. I use Shakeshaft to difference me from Will.”
    I hit the pause button. The Chorus stopped with his mouth open.
    “What devilishness is this?” Edmund asked. “What trick.ery? I thought ye honest, Miranda Hoberman, and kind, too. But now I take ye for a sly witch after all. Did ye pluck yon from my memory? What else have ye taken from me?”
    “Edmund,” I said. “Get a grip. There’s a simple explana.tion. We’re still doing the play. Now. People today.”
    “Four hundred years and more after we opened it?” Ed.mund said. “Go to. It isn’t that good!”
    “We think it is,” I said.
    “Who thinks so?” Edmund demanded.
    “The whole world, pretty much. Romeo and Juliet gets done everywhere. Not just England. Here, too. Russia. Ja.pan. Canada. Everywhere.”
    “Never.”
    “Edmund, you know how you think Doctor Dee is the greatest man of the age? Well, that’s what most of us think about William Shakespeare. Probably not one person in a hundred now knows anything about John Dee. But every.body knows Shakespeare’s name.”
    Edmund looked totally shocked. “Ye’re lying! Ye must be. But why? Why do ye tell me this?”
    “I can prove it,” I said. “Wait right there.”
    I went into the little room that Dad had used as his office when he was working out of our home. There were two walls of books in there. One was all his psychology stuff. The other was my mom’s. It held her nursing books and a whole lot of stuff on theater. On the bottom shelf on that side was a big red book called The Riverside Shakespeare. It had all the plays. I flipped it open to Romeo and Juliet.
    “Look,” I said, and I dumped the book in Edmund’s lap. “If you’re Edmund Shakeshaft or Shakespeare, and William was your brother, then this is his book. And Romeo and Ju.liet’s on page ten fifty-eight.”
    Edmund touched the title like he couldn’t help himself. “The Prologue…” he said. “Enter Chorus…”
    Carefully, he turned one page after another. His lips moved. “Sampson. Gregory. Benvolio. Romeo. Mercu.tio.” He went through the play until he came to the last scene. “Aye, ’tis all here, seemingly,” he said. “Ye spell pass.ing strangely, howbeit. Every word alike every time.”
    “We think you spelled strangely,” I pointed out.
    “But ’twas our language. Ye’re only using it,” Edmund said. Then he turned back to the beginning of the book. “’Tis a thick volume indeed. What more be in it?”
    He studied the pages. Some of these were copied from the First Folio, the original collection of all Shakespeare’s plays, back in 1623. “A catalog of the several comedies, histories and tragedies contained in this volume,” he read. “Comedies. The Tempest. No, he’s written no such play.”
    “Not yet,” I said. “We think that was his last one.”
    “Two Gentlemen of Verona, aye,” he went on. “The Merry Wives of Windsor. That’s the new one. Measure For Measure, no. The Comedy of Errors, yes.”
    He went through the whole list, going “aye” and “nay.” Then he looked at the other pages from the First Folio.
    One of these was his brother’s portrait, and when he saw it, he hooted.
    “Will, ha, ha, ’tis Will. Oh, I wish the fellow could see this picture