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“Yes … no … in a way.” He looked askance for a moment and then looked at me again most seriously. “Is there a lass you currently love, lad?”

“No, sir,” I whispered, feeling even further from my heart’s aim. “There is no lass.”

He slowly crossed back to the bed, then flopped on his back, before saying, “You know, I was the same age as you when I married. Of course, my wife, Anne, was six and twenty.”

“That is the same age difference as you and I,” I said, brightening, hoping the coincidence meant something.

“Well, not quite. Anne and I were eight years apart, you and I are ten. Of course, we married because we didn’t have much of a choice, you know, because Anne was already with … well …” He flustered. “It’s not important.” He turned on his side to face me. Rather than being my superior and a renowned poet, he suddenly felt more like my dear friend and confidant. “But you say you love no one at the moment?”

“I didn’t say that, sir.” I sat on the bed next to him, and he did not protest. I again looked over at him with my eyes in their most innocent and yet inviting state. “There is one I love at the moment, but to confess such a thing is difficult when it’s forbidden.”

“So true,” he said, as if my words had touched something. “Forbidden love is gut wrenching and quite powerful. It’s …” He pulled his eyes again from mine as if he didn’t want me to see whatever truth they might hold. “The fact is, we all must marry and sire children, Hughes. Even more so for one such as you. For you to remain childless is cruel, not only to you, but to the world. That’s what my sonnet is saying. Your gifts of beauty and talent mustn’t die with you. If you were one of the other lesser boys like Sam or Beeston, I wouldn’t care. In fact, I pray Beeston has no children for the good of humanity. But boys like you and Alex simply can’t begrudge the world your gifts. You need to find yourselves wives and bear sons and daughters as exquisite as yourselves—give England your beautiful heirs that can carry your treasure into the future.”

Oh, what a muddle he caused in my mind and heart! That he had written me a poem set my heart in flames, but at the same time the subject of the poem—to marry in order to spawn heirs—further confused my already bewildered heart.

I handed him back his sonnet. “I have no interest in marrying and having babies, sir. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“You’re too stubborn!” he groaned. “It’s not like you need to be besotted with some wench to get her with child. God knows I wasn’t when I married Anne. But you make the best of it.”

“It’s not that, sir.” How blunt must I be? I lowered my voice. “I’m not made that way, sir. I’ve always been a little …” I made an Italian gesture, twisting my hand this way and that, hoping he’d finally understand, but his eyes remained frustratingly blank. “Come now, sir, you must see that I am different than other boys. When I was younger, the bullies on the street would push me, and call me bugger and Ganymede. Some still do. Do you take my meaning, sir?”

I watched his face to see if the candle in his brain would light.

“I understand,” he said. “But you’re still young, and …” He must’ve seen my face twinge at the comment because he stopped himself, and then, after a breath, his eyes grew soft, and his voice gentler. “You are not alone, Hughes. There are others whose hearts are of a varied nature.”

“Varied, sir?”

“I mean, others whose love does not follow the usual path.” He tilted his head and looked deeply into my eyes, as if to say, Can’t you see?

“Who are the others, sir?” I asked, wanting him to be solid in his meaning. “Them others who are ‘varied’?”

Alas, I could see from his face that the doors to his heart were closing once again. He dismissed my inquiry with a wave of his hand.

“It’s not important.” He then retrieved a different sheet of paper from the desk and returned to the bed. “Read this one next.”

I looked at the black squiggles on the page and could only recognize a few of the words. “What’s this sonnet about? Do you want me to sire a litter of kittens as well, sir?”

He laughed at my jest, which warmed the moment. “This one isn’t a sonnet,” he said. “It’s a speech from a play I will call The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.”

“I see. It sounds most … erm … tragic, sir.”

“It is.” As he handed it to me, I could see a shyness flush his cheeks. “I’m writing this specifically for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. You would play Juliet.”

My skin tingled with both joy and trepidation. First a sonnet and now a new play! This had to signify something more than casual affection. “My character’s name in the title?”

“Yes. You deserve it.” He stood over my shoulder looking at the pages in my hand. “This speech is from the ending.”

“It’s finished?”

“No. Really, I’ve only completed a few scenes. But after I saw your performance, hearing your voice in my ears, this speech flowed from my fingers in but an hour. Juliet dies at the end—a very long and lamentable death that shall flood the penny stinkards’ eyes with tears.”

My face lit up even brighter. “You mean I get to die in front of everyone?” Only the best actors like Burbage got to do highly dramatic death scenes on the stage. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

“So, would you care to give it a go?”