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“Nearly her twin,” Sam said. “While you are thinner than she, the dress and the hair make you larger.”

“By Saint George,” Little Goat added. “If I were a papist I should instantly go to confession for this sin.”

“Hush!” I said. “Now, both of you, get to your tasks. Little Goat, limp quickly please. Cry ‘woot-woot’ up to my window when all is well and we should make our moves.”

It was but a short time later when I heard the signal. I drew a shawl over my hair and shoulders and made my way to the Nags Head. My heart pounded beneath my false bosoms. I naturally worried someone might recognize me at the alehouse, but as I walked through the downstairs, not a soul said a word—not even my whore of a mother. All believed me to be some mysterious beauty.

When I arrived upstairs at Rose’s room, I knocked on the door to be safe. As suspected, the room was both empty and unlocked, so I let myself inside. It was most untidy. Clothes and shoes were strewn about and by the window was the large vanity filled with perfumes, combs, powders and small pots of vermilion and kohl. I crossed to the shutters and opened them. There, across the alley, just as I knew he would be, the Poet sat at his writing desk. He looked over, smiled, and blew me a kiss, which I returned. It’s working! I truly am a genius.

I sat at the vanity and, seeing myself in the glass for the first time, gasped at how much Little Goat had made me look like Rose. I fiddled with my hair as she might and copied her arrogant manner as I admired my (her!) beauty. I felt haughtier than myself, more powerful, more desirable. Is this what it feels like to be her? I pulled the glass stopper from her etui of Queen of Hungary Water and drew its wet, rosemary-scented tip across my throat. Now, I even smelled like her.

But then, I heard the squeak of the floorboards just outside the room. Sam must have arrived early! “But soft,” I called out in the false voice. “My love! You’ve arrived! Do come in!”

The door slowly swung open and, rather than Sam dressed as Burbage, I heard a woman’s voice. “Am I interrupting something?” she said. “My love?”

My stomach wrenched in terror. It was Rose. “Bollocks!” I cried, leaping to close the shutters so the Poet wouldn’t see double.

When I looked back, her face wore a half smile. “Who do we have here?” she asked, crossing the room and pushing me back down in the vanity chair. Now, as we both looked into the mirror, I could see us right next to each other—in truth, Little Goat had outdone himself.

How long had she been at the door? Did she peep through and see me ogling myself? What happens when Sam walks in dressed as Burbage? “Um … hello. What …” I stammered. “Are you doing here?”

“In my rooms?” she mocked.

“I mean—”

“If you’re wondering why that ridiculous note of yours didn’t work, you’d have to know my husband is illiterate and never would have written such a message. Also, he’s in Whitefriars today. I caught hold of your accomplices waiting across the street. The little lame messenger, suddenly healed as if in a miracle, ran off. But the taller, homely boy, wearing Burbage’s stolen coat and hat quickly confessed you were up here in my rooms. Very clumsy work, my dear.” Her lips curled with amusement as her black eyebrows arched with curiosity. “Now, what in the world are you up to?” she purred, leaning her head right next to mine in the mirror. “Look at us. How beautiful we are.” She flicked at my black lamb’s curls. “Who are you playing today, boy? Juliet? Queen Anne?”

The mocking sound in her voice as she called me “boy” returned the fire to my belly. I was already a man, and she knew it.

“Clearly,” I said with an acid tongue, “I am the Whore of Babylon.”

Her smile wavered as I hit my mark, but then she held her back erect and clapped. “Well done, lad. Though not perfect, you’ve made an admirable try.” She touched the shading on the bare part of my chest and then her own. “And you even managed to increase my bosom somewhat.” She inhaled the Queen of Hungary Water off my neck. “Don’t we smell pretty. So, what was your plan? Pretend to be me? To what end? Defile my reputation, is that it?”

“You’ve done that well enough yourself,” I snapped.

Her smile dropped and her eyes became cold black slits; she most certainly had the upper hand. Any moment she might throw open the shutters and reveal me to the Poet. I quickly tossed away my bitter tongue and begged, “Please don’t tell Will. It was a silly jest. I’m really sorry … I should go now.” I stood up, and she forcefully pulled me back down to the bench.

“Not so fast.” She plucked at the dark curls of my wig, adjusting it to look even more like her. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell Will. But I will say this silly rivalry between us needs to stop. I want you and I to be friends. Will wants us to be friends.”

“I don’t think I want to be your friend,” I said.

She began adjusting my dress as if I were a life-sized poppet. She hung a strand of yellow beads around my neck and straightened the rose in my hair. “How funny to be an actor,” she said, “playing at being other people. Considering all people are basically playing at being themselves … or rather, playing at being who they think others want them to be.” She looked again at our images in the mirror and spoke in a whisper. “You’ve been playing all your life, haven’t you, William Hughes?”

That she used my full name unsettled me. How much does she know about me? “I don’t know what you mean.”

She scoffed. “Surely you do, Willy.”

Her black eyes sent chills up my neck. She somehow had discovered my secret. I was sure of it. “I really should go.” I stood up to leave.

“I’m not finished with you, Willy.” She pushed me down again. “Let me fix you. If you are to portray me then do it right at least.” She took a napkin and rubbed the rouge off my cheeks. Then, using some of her own vermilion, she began applying it to my face. Looking at herself and then at me, then again at herself, and again at me. “I have always found myself drawn to flitty, creative young men like yourself. Young men who once played in their mother’s aprons; fragile young men who got picked on by the brutal boys; young men who prefer the company of women not for sport, but because they feel a kinship with us.” She looked at me in the mirror and sighed. “My God, you truly are exceptional. Just as he said.”

“Who said?”

“You know who. Our handsome, careless poet. The one who torments us both by forever putting us second to his plays. Those of us with too great a passion can feel drawn to those with an icy heart, do we not?”

Her words stung, for they were truth. Before I could respond, she picked up a brush, dipped it in a small dish of kohl, and outlined my eyes. Our similarity increased.

“Of course,” she continued, “on those rare occasions when he does truly see us, speaks of our importance to him, it’s as if he scoops out whatever is petty or fearful on our insides and fills that empty space with all his fire. And in those moments, we not only feel truly loved, but also utterly and completely powerful—like we’ve always imagined ourselves to be.”