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“As you from crimes would pardoned be,
Let your indulgence set me free.”
The Poet Laureate closed the book and bowed.
The room applauded politely, then transformed into a buzz of conversation.
I got ready to head over to Pearce.
“Wasn’t that beautiful?” The blonde woman beside me asked, wiping away a tear. “I adore Shakespeare.”
“It really was,” I said, exaggerating a noble accent, but speaking the truth.
“Your hair is exceptional,” she said. “It reminds me of Madam Zenitha’s work.”
“It is her work,” I said, trying to politely move away so I could keep track of Pearce.
“I knew it!” said the woman. “I purchased my wig from her shop just today!”
I eyed the familiar hair, the pale blonde locks curling and flowing over her shoulders. The color, the texture . . . it seemed Zenitha had wasted no time at all having my hair made into a wig. I felt a mixture of pride and repulsion.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said. “Thank you for the seat. Now if you’ll please excuse me.” I stood and curtsied.
She bowed her head, smiling sincerely. “You’re very welcome!”
Pearce stood by the tapestry at the front of the room speaking with the Poet Laureate. I made my way past the chatting audience members, pushing closer to him.
The book the poet had read from sat on a podium. I picked upThe Tempest, examining the aged brown leather cover, the embossed title faded so I could only see the indentation but no color.
“Excuse my interruption, dear Madam,” said the Poet Laureate. “I pray thee, please release this ancient tome.” He eagerly reached for the book, taking it from my hands.
Even in his frustration, he stayed true to the characteristic iambic pentameter Poet Laureates were praised for.
“Oh! Please forgive me, Poet. I only picked it up because I desired to read again a phrase I did not fully understand.” I glanced up at Pearce from under the fringe of my lashes, hoping the damsel in distress act might work in my favor.
His face looked impassable and unmoved, his deep-set eyes wandering the room.
But the Poet looked eager. “Which line dost thou not comprehend, pray tell?”
I paused, glancing between the two men. The last thing I wanted was to get caught in a long-winded conversation with a man who insisted on speaking in sentences no shorter than ten syllables.
It seemed I had to be more direct. “In truth, I hoped Sir Pearce might enlighten me.” I smiled demurely.
Pearce looked back at me, gray eyebrows raised.
I curtsied deeply. “Sir Pearce, I know of no other scholar as well-versed as you. Would you possibly attend me and impart your knowledge?”
The Poet smiled. “Though I could help, the lady speaks the truth.”
Pearce frowned and started to shake his head.
I remembered Dominic’s mention of his grandfather’s weakness for brandy. “Perhaps I could fetch you a drink, sir. Wine? Or . . . brandy, perhaps?”
Pearce’s thin lips finally turned up, brightening the hollows of his face just a little. “I’d graciously accept a brandy if you would be so kind, milady.”
I bowed again. “Thank you, most honorable sir. I will return shortly.”
I shuffled out of the room with the remaining audience members. I hoped the Poet Laureate would take his leave as well, leaving me to Pearce.
