Kit felt the glow of his happiness flicker. “What do you mean?”
Tom sighed. “Kit, don’t. You’re misunderstanding me on purpose.”
It was not on purpose. “But—”
“I’m not saying I’m ashamed.” Tom propped himself up on an elbow. Kit forced himself to focus on Tom’s words instead of the sweep of freckles along his chest, this lean bare body right next to him, touching him, his. It was so damned hard to focus. “God’s death, I think I want this more than you do. I’ve been daring myself to ask you for almost a year.”
“A year?”
God. More than three hundred days of heaven wasted. Kit could have wept.
“But you know we have to be careful.”
Tom was right. The law was clear, though Kit couldn’t remember an instance of its ever having been enforced. Sodomy was punishable by death, along with a whole brood of sins Saint Paul had sprinkled into his verbose letters to the Corinthians. In the rush of warmth still flooding his body, he’d forgotten what was now becoming inescapable—that speaking the truth about anything would undo him. Even something as beautiful as this.
“Don’t worry,” Kit said. “I can keep a secret.” He could say the words, but could not keep the bitterness out of them.
Tom, sensing Kit’s discomfort, lay back and wrapped one arm around Kit’s shoulders. Kit nestled into the space with a sigh, taking comfort where it was offered. “Have you told Norgate you’re back?” Tom asked.
A heavy-handed change of subject, but at this point, Kit would take it. “He did most of the talking,” he said. “I’m held to the same requirements this term as everyone else, he said. So if you need me, I’ll be neck-deep in last month’s reading, trying not to kill myself.”
Discussing his absence with the master without knowing how much Norgate knew had been like trying to embroider a tapestry with a broadsword. Frankly, Kit still didn’t understand how he’d disappeared for almost two months and escaped without punishment. He supposed he had Walsingham’s interference to thank. The average scholar couldn’t pack his bags and vanish without consequences. More than that, he couldn’t say.
“You’re brilliant, Kit,” Tom said, interrupting the memory. “Mad, yes. A complete idiot, absolutely. But brilliant. You’ll be fine.”
Kit felt his chest contract around his heart, making each beat twice as resonant. He’d seen that spark in Tom’s eyes. In a life built on lies, he needed no more truth than this.
“I can help you study, if you like. And if you start to doze off…”
Tom shifted out from beneath Kit’s back. Kit whined, resenting the distance, but not for long. Tom moved to lay a soft kiss in the curve where Kit’s neck met his shoulder. And then another, lower, along his collarbone. And another, lower still.
“I know a few ways to keep you entertained,” Tom murmured. Kit shivered. The brush of Tom’s breath whispered along his belly, and then, lower, to—
“Plague on the fucking sacrament, Tom, Jesus—”
The vibration of Tom’s laugh was almost too much for Kit to bear. “God, are you always this vocal?”
Twelve
Kit flinched, barely preventing himself from falling asleep. Even with lit candles clustered on the long table in front of him, the small reading room off the main Cambridge library was dim. It was six in the morning and felt like three. Across the table, Master Seymour watched him without speaking. Judging from the expectant way he’d interlaced his long, tapered fingers, he must have asked a question, though Kit had no idea what it had been.
He looked at the poetics professor, wide-eyed and half asleep. “I’m sorry, sir. I…what?”
Seymour sighed. “Marlowe, have you always been unable to function before seven, or is this a new development?”
In response, Kit yawned.
Seymour shook his head and gestured at the book open on the table between them. The volume was massive, a thousand pages if anything, and in Kit’s state the words bore no resemblance to English. “I asked you to translate this paragraph of Longinus, if you recall.”
Kit squinted at the page, then winced. That was why it didn’t look like English. It was Greek. He might be months away from a master of arts, but there was no way in hell he could manage Greek translation this morning. He could barely manage consciousness.
Any other Cambridge fellow would have abandoned Kit to his ruin after such an abysmal performance. But then, no other fellow would have been in the reading room at six in the morning, tutoring a student as far behind and ill regarded as Kit. Seymour had always been kinder to Kit than he deserved. He’d met with Kit after classes for hour-long far-ranging discussions of Ovid, recommended books of poetry and history that might interest him. He’d even read scenes of Tamburlaine in early drafts, an honor Kit had granted no one else, not even Tom. Kit suspected Seymour was the only reason he hadn’t been expelled years ago. Without his help, Kit would never graduate, that was certain. But at the moment, he was too tired to muster any gratitude. Ten days had passed since his return to Cambridge, and he was no nearer to catching up than the night he’d stumbled in. He hadn’t slept for more than thirty consecutive minutes in at least a week.
Of course, Tom was partly responsible for Kit’s late nights. But he preferred to blame Norgate and the ancient Greeks.
“Marlowe?” Seymour prompted.
Kit stared at the impenetrable page of Longinus. Unless the Delphic oracle itself appeared in the library and intoned the answer unto him, there was no hope. He looked up at Seymour with helplessness so total the professor didn’t need to ask again.
“Marlowe, you have to sleep,” Seymour said. “I know you have reading to complete, but a degree isn’t worth dying for.”
Kit’s laugh echoed off the dusty bookshelves. He arched his back, felt his vertebrae pop, and winced. “Would you mind letting Master Norgate know, sir?”
“Hang Norgate,” Seymour said. Kit’s eyes widened, surprised at the professor’s vehemence. “I know you. You’re one of the few students in this damned school who aspires to anything beyond running errands for the Privy Council.” Seymour was too intent on his point to notice Kit color at this. If he’d only known about the errands the Privy Council already had Kit running. “But if you insist on working to the point of death, you’ll ruin yourself before you get the chance.”
For any other student, Seymour was right; a degree wasn’t worth dying for. Tom had his parents’ fortune in London. Nick had the family estate near Wentworth. If they failed, they’d survive. But if Kit slunk out of Cambridge with his tail between his legs, he’d die as he was born, the worthless son of an unlettered shoemaker. He’d seen that future too clearly in Canterbury to forget it. Employment from Walsingham or not, Kit needed this degree if he was ever to become anything. And he’d do whatever it took to get it.
He smiled at Seymour, acknowledging and dismissing the advice at once. “Doesn’t Longinus say greatness comes on the back of suffering, sir?”
“So you can read Greek,” Seymour said. “Still, even On the Sublime wouldn’t condone two weeks without sleep.”
“Forgive the interruption, Master,” came a voice from beyond the door. “I need to borrow Marlowe a moment.”
At these words, Kit was wide awake. Without turning, he could see the puritanical man who had spoken, that unreadable expression, that perfect posture. Kit felt Seymour’s skeptical gaze over his shoulder but didn’t dare meet it. He rose as Walsingham stepped into the room. In the hovering glow of candlelight, the secretary reminded him of a priest entering the nave of Canterbury’s cathedral, back when Kit’s mother had dragged him to services. He could only hope the mental comparison boded grace, rather than martyrdom.
“You know this man?” Seymour asked.
Kit nodded. For a moment, he toyed with telling Seymour the truth. Sir, meet Sir Francis Walsingham, the qu
een’s spymaster, here to kill me for disappearing to Canterbury without warning. Instead, he tossed out the first lie that came to mind. “A solicitor, sir,” he said. “He handled my father’s affairs when I was home.”
Walsingham inclined his head in wry concession. For a moment, Kit feared that Seymour saw through the lie—no man like Walsingham would take the case of an illiterate drunk. Then, with a sigh, Seymour stood. He said nothing as he left, but he gave Kit a lingering look, exhorting him to remember what he’d said about self-preservation.
Walsingham closed the door. As he turned again toward Kit, the candles caught the sharp planes of his face, casting gold light and deep shadow in turns. His footsteps made no sound against the wooden floor.
Kit took a step back. “Master Norgate didn’t mention you were coming.”
“I come and go as I wish,” Walsingham said. The calm of his tone warred with the storm on his brow. “A privilege, I might add, that is not granted to you.”
Walsingham stood a foot from Kit now. The room, once large enough, now felt as narrow as a coffin. At least that settled the question of grace or martyrdom. Kit took another step back—the last possible step, as the wall of books brushed against his shoulders. He looked to the floor, courage failing.
Walsingham gripped Kit by the chin and jerked his head up until their eyes met. His grasp remained there a long moment. Kit’s jaw tightened. In Canterbury, in Cambridge taverns, he’d broken men’s noses for less than that.
“Do you have any idea,” Walsingham said, “how unpleasant it is to explain to Her Majesty that the spy I expected to find in Cambridge has vanished?” He did not release Kit so much as shove him away.
Kit did not break his gaze. Walsingham would soon learn that frightening Kit was harder than he thought. Even if the words Her Majesty had sent a thrill down Kit’s spine. “Very unpleasant, I imagine,” he said.
“You were to come directly to Cambridge,” Walsingham said. “What part of that was unclear?”
Kit gritted his teeth. Don’t stutter. Don’t break. “My sister—”
“What about her?” It was barely a question.
“She died, sir.”
Walsingham’s laugh sounded like a gunshot. “I don’t care if she became queen of Portugal. You had orders.”
Kit’s fingers, with more daring than his brain, curled into fists. Walsingham and Bradley merged into one co-extant source of hatred, a single sneering voice: I don’t care, not the husband’s fault, should have kept her legs together. That laugh. Kit had failed Jane in every way that mattered, but to endure that laugh in silence would be a new betrayal.
“Do you think as secretary I could afford to lose my head with self-pity every time I heard of a death?” Walsingham said.
“I doubt it, sir. That would require your knowing what pity meant.”
The back of Walsingham’s hand struck Kit across the jaw like the flat of a sword. Kit turned with the blow, his opposite cheek flush with the shelf of books behind his head. His gasp cut through the library’s new stillness. He raised one hand to his jaw and ran one hand along the line of it, tender beneath his fingers. The humiliation was sharper than the pain. A blow for an unruly servant. No, even when he’d been a footman, no one had dared. Like kicking a dog.
Walsingham stepped away. “You are not important enough to be insolent, Marlowe,” he said, turning his back.
Kit drew his fragmented dignity around him like a hawk settling its feathers. His shoulders would not relax, but there was nothing for that. Only so much calm could be expected. Walsingham had crossed back to the table, where he produced two pieces of paper from an inner pocket of his doublet. They landed on the reading table, folded in half and unsealed. Kit approached, curiosity cutting through the shame.
“We’ve managed to intercept some of the Scot’s letters to Babington,” Walsingham said, gesturing to the papers. “Poley, who it seems you met, had them copied out.”
Kit did not reach to take them. “Why bring them here, sir?” he asked. “Shouldn’t Whitehall—”
The remainder of the sentence died in the face of Walsingham’s expression. He gestured at the pages, inviting Kit to read them. Not without reservations, Kit picked up the first sheet and unfolded it. Stunned, he let it fall from numb fingers.
This was the letter he’d sought at Sheffield. That he’d believed would reveal everything. It stared up from the table, its contents projecting between spy and spymaster. A full page of shapes, signs, symbols. Meticulously printed and meaningless. No alphabet Kit had ever seen. An impossible tangle of cipher, without a key.
Kit looked up from the table. He began to speak, then again abandoned his sentence midway through.
“You see the issue,” Walsingham said. Spotting On the Sublime still open on the table, he nodded. “But you should make short work of this. Small step from Greek to cipher.”
It wasn’t so small a step as that, but nothing in Walsingham’s manner suggested that contradiction would be welcome.
“For your work in Yorkshire,” the spymaster added, and pressed a small purse into Kit’s hand. “Somewhat in arrears, though I won’t take the blame for that.”
Kit stowed it in his pocket without looking at it. He’d done this for money, but it hardly felt like salary now. More like the bribe you passed a politician after threatening to cut out his tongue. And besides, he’d taken his payment into his own hands earlier, as Gregory had no doubt noticed by this point.
Walsingham turned. His movement cast a long, distorted shadow against the wall of books, darkening their spines. “Meet Gregory at ten o’clock on the first and fifteenth to report your progress toward breaking the cipher. The usual place.”
“Yes, sir,” Kit said, but by then, Walsingham had already gone.
Kit sank into the chair and slumped forward, head in his hands. The two worlds on either side of the door, Cambridge within and London without, had collided with the force of two continents, leaving the library’s former peace in ruins. The book-covered desks of the Cambridge library, the faint trace of tobacco clinging to the clothes he hadn’t changed from the night before, the philosophical wanderings of the ancient Greeks—what did any of that matter when Walsingham could shatter his world at any moment? How stupid he’d been, to think he could do this.
His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. Christ. Could he not have a moment without—
“Tom,” he said.
Tom smiled as he stepped into the library, a volume of Plato under one arm. Last-minute work to complete on his end as well, then. Kit shouldn’t have been surprised. He had, so to speak, been monopolizing Tom’s evenings lately. On any other morning, this unexpected arrival would have been perfection. Now, what could he say? Walsingham had bought his ability to speak.
“Wake me when you leave next time,” Tom said. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. “Gets cold, the bed all to myse—” He broke off, staring at the red sting rising along Kit’s jaw.
“It’s nothing,” Kit said, turning away.
Tom sat beside Kit, inches between them, and set his book on the table. “Christ, clearly it’s not nothing.”
The breath caught in Kit’s throat. But Tom had placed the book on top of the letters, its leather covers hiding Walsingham’s prize. Tom hadn’t seen. A stroke of luck. Well, he was overdue for one.
“It was an accident,” Kit said. “I fell.” Damnation, he could lie to anyone else, why couldn’t he lie to Tom to save his life? What kind of fall would leave a mark like this?
Tom rested one hand on Kit’s knee. The fingers of his other hand tapped against the table, counting out the rhythm of a question. “Tell me one thing?” He faltered. Tom, who was never at a loss. “It’s not, you haven’t been going to, to town, have you?”
Kit blinked. “Have I been to a whorehouse, do you mean?”<
br />
Now it was Tom’s turn to flush and look elsewhere. “Tell me if you have,” he said, addressing the floor. “You’ve been up late, gone early, and I know you used to like— What?”
Kit couldn’t fault Tom for his irritation. He’d burst out laughing before the end of the question. As if his distraction and imminent bruise were the result of an overzealous city girl. Prostitutes? Jealousy? If it were only that. “Tom, now that you’ve shown me the light,” he said, “most whores are missing a fairly important piece of anatomy.”
“And that man leaving the library?” Tom asked, his irritation rising now—Kit had pushed him too far. “I suppose he’s nothing too?”
God and Christ. Tom had seen Walsingham. Had the spymaster said anything? And if Tom guessed, what then? Not only would Kit be exposed, but Tom would be implicated. He’d have given anything to tell Tom the truth—surely he owed him that much. But for the sake of the hand now holding his, the body intertwined with his in the dark, this man he was discovering he would do anything for, he would lie, and lie, and lie.
“Tom,” he said, “it’s better if you don’t ask.”
Tom looked at Kit with the discernment of an aspiring lawyer. For a moment, Kit feared he would press the point. Fragile and startled as he was, Kit would say something he’d regret. But then Tom sighed and squeezed Kit’s hand. “I’ve told you the most dangerous secret I have,” he said. “I don’t know what else you need before you trust me.”
Kit would bear any danger. Put his own life at risk, fine. But to hear that betrayal in Tom’s voice, know he was the cause, and have no power to change it stung with something sharper than guilt. If Walsingham knew what Kit’s loyalty cost him. There was only one thing he could do. He took Tom’s cheek in one hand and kissed him, open door be damned. Tom hesitated a moment, surprised, before returning it. It was the first time they’d ever kissed for any reason other than passion or affection. This kind of kiss was an apology, and it was a kind Kit wished he’d never had to learn.
“It’s not my secret,” Kit said, the words barely above a breath. “I’m sorry.”
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