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Stormhold Castle is as gold and glinting as the first sunrise after a storm, and Captain Shakespeare is honestly not sure what's more exciting: the gilt-edged Guest of Honour invitation in his pocket, the two dozen English villagers who don't have the faintest idea who he is, or his red silk drawers which are adding a delightful frisson to every step he takes.
What's the point of becoming king of a magical kingdom if you can't invite everyone who's known you since birth to come see you get crowned? Tristan's scribbled message on his personal invitation had asked, in a hand more used to grocery orders than royal missives, and Shakespeare quite agrees. It’s tres magnifique.
This chamber for his honoured guests is set high up in the palace proper, overlooking the colosseum-like courtyard below where the coronation will soon take place. It is, of course, dazzling—far below every lantern is burning bright and fierce as the watchful stars above, and in here everything is gold-brushed and sparkling, the high ceiling lit by a thousand candles, the air scented with sweet pine and spice and something that makes the fireplaces burn a deep, vibrant red.
Shakespeare clasps his hands behind his back, surveying the room, and considers how to introduce himself. He has always dreamed of London society, of that impossible, incredible world where manners and social graces rule above all else, where magic lives in the minds of men instead of the trees and the skies and the bellies of animals. This grand room filled with provincial villagers huddled like geese under the vaulted ceiling is, perhaps, not what he ever imagined, but the thrill of it still sits in his stomach like butterflies, colourful and hidden like every other delicate thing in his life.
The candles above make the villager's scant shadows dart like fish under their feet. Their chatter is as indistinguishable as their clothes, all grey and turned inward, and behind him his crew are on their best behaviour, merely swarming the buffet like seagulls and only pocketing things that look like they're asking to be stolen. Shakespeare stands between the two worlds, in the centre of this glittering bauble, and wonders if he should be the ruthless marauder or the valiant rescuer, the local guide or the wide-eyed tourist. Being the most feared pirate in all of Stormhold is, perhaps, not the best foot to put forward in a sea of unfriendly waterfowl.
Perhaps he should propose a toast to Tristan, just to catch their attention. He glances towards the window, up to where Yvaine’s sisters are watching with incandescent intensity in the ink-blue sky, and then every thought is burned away to smoke because there is the most exquisite creature he's seen in, oh, at least a decade, standing at the base of it.
Good lord, it's like someone made a sculpture of his ideal man, wished it to life and then buttoned him up in well-cut black. He's half-hidden on the other side of the gaggle of villagers, a gentleman by the look of his clothes, and in the shifting glimpses Shakespeare can catch the man looks polished as a crown jewel, all golden hair and strong jaw and shoulders made for expensive tailoring.
He looks lonely, too. Shakespeare can admire the line of his neck because he's looking out the window, standing apart from his fellow Englishmen, and after a long moment of impertinent staring the man suddenly glances around, and meets Shakespeare's eye.
It thrills through him in the oddest places. He feels it in the backs of his arms and the curve of his knees like lightning is in his veins and it's trying to find somewhere to ground itself. The living statue raises an eyebrow of superior inquiry—which is to be expected, because Shakespeare knows he is being shockingly rude—but then.
But then.
The man's gaze travels down him like a boat on a lazy summer river, unhurried and warm, and up again to meet Shakespeare's eye. The smallest of smiles blooms on his perfect lips. The air between them thrums with the friction of a shared secret, of two electric charges suddenly meeting, and Shakespeare knows with perfect clarity what he wants to do with the rest of the evening. The rest of his life, possibly, if the next few minutes go well.
The moment holds, and then collapses all at once. The exquisite creature's gaze snaps away like a cut rope, flicking wildly to the villagers and the floor and then back to the window as he lifts his jaw, looking cold and poised and proper again, just a hint of a blush still in his cheeks.
It is, frankly, irresistible. It's a glimpse of treasure in an iron box, there for the taking for anyone with a delicate enough touch to pick the lock without breaking it.
What this one needs, Shakespeare decides, is a pirate to steal him away.
He skirts around the edge of the room, getting his first full look of the man without any obfuscation—those thighs, lord help him—and finds himself feeling like the first time he went out to catch lightning; like he might be on the verge of holding something sparkling and impossible and alive between his hands, or he might be about to be set alight.
"My dear boy," Shakespeare says, when he reaches the window. The courtyard below is a blur of torchlight and metallics. "You look like you need a taste of adventure."
The boy—a man, really, firmly into his twenties but still half Shakespeare's age, all smooth and golden as sunshine—blinks. His gaze drops down to Shakespeare's mouth and up again. "Have we met, sir?" he asks, but there's still warmth in his cheeks, a delectable glint in his eyes. It's a dance, this kind of thing. Making sure you both know the beat is more important than the steps.
"Such formality!" Shakespeare declares, smiling and brash because he's still not sure if he should be the gentleman or the pirate. At the moment he feels like an unstable mixture of the two, smartly dressed but too loud—like one of those Americans, perhaps, that appear in snide asides in the etiquette books he pours over. Not ideal. "Surely we're all friends of our dear Tristan, here. Isn't that enough to allow for a presumptuous introduction?"
"He's more of an acquaintance, really," the exquisite says with a superior kind of coldness, but he seems to concede the point as he holds out a storm-grey gloved hand and introduces himself as Humphrey Woodhope. His voice is warm and clear and expensive, like brandy in a crystal decanter.
"Captain Shakespeare," he says, shaking Humphrey’s hand with a gentleman's grip and a pirate's grin.
"Captain?" Humphrey asks, his eyes darting up and down again. "Are you a military man, sir?"
"Oh goodness, no. I'm more of a trader, a merchant, really," Shakespeare says, linking his fingers across his chest, still smiling. It is possible, of course, that Humphrey missed his entrance surrounded by his crew—both the villagers and the pirates were ushered in at the same time from opposite doors, like two tides meeting, like salt water hitting fresh. Shakespeare, in his perfectly tailored suit of immaculate black wool, looks like he's never felt the rough kiss of a storm on his cheeks. What a delectable opportunity.
He tilts back like he's considering the cut of Humphrey's coat, and then leans conspiratorially close. "I should warn you," Shakespeare says. "I've heard there are pirates here tonight."
"Really?" Humphrey asks, the look of bored superiority he's been hiding behind replaced, for a moment, with a glimpse of uncomplicated delight. "I've never seen a real pirate before." His eyes pass over the browns and goose-greys of his fellow Englishmen and land on the group wearing shabby red waistcoats and frayed ruffled shirts gannetting over the free food. "Are they dangerous, do you think?" Humphrey asks, still looking across the room.
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. They're pussycats if you know how to handle them."
"Do you, sir?"
"Me? I have no fear of having another man's sword in my face," Shakespeare says, and lets his gaze sweep over Humphrey like a feathered fan, intangible and teasing.
Understanding dawns, as slow and sure as a boat launching out to sea. The most charming blush washes over Humphrey's cheeks as his eyebrows raise and his lips part in rounded surprise—tres ingénu. It's enchanting. It's like no one's ever said anything so bold to him, like he wasn't expecting such a forward proposition—
Panic washes over Shakespeare like salt water, cold and stinging as he thinks he's completely misunderstood, and then Humphrey wets his lips, and his mouth unfurls into a small, secret kind of smile.
"I, um," Humphrey starts, and then swallows, and seems to gather courage from some shallow reserve. Shakespeare's heart thumps loud and demanding in his chest. "My mother forbade me from joining the Navy, but I always imagined it would be quite the thrill to cross swords with one," he says, and looks at Shakespeare with a heavy-lidded kind of bravado. There's something so charmingly boyish about him, up close; wide-eyed delight under layers of poise and well-fitting clothes. Shakespeare wants to unwrap him.
"My dear boy, I could show you thrills beyond your wildest imagination," Shakespeare says, soft and low, and the warm expression on Humphrey's face is very much like someone thinking about the drawing of swords in close quarters.
"Here?" Humphrey asks, dark-eyed and deliciously eager. Oh, to be young. "Is there..." he trails off as he looks around, at the shadowed alcoves, the elegant drapes. "Somewhere we can go?
Goodness. Those dark-bound novels he'd acquired at great expense were not exaggerating the eagerness of English gentlemen. The thrill of it sits low in his belly, his whole body bright and alert like there's red silk wrapped around more than just his thighs.
"Nowhere closer than my ship, I fear," Shakespeare says, because he's getting a little old for quick fumblings in breathless delight. And honestly, this charming young man, so golden and close and untouchable—he makes Shakespeare think of being impossibly young and going to the market with his father, of seeing the silk stall with its unbearably fine things and the silk trader himself, more than anything, who would let him gently brush the edges of his fabric and wink at him and made him want things he didn't even have a name for. He wants to take hold of him and never let go.
"I find anticipation half the fun, don't you?" Shakespeare says, covering, and there's a ripple across Humphrey's mouth that doesn't look like agreement. Shakespeare grins, suddenly intensely curious. "Where do you go, dear boy, when you need... fencing lessons?" he asks, with a long, transparent look.
Humphrey wets his lips, and looks around the chamber like he's suddenly aware that anyone could be listening. A few heads turn sharply away as Shakespeare glances up, but no one is close enough to hear. "There is a club, in Ipswich," Humphrey says, not looking at him but leaning close, nonchalant as a boy playing at spies and secrets. "I... don't get to go there often. Not as often as I'd like," he says, and straightens back up with a swallow.
Dear boy. He must be desperate for release.
"You know, in Stormhold, the, ah-" Shakespeare studies him for a moment "-second son of a baronet can become anything he dreams of. Do whatever he wants," Shakespeare says, and smiles as Humphrey gives a small start of surprise. He inherited his dear Caspartine from his father, but he has a few useful things from his mother too. Women's magic, mostly: fingers that can coax anything to grow, lips that can pluck secrets from the air, the knack for getting powder to set flawlessly. Little, day-to-day gifts.
"And what would you suggest?" Humphrey asks, playing along. So wonderfully, easily led — it's a miracle no one's snapped him up already.
"Have you ever seen the night sky from a thousand feet up? There's nothing like it, my dear. Not even clouds between you and the stars," Shakespeare says, wrapping an arm around Humphrey's shoulder to turn him to the window, to distill the world down to nothing but them and the constellations above. Up close he smells expensive, and a little bit like he's been drinking something stronger than wine. "It makes you feel very grand and very small, like anything is possible."
"Gosh," Humphrey says, awed, very close. His breath brushes warm against his cheek.
"I could show you," Shakespeare says, pulling away, and plays his hand as he glances back at his aforementioned rabble. "My crew and I would love to show you the ropes. Introduce you to freedom you never thought possible. Help you... unbutton," he says, with another close, long look that's wasted as Humphrey frowns across the room, at the splashes of slipshod red by the buffet table.
"Your crew? Of pirates?" he says, looking back. "Which makes you —?"
"Their captain. Shakespeare, as I said." He grins, pirate-like.
"I thought you were a gentleman," Humphrey says—which could be an insult except for the way he says it, impressed and pleased and light like a properly appreciative audience. Shakespeare goes very warm and delighted.
"My goodness, you flatterer," he says, deeply charmed. The invitation from dear Tristan had come with a catalogue of the very latest London fashions for both gentlemen and ladies, and Shakespeare’s tailor worked a small miracle in creating his oh so de la mode suit in such a short time. He feels quite the thing.
Humphrey is looking at him, a curious kind of happiness in the line of his mouth, and there's a feeling in Shakespeare's chest like the moment lightning is caught in a barrel, the beat before he slams down the lid.
"Fly away with me," Shakespeare says. Humphrey's eyes brighten with the yes before it's anywhere near his lips, sparkling in the air between them, and then something happens. Humphrey's gaze falters, dropping to the ground. He pulls back.
"I have... obligations," Humphrey says, glancing over at a young woman standing among a small flock of similar young women, adjusting her gloves. She's fair enough to be pretty even when scowling at the chandeliers and the drapes and the free champagne like it's all just insulted her dress. The fairest maiden in the village, of course.
"Ah," Shakespeare says. "Certain expectations, I quite understand," he says. He was almost married once, to a charming young woman who caught him caressing the dresses in her shop and wasn't fooled for a moment by his lies about mothers and terrible accidents and emergency sartorial escapades. In the end she'd chosen to live as a spinster instead, with a close female companion; a lie of only telling half the truth, rather than pretending to be someone else entirely. How terrifying. How magnificent.
Shakespeare leans close, his hand resting on the small of Humphrey's back where no one can see it, and whispers: "I'll have you back in a week, I promise."
He can't miss the shiver that runs through him, the way Humphrey exhales, the way his eyes drift shut for a moment as he loses himself in the possibility of it all. Oh, they could do such remarkable things together.
Humphrey swallows, and opens his eyes. There's wonder in them, like he's seeing a new turning in a well-worn road, and a catching kind of heat when he meets Shakespeare's gaze.
"One week shouldn't be too much trouble," Humphrey says, as though manners can mask the sheer eagerness in his every angle, and Shakespeare grins as a footman announces they may take their seats for the ceremony.