poor regard for me, he will surely present me to Claudius as a pawn in proving good Hamletâs ill-state.â
âSo this note shall be the proof that Hamletâs missing mind was lost in his pursuit of you?â
I nod.
Anne gives me a long look. âWould you know what I think, Lia?â
âYes.â
âI think youâre both mad, and need no note to confirm my suspicions!â
I give her hand a playful slap.
âAnd that is the entire plan?â
âAye. Unless events arise to alter it.â
âAnd what of Horatio? Hath he a role in this deception?â
âOnly to keep silent onât.â
âAnd me?â
âOh, we may have use for you,â I tell her. âLater.â
âLater?â
âWhen Hamlet kills the King.â
Anne blinks at me once, twice, then her knees crumble and she is facedown in a platter of figs.
Â
Â
Anne is lying on a cot in her grim room adjacent to the larder. I have removed her stockings and elevated her feet. She is an amusing sight. I struggle not to laugh.
âLia, I do not see what you find so comical! Murder is a sin unsurpassed.â
âThis is not murder, this is vengeance.â
âYou split hairs!â Anne draws the coverlet to her chin and frowns.
âI donât. Men do.â
âIâll have none of it.â
âYes, you will,â I tell her calmly, standing and handing her her slippers. âBut let us not talk on it now.â I move to the door.
âWhere are you going?â she asks.
âTo meet my dearest Hamlet at the stream.â I smile at her over my shoulder. âWeâve a letter to compose.â
CHAPTER FOUR
WE ARE TOGETHER ON THE BANK OF THE STREAM. It glistens and tumbles and splashes itself, shallow in spots, deeper in others. In the distance, the sun throws long shadows from the towers of Elsinore.
On the opposite bank, I notice a figure, a man in dusty clothes, with a spade on his shoulder. He walks at a jaunty, almost musical pace. When he reaches the point directly across the stream from us, he turns and lifts his spade in a friendly salute.
I can see the dark lashes that rim his eyes from here. I wave.
âWho is that?â I ask.
Hamlet tilts his head backward. âAh. The gravedigger. Iâve heard him sing.â
âA singing gravedigger?â
âHe is.â
âThat is an unlikely combination.â
Hamlet nods.
I watch the man as he climbs the small hill that swells beyond the stream, away from Elsinore. There is a path down the other side which leads to the graveyard. Anne and I explored there once as girls; Laertes and Hamlet followed and frightened us near to death!
âI have never seen him,â I say, more to myself than to Hamlet. âAnd yet he seems familiar.â
Hamlet has not heard. I return to my teasing of him with a grass blade, leading it toward his temple, then sweeping small circles around his ear. He is ticklish there.
âStop.â It is not an order, but a plea.
ââTis fun.â
Laughing, he catches the weapon of my attack between his fingers and tears the blade in two. âWe will accomplish nothing, lady, if you continue this torture.â Hamlet rolls to his side and picks up a quill. âWhat shall we write in this letter? I cannot decide.â His eyes darken in self-accusation, and he adds, âI can never decide.â
âThat is not true, my lord. You never have trouble deciding how best to make me smile.â
He grins his gratitude, and reaches for me.
âThe letter,â I remind him.
âYes. How will it begin?â
âDear Ophelia.â
âToo plain. Perhaps â¦â He thinks. ââTo the celestial, and my soulâs idol, the most beautiful Opheliaâ?â
âOh!â My heart beomes a thousand glittering butterflies! I imagine they escape my body on the shine of my eyes. âThatâs a pretty