All Hallows' Eve by M.J. Trow Page B

Sackerson snickered. He had several advantages over Marlowe. Firstly, he could see in the dark, more or less. He couldn’t see much in any light these days, but the playwright and his companion were outlined against the darkling sky and that was when he could see the best. She was lovely, he could tell that, even though his tastes ran in other directions. But … and here he wasn’t sure whether he was seeing quite right … surely, he shouldn’t be able to see the building behind her as well. He shook his head, muzzy with sleep. Never mind. All would be well with Kit. All was always well with Kit – not for him the quietus of a dagger in an enemy’s hand.
    The voice got snappy. ‘I’m
Euterpe
,’ she said. ‘Calliope, Clio, Melpomene all send theirs.’
    â€˜Not Erato?’ Marlowe asked, suddenly realising who he was talking to.
    â€˜You
do
remember!’ Mr Sackerson watched entranced as the Muse rose from behind Marlowe and did a somersault in the air, her gown giving off sparks of joy.
    â€˜Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I call on most of you, most days.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she whispered, back again at his shoulder. ‘We hear you. Now, tell me a story.’
    He sighed. ‘I’m all storied out, Euterpe,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I just came out here to talk to my friend, Master Sackerson.’
    â€˜Oh,’ the Muse wheedled, drawing the single syllable out into a long and querulous whine. ‘Just one, Kit. Please. For me. It’s not as though my sisters and I haven’t done you proud over the years. Is it? Hmm?’
    Marlowe put his head down on his arms and sighed.
    â€˜Please.’
    From the pit below, a growl sounded. ‘Please,’ it said.
    Marlowe’s head came up with a snap. ‘Master Sackerson?’ His own voice was a squeak. ‘Was that you?’
    â€˜Please.’ The sound was like a rusty door to a forgotten cellar, creaking open for the first time in a millennium.
    â€˜There you are, you see.’ The Muse poked the poet in the back, but he felt nothing. ‘Even your friend wants a story.’ She waited in silence while Marlowe gathered his thoughts.
    â€˜If you insist,’ he said, finally. ‘If you
both
insist. Once upon a time … are you sitting comfortably?’
    â€˜Mmm.’ The Muse snuggled down against his back, her arms around his waist.
    A grunt from the darkness told him Mr Sackerson had crawled under his straw and was ready.
    â€˜Then I’ll begin. Once upon a time, there was a king. He wasn’t bad, he wasn’t good, he was just like most men, a little bit of both. He had a wife and she was about the same. Sometimes she was the perfect hostess, sometimes she was as mad as a tree.’
    The Muse yawned extravagantly. ‘They don’t sound very interesting, Kit. Is anything going to happen to them?’
    â€˜Oh, yes.’
    â€˜Soon?’
    â€˜Whose story is this, I wonder,’ he said, a little testily. Why was everyone a critic?
    â€˜Sorry. Go on.’
    â€˜One night, shall we say a dark and stormy night? I always think that adds a lot to a story, don’t you? One dark and stormy night, this couple decided to give a party. Not the perfect weather to have guests over, tramping mud all through the house … well, castle, really … but that wasn’t their problem. They were rich enough to have people to cope with all that nonsense. And the food, as well, that was all in the hands of the help. So, they decided, the winter was coming on, it was a long and dismal business where they lived …’
    â€˜Which was?’
    â€˜Which was what?’
    â€˜Where they lived,’ the Muse said. ‘Where do they live? I like to be able to picture the scene.’
    â€˜They lived in … have you ever been to Scotland?’
    â€˜Not as far as I know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think