The kettle began its soft, familiar rattle just as the air in my kitchen grew suspiciously cold. A faint breeze swept through the room, carrying the distinct scent of dried lavender, faint parchment and what I could only describe as an unwashed wool mantle.
When I turned around from the counter, mug in hand, a man was sitting at my tiny Ikea kitchen table. He wore a velvet doublet that had seen better centuries, a stiff white ruff that looked profoundly uncomfortable and a gold hoop dangling from his left ear. His receding hairline framed a pair of sharp, lively eyes that were currently staring with intense fascination at my electric toaster.
‘Fair greeting, strange hostess,’ he said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone. ‘Tell me … what manner of miniature dragon slumbers within yon chrome box?’
I blinked, carefully setting my mug down. ‘It’s a toaster. It makes bread hot and crispy.’
He leaned back, resting a boot against the opposite chair. ‘A box that scorches bread without the wrath of an open hearth? Marry, ’tis a miraculous age! Ere we proceed further, know me for William.’
‘I know,’ I said, pulling out a chair across from him. ‘You’re … a bit earlier than my usual tea guests.’
‘Time is a fickle weaver,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘And cuts the thread where it pleases. But tell me, thou hast the look of a creature burdened by the day. What potion brews in that humble vessel?’
‘Earl Grey,’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘If it be not poisoned, gladly.’
I poured a second mug, slid it across the table and pushed the milk jug towards him. He watched me intently, then cautiously picked up the ceramic mug with both hands, sniffing the steam.
‘Bergamot,’ he murmured, taking a tentative sip. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. ‘Ah. Forsooth, a brew to smooth the wrinkled brow of care. Splendid!’
‘So,’ I began, resting my chin in my hands, ‘Will. Do you mind if I call you Will?’
‘Thou may’st. I keep “Master” for those who owe me money.’
‘Fair enough. Look, I have to ask. Did you actually write all those plays, or was it Francis Bacon?’
Will burst into a laugh so loud it startled the cat asleep on the radiator.
‘Bacon? That dry, pedantic lawyer? Zounds! Lord, what fools these mortals be! Had Bacon written Hamlet, the Prince would have spent five acts drawing up a property contract for Elsinore Castle rather than speaking with his father’s ghost.’ He took another sip of tea, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘I wrote every word, my trusty fere. With ink that stained my fingers and late-night candles that burnt my eyes. Though, to be entirely honest … I did filch a few plot lines from the Italians. But I did make them sing, did I not?’
‘They certainly sang,’ I agreed. ‘We’re still reading them, you know. Secondary school students are forced to analyse your sonnets every single day.’
Will’s eyes widened. ‘Still? After … how many? Four hundred years? Do they applaud?’
‘Mostly they groan about the iambic pentameter.’
He chuckled softly, a quiet, nostalgic sound. ‘Ah, the metre. It is merely the rhythm of the human heart, you see. Ten beats: ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. People think poetry is made of clouds and fancy notions. It isn’t. It’s forged of blood, sweat, jealousy and the desperate wish to be remembered.’
He glanced around my modern flat, taking in the glowing laptop screen, the LED lights and the soft rain tapping against the double-paned window.
‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘does love still ache the same in this bright, noisy world?’
‘Exactly the same,’ I replied. ‘We just text each other essay-length messages instead of writing sonnets.’
‘And ambition?’
‘Still ruins people.’
‘And grief?’
‘Still feels like winter.’
Will nodded, a gentle, knowing look in his eyes.
‘Then the stage hath changed, but the actors remain the same. That is a comforting thought.’
He drained the last of his Earl Grey and set the mug down with a soft click. The air in the kitchen began to shimmer again, the smell of lavender growing stronger.
‘Our revels now are ending, I fear,’ he said, standing up and dusting off his velvet sleeves. He bowed deeply, a sweeping, theatrical gesture that felt entirely too grand for a small flat. ‘Gramercy for the hot water, the scorched bread box and thy fine company.’
‘Anytime, Will,’ I smiled. ‘Next time, I’ll show you how the microwave works.’
He grinned, his eyes twinkling. ‘Anon! A new challenge I look forward to.’
With a soft rustle of silk and a faint whisper of old paper, the chair was empty. I sat alone in the quiet kitchen, the hum of the fridge filling the space. But on the table across from me sat a warm, empty ceramic mug, and right beside it, scrawled on a paper napkin in dark, elegant calligraphy, were five words:
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
