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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I turned around from the counter, mug in hand, a man was sitting at my tiny Ikea kitchen table.\u00a0 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Fair greeting, strange hostess,\u2019 he said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone. \u2018Tell me … what manner of miniature dragon slumbers within yon chrome box?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I blinked, carefully setting my mug down. \u2018It\u2019s a toaster. It makes bread hot and crispy.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He leaned back, resting a boot against the opposite chair. \u2018A box that scorches bread without the wrath of an open hearth? Marry, ’tis a miraculous age! Ere we proceed further, know me for William.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018I know,\u2019 I said, pulling out a chair across from him. \u2018You\u2019re … a bit earlier than my usual tea guests.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Time is a fickle weaver,\u2019 he said, raising a hand. \u2018And 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?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Earl Grey,\u2019 I said. \u2018Would you like a cup?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018If it be not poisoned, gladly.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Bergamot,\u2019 he murmured, taking a tentative sip. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. \u2018Ah. Forsooth, a brew to smooth the wrinkled brow of care. Splendid!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018So,\u2019 I began, resting my chin in my hands, \u2018Will. Do you mind if I call you Will?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Thou may\u2019st. I keep \u201cMaster\u201d for those who owe me money.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Fair enough. Look, I have to ask. Did you actually write all those plays, or was it Francis Bacon?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Will burst into a laugh so loud it startled the cat asleep on the radiator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Bacon? That dry, pedantic lawyer? Zounds! Lord, what fools these mortals be! Had Bacon written Hamlet,<\/em> the Prince would have spent five acts drawing up a property contract for Elsinore Castle rather than speaking with his father\u2019s ghost.\u2019 He took another sip of tea, leaning in conspiratorially. \u2018I 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?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018They certainly sang,\u2019 I agreed. \u2018We\u2019re still reading them, you know. Secondary school students are forced to analyse your sonnets every single day.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Will\u2019s eyes widened. \u2018Still? After … how many? Four hundred years? Do they applaud?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Mostly they groan about the iambic pentameter.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n He chuckled softly, a quiet, nostalgic sound. \u2018Ah, 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.<\/em> People think poetry is made of clouds and fancy notions. It isn\u2019t. It\u2019s forged of blood, sweat, jealousy and the desperate wish to be remembered.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Tell me,\u2019 he said softly, \u2018does love still ache the same in this bright, noisy world?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Exactly the same,\u2019 I replied. \u2018We just text each other essay-length messages instead of writing sonnets.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018And ambition?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Still ruins people.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018And grief?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Still feels like winter.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Will nodded, a gentle, knowing look in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Then the stage hath changed, but the actors remain the same. That is a comforting thought.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Our revels now are ending, I fear,\u2019 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. \u2018Gramercy for the hot water, the scorched bread box and thy fine company.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Anytime, Will,\u2019 I smiled. \u2018Next time, I\u2019ll show you how the microwave works.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n He grinned, his eyes twinkling. \u2018Anon! A new challenge I look forward to.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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:<\/p>\n\n\n\n Parting is such sweet sorrow.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When I turned around from the counter, mug in hand, there was a man 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. 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