Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(10)

“A woodchuck, you shagged a woodchuck.”

“Unfriendly,” said Puck.

“Fine, well done with the two queens and the other tart.”

“Better,” said Puck. “Sure you don’t want me to use a flower on you? Might help someone see past your sour aspect.”

“Still a ghost.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“But if you know a way I might help my apprentice . . .”

“You have an apprentice. I never had an apprentice. Want to trade for him? I have these smashing love potion flowers. I know a lovely marmot I could introduce you to.”

“He’s been taken by the captain of the watch.”

“Oh, Blacktooth, there’s a nasty bit of business. And his leftenant, Burke, twice as bad.”

“Drool’s a great empty-headed giant, but gentle, and loyal as a spaniel—he won’t do well in a den of blackguards. Help me, good Robin.”

“Would that I could,” said Puck. He tipped the roofie flower as if toasting me with a tiny chalice. “Duty yet due to the shadow king. But I can send you the right way. I know where they’ll take him.”

“Where?”

“I’ll have the hat.” He stowed his magic flower and held out a hand.

It wasn’t as if I would need it. Would I even last on this mortal plane long enough to help Drool? I pulled off my coxcomb and handed it to him.

He fitted it over his curls and began to march in a tight circle, singing:

“Up and down, up and down,

“I will lead them up and down,

“I am fear’d in field and town,

“Goblin, lead them up and down.”



“Oh for fuck’s sake, Puck!”

He stopped, pulled the hat off. “What?”

“Where do I find my apprentice?”

“I’ll have one of them daggers at your back, too.”

“In your arse, you will. I’m down one already.” I snatched one of my daggers out of its sheath, flashed it by his nose.

“Fine,” said the Puck. “Just I never had a knife before. They’ll be taking your friend to the gendarmerie in the city. It’s under the duke’s palace. Go west with the sun. You’ll not reach there by dusk, so it’s another night in the forest for you, but keep west, you’ll see the spires of the palace when first you break out of the wood, from there it’s a piece of piss.”

“You haven’t any food, have you?” I asked.

“The forest is full of food,” said the Puck. He pulled my hat back on and grinned. “Be dark soon, you best head west. I’ve lovers to find. Goodbye, stingy ghost.”

With a giggle, he was gone. He didn’t run off, or dance, or leap, he was simply gone, a bit of green dust settled where he had been standing.

“So, you waiting for your funeral procession or shall we be on our merry way?” said the puppet Jones from the spot where I had tossed him.

“I could have traded you for a marmot,” said I. “At least I could have eaten the marmot. You won’t even make a good fire.”

“You don’t frighten me,” said the puppet. “You’re a shit ghost, really.”

I snatched up the puppet and smacked him smartly against a tree as I headed west, toward the dying light, a vengeful ghost on the march. Evidently.

“Tosser,” said the puppet.





Chapter 4

There’s Always a Bloody Ghost




What Puck and the puppet Jones didn’t realize about my death, despite how clever and magical they thought themselves, was just how knob-twistingly lonely it was. If only I could hover ethereal over Jessica when she heard the news of how her cold rejection brought me to a violent end. Her tears would be like balm unto my soul, her regret like a lover’s sweet whispers in my ear. My friends, my subjects, my lovers, my family—the bundle of nuns who raised me—my apprentice, my monkey, even my enemies, who were legion, and many deceased for their trouble: none were there to grieve, gloat, or glower at my passing. Dead and alone, was I, at the same time. They don’t tell you that bit in the churches and temples.

And thus I trudged through fern and forest for hours before I heard weeping in the distance, another lost soul, perhaps, who had met her mortality. Whence it came I could not say, for the woods had gone batshaggingly dark, and while the full moon cast a tattered lace of silver through the canopy, it was only enough light to allow a lonesome fool a few quick steps before running into the next tree trunk. I followed the sound, however, for as the eye was deprived, the forest served the ear a feast of menacing sounds, most made by scurrying creatures that wished me harm.

There, ahead, in a pool of moonlight, on a large rock, sat a rather tall young woman. Her hair was dark, pinned up, her dress white and light as summer, high necked, the collar and cuffs embroidered with small pink roses. She hugged herself and rocked, as if each heartbreaking sob wrenched out a bit of her soul, then she refilled her bellows in broken gasps with the world’s sorrow. The sound brought tears to my eyes and I would have embraced the poor creature, offered her comfort, had I been more than a spirit lost in the wood. Instead, weary, I sat down on the stone beside her.

She shrieked, high, shrill, and girlish, and jumped to her feet.