Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Woman in the Gallery
London, 1592 The smell hit first.
Tar.
Fresh-cut timber.
Sweat.
River mud.
The Thames carried all of it beneath the morning fog, rolling through Southwark like a living thing.
William Shakespeare stood atop the unfinished theatre and watched London wake.
From this height, the city seemed endless.
Church spires pierced the haze.
Merchant ships drifted along the river.
Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys.
And everywhere people moved.
Always moving.
Always hungry.
Always chasing something.
Money.
Power.
God.
Or simply tomorrow.
Will rested both hands on the rough wooden railing and looked down into the open bowl of the theatre taking shape beneath him.
It wasn’t much to look at yet.
Scaffolding.
Half-built galleries.
Stacks of timber.
Workers shouting measurements to one another.
But he could already see it.
The finished stage.
The crowds.
The applause.
The laughter.
The gasps.
The silence that came when a line landed exactly as it should.
Most men saw lumber.
Will saw ghosts.
He saw kings.
Lovers.
Murderers.
Fools.
Entire worlds waiting to be born.
“Master Shakespeare!”
Richard Burbage’s voice carried from below.
Will glanced down.
The actor stood beside a wagonload of canvas, already arguing with three workmen before breakfast.
An impressive achievement.
“What now?” Will called.
“The roof leaks.”
“We don’t have a roof.”
“Exactly.”
Will laughed.
Richard pointed accusingly upward.
“I blame the playwright.”
“You blame the playwright when it rains.”
“You make it rain.”
“That seems an unreasonable amount of authority.”
“It hasn’t stopped you before.”
The workers nearby chuckled.
Richard grinned.
Will shook his head and turned back toward the river.
Then stopped.
Someone stood in the gallery.
Not a worker.
Not an actor.
Not anyone he recognized.
A woman.
She occupied the unfinished balcony as though she belonged there.
One gloved hand rested lightly against a support beam.
Morning sunlight spilled through the framework behind her.
For a moment she seemed almost unreal.
Not beautiful.
Not exactly.
Something worse.
Interesting.
Will narrowed his eyes.
He would have remembered her.
Dark hair hidden beneath a hood.
Deep blue cloak.
Still as a painting.
Watching.
Not the workers.
Not the stage.
Him.
The realization struck him immediately.
She was looking directly at him.
Most people looked away when caught staring.
She didn’t.
The woman simply continued watching.
Calm.
Curious.
Amused.
As though she had discovered something entertaining.
Will felt an absurd urge to straighten his posture.
The impulse irritated him instantly.
She finally turned.
Then disappeared behind the gallery supports.
Gone.
Just like that.
“What are you looking at?” Richard called.
Will blinked.
“The future.”
Richard groaned loudly.
“God help me. He’s writing again.”
The next morning she returned.
This time Will noticed her immediately.
The same gallery.
The same blue cloak.
The same infuriating composure.
The workers hadn’t even started hammering yet.
Somehow she was already there.
Watching.
Waiting.
For what?
For whom?
Will set down his notes.
“Richard.”
“Mm?”
“Do you know her?”
Richard followed his gaze upward.
The actor squinted.
“The woman?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Have you seen her before?”
“No.”
“Then why does she keep coming here?” Richard shrugged.
“Perhaps she enjoys unfinished buildings.”
“Nobody enjoys unfinished buildings.” Richard looked at the theatre.
“We do.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Fair.”
The woman shifted slightly.
Sunlight caught the edge of her hood.
For a brief instant Will saw her smile.
Not at him.
At something he’d said.
She had been listening.
That settled it.
Will closed his notebook.
“Where are you going?” Richard asked.
“To investigate.”
Richard groaned.
“That never ends well.”
“Neither do my plays.”
“Exactly my point.”
Will ignored him and headed for the stairs.
His pulse quickened with each step.
Ridiculous.
He was nearly thirty.
Married.
A father.
A playwright.
Yet somehow a mysterious woman standing in an unfinished theatre had reduced him to behaving like an apprentice chasing a tavern girl.
The thought should have embarrassed him.
Instead it made him smile.
By the time he reached the gallery she was gone.
Again.
Only this time she hadn’t vanished entirely.
He spotted her below.
Standing near the edge of the stage.
Waiting.
Almost as if she had wanted him to follow.
And suddenly William Shakespeare had the distinct feeling that he was no longer directing the scene.
And that intrigued him more than anything.
The link for this book is on my Wall, please go.
