a little sneak peek of their choicest and most rare invention (my early modern Dreamling fic) act II!
“I am partial to cats,” Dream says. “They are intelligent creatures. And their friendship, though hard-won, is worth more than diamonds.” The cat reaches its sleek head up towards his player’s long fingers.
Hob thinks his player is quite the cat himself, as he watches him pet the creature.
“My ma had a cat. When we were still in Norwich.” He remembers its fur, soft as feathers, the colour of egg yolks. “Mad Jack, she called him. Would chase anything that moved, but he loved her like she’d birthed him herself.” He feels the smile upon his lips, the tug at his heartstrings. “When she had the grippe he lay on her bed until the fever broke. Didn’t pay me any mind, but I loved him because he loved her.”
It has been long years since he has thought of Mad Jack and their house on Elm Hill. It pains him still, but like an old wound rather than a knife in the gut. It is strange to think of the other hurts that have since surpassed it, leaving it dull enough that now he might remember with fondness.
“You have never spoken of your parents,” Dream says softly. The cat is still rubbing its face against his hand, and his player’s eyes are still on the creature, and perhaps that makes it easier.
“They are dead,” Hob says. “My mother some years since.”
“She died in the last great sickness of the late Queen’s reign,” Hob says. “I was still at my studies. They did not write ’til she was gone, for fear I would ride home.”
“I am. I am sorry for it,” Dream returns.
“Aye,” Hob says, gaze upon the cat’s fur, velvet like his player’s doublet. “And my father. My father was taken by the plague that delayed the king’s coronation. My sister, too.”
Dream’s voice is enough to drown in. “How much you have lost. I am truly sorry, my friend.”
“I returned from Amsterdam to take up my father’s business. Combine it with my own. It is the house in which I now live. It feels as though I walk through their ghosts every day that passes.” Hob does not know quite why he is still talking, why he is unburdening his heart like this, other than that he feels he can. He knows he can. That Dream can know the truth of him and understand it for the gift it is, keep it safe.
“Grief sets shadows walking that cannot be banished with mere light,” Dream says, contemplative. “I hope… I hope at least there are some comforts to walking through that house.”
A small smile lifts the edge of his mouth without his command. “Aye, some. My father’s hand in his ledgers brings me mirth, as much as it does frustration. He was a poor penman. And sometimes on sunny afternoons I fancy I see my sister at her needlework in the casement.”
“Bess,” he replies, realising he has not said the name aloud in so very long. It cleaves something within him, but it feels good to say it once more. “Her name was Bess.”
Dream’s voice is so gentle it nearly hurts. “You loved her very much.”
“Aye, I did. Every brother loves his sister, but she was the kindest soul I ever knew.” He finds himself sniffing back a tear or two. “I know it is impious to grieve overlong, but I still envy Heaven its gain.”
He looks up, and his player’s fine features bespeak kindness of which Bess would have been proud. “It is hardly the worst blasphemy,” he says softly. “I cannot think the Lord would truly begrudge you your sorrow.”
Hob chucks lightly. “Let us pray not.”
The cat leaps down from the low wall, but winds itself about his friend’s black-clad calves as a farewell. They both watch it stalk elegantly back into the inn, intent on its next supplicant, no doubt.
“Do you wish another drink?” Dream asks. “Or perhaps to stretch your legs?”
“Aye, I’d like a stroll.” The day is fair, despite the season, and Hob would like to be in the air.
They walk onto Pissing Lane, Dream’s movements neat and graceful where Hob’s are free, but they fall into step easily.
“I had not told anyone of how it is to live in my father’s house again,” Hob muses. “Not until today.”
“No? I would have thought you had no shortage of confidants, Hob Gadling,” Dream says with no little curiosity.
“What gives you that impression?” Hob dodges an oysterwoman barrelling down the street, the salty reek fleering in his nostrils.
Dream gives him a glance that Hob dares think is fond. “I mean that I see you in the company of all number of men, in numerous taverns across this city, always boisterous in conversation and not lacking in hearers.”
Hob scoffs. “The alehouse companion is one thing. A friend to trust is another.”
Dream goes quiet for a moment. They walk on, past Cordwainer’s Hall and the scent of leather.
“You trust me?” he asks, as the noise of Paul’s Cross begins to rise afore them.
“Aye, I do. I’ve no fear you’ll tell my fellows in th’Exchange that at night I still think of my parents and sister rather than the business I shall transact the next day.”
But Dream is undinted. “You tell me because you think I will not ruin your reputation as a hard-headed merchant?” he asks, not without a flout in his voice.
Hob pauses, letting Dream guide them down the street before turning onto Old Change. This man tempts his words out of him, his honesty, but perhaps he would not like to know how much.
“The people with whom I transact my business and share a meal know me as one thing. It is easier on my heart to affect that pose in company. I do not… I do not wish to be the creature of grief I have within me. Not to a city that has changed much since I last knew her.”
Dream does not tell him what he already knows. That this is a lonely way to live.
He merely inclines his head. “I can understand that.”
And Hob believes it is from experience.
