He was thinking about the events of the previous evening at Essex House. There had been a fevered air of treachery, billowing like the dark clouds of an approaching storm. In particular, the open defiance and mockery of the masque seemed to confirm everything Sir Robert Cecil had said about Essex and his ambitions.Mostly, though, Shakespeare thought of the Countess of Essex and the strange disturbance of the mind that afflicted her. She was being poisoned, he was certain of it. What is one little life against a matter so great? Her sickness had less to do with the loss of her child and more to do with something she had been fed.As the door was opened, he tried to put the thoughts aside. He smiled at Starling Day, surprised by the change in her. She had gained a well-rounded figure since last they met. She had also gained a great deal of money and a well-favored house in the middle of the great bridge between London and Southwark. She welcomed him effusively.“Come gaze with me out of the windows eastward, Mr.
