The Watchtower

streets, further dejected by her absence at home, for a long time. Finally, he felt a thirst that made him seek shelter in the familiar shadows of Baker & Thread’s, where the hour, well past midday dinner, made privacy likely and prices more modest. (He couldn’t go too long without reflecting on his only other deep concern besides Marguerite, which was how his acting possibilities had vanished and his money would not last forever.)
    He sat down at an awning-solaced table. Then almost immediately he caught a glimpse, within the tavern’s interior, of a seemingly familiar set of broad shoulders under a red, collarless Spanish cloak. When the man shifted his shoulders and threw back his rough mane of shiny black hair, Will realized who it was, surprised that recognition was possible through such slivers of appearance. But maybe the man had made more of an impression on him in their first encounter than he’d previously realized.
    Indeed, this man had occurred to him as someone to consult with in the terrible days since his breach with Marguerite, due to his employer’s reputation. Any solution this individual could offer would be at best unwholesome, perhaps sinister, not remotely comparable to walking into immortality in a loving way with Marguerite. But Will felt no harm could come from approaching the man and having a small discussion. Marguerite’s absence was destroying him. Only a fool thought salvation needed to be perfect. It just needed to be.
    Will walked over to face him, bowed deferentially, and murmured in a low voice, “Lord Liverpool.”
    He didn’t recall the man’s having a title and doubted he did, but this was a moment for deference. Liverpool, who was contemplating his glass of ale as if its foam mapped a route to the Orient, did not initially glance up at him. But when Will circled closer, bowed, and called him “Lord” a second time, Liverpool did look up with beer blurred eyes and seemed to think he recognized Will, though his words indicated he had mistaken him for another.
    “Trader boy!” he exclaimed. “One of my finest hires. How goes it in the offices of Dr. Dee? Just this very morning his lordship happened to compliment me on how skillful you are in pricing certificates. You must be a lad of great wealth already!”
    Then Liverpool glanced more closely at Will’s attire and recognized that that probably wasn’t the case. “Or,” he retreated, “you may be luxuriating in possession of an even greater wealth than gold; that would be time well and happily spent! Are you so employed?” he inquired, observing the blank expression on Will’s features. “But why do I ask?! Who could not be happy in proximity to the greatest intellect of our time, as you spend your days?! Sit down, lad, and let me offer you a drink! What brings you to these dank shadows at a time of day when most traders are closing their books and planning their evenings?”
    Will lowered himself into an empty chair at the table. He knew he was being taken for someone else. He sat anyway, as a line of inquiry, concerning the happiness Liverpool had made flippant reference to, had occurred to him.
    “My good man, I am not currently in the employ of Sir John Dee.” Will spoke slowly, not entirely trusting Liverpool’s rationality, as a dark-haired serving woman came over to their table. He ordered a glass of ale. “You and I have had a discussion on Sir Dee’s commercial theories recently, but I have not entered his employ. I have been distracted by a much more pressing matter. One that requires a different sort of alchemy than the stock market can offer, or even the traditional lead-based kind.”
    His ale arrived, and a gulp soothed Will’s parched mouth and seething throat. He dried his sweaty brow with the thick paper the server had put under his drink.
    Liverpool gave him an appraising gaze. “What situation could compare to the alchemy of stock certificates, if you don’t mind my asking? To an entire nation about to convert all its paper to gold?”
    “You touched on it a moment ago, mentioning happy moments in the same breath as riches. I am in a crisis of the heart, sir, where happy moments are the rarest currency of all. I beg for a loving moment like a starving man might for a loaf of bread. Indeed my condition is a perfect despondency of love. With no apparent cure.”
    “Alchemists of our day, Sir Dee first among them, can concoct a potion for a trauma such as yours,” Liverpool