“Hard at work, Master Will?”
The careful dot that Will was placing over ‘i’ turned into a glop of ink.
“Master Kit.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned around. “And how are you this fine day?”
“Gloriously well. It has been a few weeks and my apartments have not been disturbed.”
“What are you up to Will?”
“Why what do you mean, Master Kit?”
The puckered brows and the two steps that Kit took towards Will were enough for Will’s hands to shoot forward out in a plea to stop.
“I know things have not been well between the two of us in the past but is it not possible to set aside our differences?”
A glare was all the response that Will received before Kit stormed out.
Heaving a sigh at Kit’s departure Will focused on getting his racing heart under control. An unholy gleam came into his eyes. Oh he would stay well away from Master Kit’s apartments. He no longer needed a nudge of help or inspiration as he had liked to call it. Not now.
He read the words he had put to paper just a moment ago. The curve of the letters on the paper was more pronounced than the curve on the worn-out surface. He was still awed at his stroke of good fortune. He was a dramatist, not a scrivener but he thanked his stars for not refusing the last minute engagement that had come his way four weeks ago.
Whistling the tune that he and his friends had been singing the night before, Will dipped his quill into the ink, straightened the sheet of paper, and settled down to transcribe. As usual, the words broke through the skin of the wood and arranged themselves in a pattern of unstressed and stressed syllables, a pattern that Will had come to recognize only that morning.
A desk, even a moody one, that believed its purpose was to compose verses and tell stories was indeed a handy object to come by.