Free The Tutor by Andrea Chapin

plague?” he asked.
    “A fire,” she replied, her tone sharp, scorning his softness.
    She looked away and felt a touch on the scar on the back of her neck. The movement was so swift, so light, such a feather of unfathomable liberty, that in an instant she convinced herself she’d imagined it, that indeed it was the breeze that had skimmed her skin, not his finger. Yet in a flash the contact wreaked havoc on her flesh, moving down into the depths of her body. She was relieved to hear voices—though at this moment Ursula’s high-pitched giggle was unwanted music. Katharine rose from the bench.
    Ursula swept across the brown grasses, gathering dry leaves in the hem of her full red skirt as she walked. She was with her brother-in-law Harold and the master mason who had saved her little dog. Harold began to introduce Katharine, gesturing with his right arm, the hand of his shorter arm hidden in the fold of his doublet.
    “Katharine met Mr. Smythson when he rescued Guinny from Richard’s horrid hawk,” interrupted Ursula.
    Mr. Smythson bowed his head but not his body. He ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep his dark curls out of his face. His mop was as unruly as the hair on the sculpture of Laocoön Ned had sketched and sent from Italy.
    Harold presented the tutor last. “Walter Shakespeare, our new schoolmaster up from Stratford.”
    “William Shakespeare,” Ursula corrected.
    Shakespeare bowed deeply.
    “We are considering some changes to the hall,” continued Harold, hiscropped light red hair and neatly trimmed beard making a sharp contrast to the rough-hewn appearance of Mr. Smythson, whose leather jerkin was stained and who wore no proper doublet underneath.
    “Richard and I are to have our own set of chambers,” said Ursula. “With Sir Edward away, we think it’s time to make additions. We are to have our own wing. We’ve been crowded in the back for too long.”
    Katharine wondered if the departure of Sir Edward had given birth to Ursula’s interest in the shape of the house. The black crows in the garden masked nothing of their greedy nature when they attacked the berry trees and busied themselves in thieving. Was Ursula perhaps a bird of a similar feather?
    “I met a Smythson in London,” said Shakespeare. “He creates scenery for theaters. He is a magician.”
    “My brother,” said Mr. Smythson, nodding.
    “Ah,” said William. “A family of magicians.”
    Katharine could not gauge whether Shakespeare’s comment was a compliment or an insult.
    “I’m no magician,” said Mr. Smythson. “Merely an artificer. A stonemason by trade. Not skilled at sleight, never have been.”
    “Your houses are splendid,” Ursula said with a sigh. “This marvelous man is largely responsible for Sir John Thynne’s beautiful home at Longleat. And he did the renovation of Sir Matthew Arundell’s castle in Wiltshire. Wollaton Hall in Nottinghamshire is one of his masterpieces, and recently he’s been quite taken up with the Earl of Shrewsbury—”
    Harold cut Ursula off. “We are flattered that the talented Mr. Smythson has taken time away from his many projects and duties to look over our humble cottage here,” he said.
    Mr. Smythson nodded and squinted his brown eyes at Harold in what seemed a smile but might have been a grimace. Perhaps, Katharine thought, it was hard for the builder to be in this circle of strangers; maybe stones were easier for him than people. Shakespeare whisperedsomething to Ursula. He was as nimble with his attention as he was with his words.
    “Pray pardon, I must leave,” Katharine said. Her voice was higher than usual, and sounded artificial even to herself.
    Katharine tipped her head but did not bid a proper farewell. In truth, the tutor-poet addled her, and she needed to escape. She left by way of the orchard and the chapel and continued walking. As she passed the barns, she saw the milkmaid Mercy. When Mercy curtsied low, Katharine noticed something