Teodoros left the gathering early, returning with his soup bowl to the wagon because he said he had thought of some excellent revisions for his new play—something he promised he would show Briony later. “It may amuse you,” he said, “and certainly will at least instruct you, and in either case make you a more fit traveling companion.” She wasn’t certain what that meant, but although she was left alone with the other players, she had spent much of the afternoon helping to haul the wagons out of a muddy rut, rubbing her hands bloody on the rope in the process, and so they were willing, at least for tonight, to treat her as one of their own.

“But in truth we are a desperate fraternity, young Tim,” Nevin Hewney said to her, pouring freely from the cask of ale the knight had sent down as payment, along with lodging in the stables, for Makewell’s evening of recitation. “You should never take membership, even in the most temporary way, if you are not willing to incur the opprobrium of all gods-fearing folk.”

Briony, who in the recent weeks had survived fire, starvation, and more deliberate attempts to kill her—not least of which had been demonic magic—was not impressed by the playwright’s drunken conceit, but she nodded anyway.

“Gods-fearing folk fear you, Hewney,” said young Feival, and winked at Briony. “But that is not because you are a player—or not simply because you are a player. It is because you stink.”

The giant Dowan Birch laughed at that, as did the three other men whose names Briony had not learned by heart yet—quiet, bearded fellows who did their work uncomplainingly, and seemed to her too ordinary to be players. Nevin Hewney stared at the Ulosian youth for a moment, then leaped to his feet, eyes goggling, his mouth twisted in a grimace of rage. He snatched something out of his dirty doublet and leaped forward, thrusting it toward Feival’s throat. Briony let out a muffled shriek.

“That belongs in the pot, not at my gullet,” said Feival, pushing the carrot away. Hewney continued to stare ferociously for a moment, then lifted the vegetable to his mouth and took a bite.

“The new boy was frightened, though,” he said cheerfully. “A most unmanly squeal, that was.” Sweat gleamed on his high forehead. He was already drunk, Briony thought, her heart still beating too fast. “Which makes my point—and underscores it, too, thinketh I.” He turned to her. “You thought I would murder our sweet Feival, did you not?”

Briony started to shrug, then nodded slowly.

“And if I had instead played the gentleman…like this…and begged this tender maiden for a kiss…?” He suited action to words, pursing his lips like the most lovesick swain. Feival, the principal boy, lifted his hand and pretended to flutter a fan, keeping the importunate suitor at bay. “Or perhaps if I turned seductively to you, handsome youth,” Hewney said, leaning toward Briony, “with your face like Zosim’s smoothest catamite…?”