I went home two weeks later to a house that was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn’t have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less numb. I sat and looked out the open French windows into the garden. The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons on the floor and I could hear the clacketty-clack of Landen’s old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing “La Vie en Rose.” It was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but would go back to work eventually—perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at Jurisfiction, perhaps both.

“I came to say good-bye.”

It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate Hamlet from The Merry Wives of Windsor, and both plays were as they should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.

“Are you sure you’re—”

He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.

“I’ve learned a lot of things while I’ve been here,” he said. “I’ve learned that there are many Hamlets, and we love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked Gibson’s because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease in which he placed himself within the role and Jacobi for his passion. By the way, have you heard of this Branagh fellow?”

“No.”

“He’s just starting to get going. I’ve got a feeling his Hamlet will be stupendous.”

He thought for a moment.

“For centuries I’ve been worrying about audiences seeing me as a mouthy spoiled brat who can’t make up his mind about anything, but, having seen the real world, I can understand the appeal. My play is popular because my failings are your failings, my indecision the indecision of you all. We all know what has to be done; it’s just that sometimes we don’t know how to get there. Acting without thought doesn’t really help in the long run. I might dither for a while, but at least I make the right decision in the end: I bear my troubles and take arms against them. And thereby lies a message for all mankind, although I’m not exactly sure what it is. Perhaps there’s no message. I don’t really know. Besides, if I don’t dither, there’s no play.”

“So you’re not going to kill your uncle in the first act?”