They wink at you! Seriously. And they can run!

One of the hens was broody and this morning… fat little chicks everywhere. They won’t be ruled by their mother. What’s the news from Edinburgh?

JOHN. All peaceful. For now. The King’s barely left his rooms these last weeks.

One of his favourites, that Daisy girl, has left him.

MARGARET. Oh! Don’t move!

She thinks she has seen a chick in the stones near him. She pounces.

Did you see it! Did you see it! It ran.

MARGARET is now very close to JOHN.

I did that. I did. I showed her sense and she took it as a gift. She’s gone. Gone! See what I can do?

JOHN. Margaret, you can do more than that.

MARGARET. I think you’re right.

He kisses her.

She doesn’t push him away but after a moment she steps back, a little shocked, a little uncertain, watching him.

What does that mean?

JOHN. What do you think it means!?

He steps towards her. She stops him.

MARGARET. It’d be treason.

JOHN. You’re joking, aren’t you?

ANNABELLA crosses upstage, looking for chicks. Her search is unconvincing, most of her attention is on MARGARET and JOHN.

Do you think he would care if you took me to your bed? Do you think he would even notice?

MARGARET. Yes.

I think he’d notice.

ANNABELLA. Chick… chick… chick…

MARGARET gives her a look, ANNABELLA exits.

MARGARET. John… the reason I haven’t taken you to my bed is that I don’t want to.

JOHN. Are you sure about that?

MARGARET. Yes.

Otherwise I would have done it.

I’m sorry. I just need to be honest with you.

JOHN. Well, I’m not a child. And I’m not an idiot. And I know what’s been going on here.

MARGARET. Oh, God, I feel it… I feel it. You’ve no idea. And it’s… seeing how you want me?… There have been days when that was all that kept my back straight, otherwise I’d have shrivelled like a winter leaf…

But that’s madness. Madness. Why would I want to be mad?

JOHN. I care for you, you stupid woman. Like he never did! You don’t have to be frightened.

MARGARET. I’m not. I’m tired of being frightened. I’m tired of being mad. I’m tired of bobbing about wherever my heart hurls me and I’m choosing to never do that again.

I’ve looked in my own eyes now and I know who I am.

Phemy sings about love all the time.

When I tell Phemy about this she’ll look at me as if I’ve said that I’m tearing off my face, as if I’m only going to be half-alive for the rest of my days, as if this is the saddest, stupidest thing any woman could ever do.