“I don’t need a disguise in Genoa, as no one here gives a lazy toss whether I’m a girl or not. And besides, it was either let him have at the hat in the sack, or try to wear it while he was having at it; either way, some hat fucking was going to get done. This seemed more discreet.”

“Yes, Jeff always had a taste for fine millinery.”

“Jeff!” cried Drool. “Me wee mate! Oy, Jeff!”

“It was my hat,” said I. “Perhaps he was just overjoyed at my scent on it.”

“Oh, he’s a right bundle of joy,” said Jessica, holding out the bag, which was still twitching rather rhythmically. “I brought some bread, cheese, and wine, since you said we were going to stay on a beach tonight, so I hope you don’t mind if Jeff is overjoyed all over your supper along with a fair flinging of rhesus feces.”

“Well, come aboard then. You can sit up here with me to balance the load.”

Drool rowed slowly forward until Jessica was able to catch the bow of the boat. She handed me the twitching flour sack, pushed us off, hopped in the boat, then sat down on the bench next to me.

“Which rather forces the question,” said she, “of who the fuck is that fellow sitting at the back of the boat?”

“Neptune’s salty balls! There’s a stranger in our boat!” I exclaimed, then revealing what is widely known as my most charming and lap-dampening smile, I said, “Alas, I jest. That, my pretty pirate, is Drool’s cellmate from prison. A Venetian, like you, Jessica.” I was laying it on a bit thick, before I had to get to the bit about paying the ransom. “May I present the trader and explorer Marco Polo.”

An hour after leaving Emilia, Iago was walking the high battlements with Othello, under the pretense that he would need to know the particulars of the fortress if he were to fill the void left by Cassio’s banishment.

“Who is that on the balcony, there?” asked Iago. A man and a woman, her back to them, the man facing.

“It appears to be Michael Cassio,” said Othello. “I will have him removed. There was no subtlety in my wishes. He was released from the brig on the condition I would not suffer his presence.”

“But, my lord, Cassio is an obedient officer even in his shame, for it was your presence you forbade him, and this, like his presence at the murder of Rodrigo, is merely an accident. See there, he is here to see your lady.”

“That is not my lady. Desdemona has no gown of that color. That is Emilia.”

“Slut!” Iago spat out with urgent pressure, as if a bee had flown into his mouth.

“Beg pardon?”

“I mean, Cassio does not know my wife, and those are your lady’s quarters.”