Shylock had gone to Tubal’s house to assure that he could secure the ducats for Antonio’s loan, leaving Jessica and me alone in the house.

“Making a point will not return you to my good graces.” I could have crushed her paltry argument if I revealed that I knew the contents of her note to Lorenzo, although that would have somewhat undermined my own trustworthiness.

“You are the one who didn’t do his job, slave.”

“Lorenzo was not with Antonio. Would you have had me give your note to another of Antonio’s scoundrels and hope he delivered it to your beloved? Gratiano wanted it, that egregious weasel—may as well give it to old blind Gobbo and have him orbit the island with it for eternity.”

“Well, you must go back, then. Tonight. Papa and Tubal are sending a chest with the ducats to Antonio this evening. You will go with them and deliver my note to Lorenzo then. And wait for a reply.”

“I will,” said I, head bowed. And I would. And from there go to my old apartments to inquire after my monkey, Jeff, and my apprentice, Drool. I can’t imagine the great ninny making do on his own for a month. True, he had nothing of value except for his great size and a preternatural gift for mimicry, but fate does not favor the dim, and I worried about him wandering around unprotected in a city whose streets were filled with water. He swims like a stone.

“Tell me, now,” said I. “What do you know of this favor Antonio does for his friend Bassanio that would require he risk his very life for a loan? Do you know of it?”

“Oh, yes, Lorenzo told me of it. Bragged to his friends that he was so clever as to capture his lady love without risking his fortune like Bassanio. You know of the contest for Portia’s hand and estate?”

“Contest?”

She explained the bizarre lottery Brabantio had left his younger daughter to be prize for: three caskets, sealed with wax and watched over by lawyers, three thousand ducats for the mere chance at the lady’s hand. Oh, Othello, what a bitter mess you made of Brabantio when you married Desdemona. I thought that my murder was the limit of Brabantio’s hatred for Othello, but apparently he was reaching out from the grave to torment his younger daughter as punishment to the elder.

Shylock had not known the circumstances preceding Brabantio having been eaten by rats. Perhaps his heart gave out while he was carrying away his bucket of mortar. The scream that night—I had some hope that his last thoughts might have been of me. Now, with my terror tamed, seems ’twas a sweet scream indeed, although not nearly long enough. But now, to have Brabantio’s hatred spill out onto Antonio, well, perhaps the Fates were turning to favor a fool . . .