“What will we do in Corsica? Shall we stay at a seaman’s inn? Go drinking and wenching?”

“I have a friend in Corsica. He will give us quarters.”

“Who do you know in Corsica?”

“The Moor, Othello, he is a friend.”

“The general? You are friends with the general of the whole Venetian Navy? How do you know Othello?”

“I did him a favor once, and he is forever indebted to me.”

“You are a scandalous liar, Pocket.” She bounced again, then leaned and rocked forward on the railing until I thought she might tumble over into the drink. “What will we do until Lorenzo arrives?”

And here I thought to at least put a path where a future had been pulled away.

“We shall have an adventure. We shall gather our forces at Corsica, then we will go to Genoa, to rescue another friend of mine. My apprentice.”

She would need something, a purpose, when she found out about her Lorenzo. Here’s the key, taught to me by a great grizzled warrior I once knew called Kent, who, when stripped of his lands, his family, and his good name, fought valiantly and against great odds to save the British kingdom. “Pocket,” said he. “If you stop moving, the shroud of grief will overwhelm you and you will wither and die, so you’ve got to find your purpose and no matter what, keep buggering on.” I did not revenge because I was incapable of mercy, or gratitude, or even joy, I revenged so I might live. I revenged for love. I revenged for my sweet Cordelia, who had sent me to Venice to show her contempt for their war, and by God’s blood, I would stop their war, and if I had to, I would bring their soggy city down upon them to do it.

Poor Jessica, what purpose had she?

“Are you crying?” she asked.

“Wind,” said I. “Salt air,” said I.

“You’re crying. You pathetic little girl.”

She elbowed me and I winced.

“Oh my, it’s your ribs, isn’t it?” She was genuinely distressed. “I forgot about your wound. I can change the bandage for you. I’m sorry, Pocket.”

“I’m fine, love. The wound is fine,” said I. “It’s just the wind in my eyes.”

The ship turned into the sun, throwing the shade of the sails over us and behind the ship: the glare on the surface broken, I saw her shadow moving beneath the waves, following us.

Oh, Viv.

Who had terrified me.

Who had flayed me.

Who had taken my pain.

Who had used me.

Who had fed me.

Who had buoyed me up in the dark.

Who had pulled me down to the depths.

Who left me on the safe shores of light.

Who had stalked me.

Who had killed for me.

Who had given me life.

Oh, Viv.

On to Corsica.

Act III: The Moor of Venice

ACT III

The Moor of Venice