“What was that?” asked Othello, coming down the stairs in his dressing gown, his sword and scabbard in hand.

“Mob of knobs,” said I. I held a finger up to hold a place in the exchange while I turned and chundered into the kindling bucket by the fireplace. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and said, “Here to hang you, methinks. Oh, and Brabantio is leading them.”

“Father?” said Desdemona, coming down the stairs behind Othello.

The pounding on the door and the shouting resumed, although it was mostly just “Hang him!” and “Black devil!” No one appeared to be crafting more hangnail metaphors after my scolding.

“I’ll not have this.” The Moor cinched his robe, then made for the door.

“Only let a few through the doorway at once,” said I. “Keep their attack narrow. I’ll dispatch any who get around the swath of your sword with my daggers.” I drew one from the small of my back and flipped it so I held it by the blade. “Fate willing, we’ll be knee-deep in corpses in two ticks, and you can call for sailors to mop up the blood and carry away the baskets of severed limbs.”

Othello paused by the heavy door. I held my dagger ready to throw and drew a second knife from the small of my back with my off hand. Desdemona stood on the stairs, her hands clasped over her mouth as if capturing a scream.

“Perhaps I should address them from the balcony,” said Othello.

“Excellent,” said I. “Get the tactical advantage, innit? Desdemona, put some oil on the fire to boil, love. We’ll scald the scurvy vermin before raining death and heavy furniture down upon them.”

I turned and made to run past Desdemona up the stairs, then swooned with nausea, dropped my daggers, and caught myself on the banister. “Fuckstockings, I’m useless—”

“Or perhaps we could find out their grievances and in the understanding, calm them,” said Desdemona, catching me by the shoulders and steadying me against another tumble down the stairs.

“Perhaps,” said Othello.

He was past me on the stairs and out on the balcony before I could retrieve my knives.

“Put up your shiny swords, the dew will rust them,” said Othello. “Good Senator, you shall command more respect with years than with your weapons.”

“Oh thou foul thief,” said Brabantio. “Where hast thou stowed my daughter?”

“Your daughter is safe.”

“Damned thou art,” said Brabantio. “No girl so tender and fair, yet so opposed to marriage that she turned away the most wealthy darlings of our nation, would find her way to your sooty bosom without you did bind her with spells. You, with your enchantments, hold her against her will.”

“That I do not,” said the Moor, rather more calmly than I thought appropriate.