![]() ![]() Hastily, Kit grabbed a long black gown from the stool and slipped it over his simple doublet. He was also a man of hidden tension: focused yet undisciplined alert but frustrated confident yet racked by anxiety. In his late twenties, he was a man fully in his prime. Between his slanted eyebrows lay a small crease worn into the skin through frowning. Dark, sun-strained eyes stared back at him from the looking glass. Oval of face, he wore his long brown hair pulled back from his brow, and he grew a faint moustache over his lip and a thin beard on his chin. Kit was tall, with lithe arms and compact shoulders. At the far wall, before a small mirror hung askew, Christopher 'Kit' Marlowe stood and dressed himself quickly. Inside that room, motes of dust flickered through the light of a single candle. Above, at a second floor room, the shadow of a man moved past the window. City guards fanned out through the streets, watched at street corners, and made random checks on anyone passing through the shadows.Īlong one street, a pair of guards strolled past an old inn known as ‘Auberge du Passeur’. Sentries with spears prowled up and down the ramparts. Fort Risban trained its cannons across the mouth of the city harbor. Below, in the blue haziness of dusk, Calais had never been more dangerous for an English spy. The moon looked flat and pale and ready for a kill. Now is a time of poison, plots, and spies. Enemies at home and abroad loosen the Queen's grip on her country. Plague, famine, and religious persecution blast the land and rouse the people to rebel. ![]()
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