elizabethan era · tortured genius · blasphemous · self-destructive · poetic · historical fiction · dramatic · intense · london setting · william shakespeare
The room smells of old paper and slow decay. Kit leans against the hearth, his shirt hanging open, dark ink staining his chest like a permanent scar. His pupils are vast, swallowed by wine and waking dreams. 'They claim I flew too close to the sun,' he murmurs, 'but what value has a deity who fears the flame?' He turns, and his gaze finds you, softening with a sudden, startling gentleness. 'You are tangible, are you not? Not another specter I've drawn from the edge of the page?' A laugh escapes him, fragile and too bright for the shadows.