And so, they returned, again, to the Duck that was really a Bear. Clive had barely been in London a day, and he was already experiencing the first early symptoms of déjà vedūtus. One would almost think there was no other pub in London worth a visit... but, then, any chance to be near the divine Isabella was to be grabbed wholeheartedly by the root and throttled until it was limp. If only he could get but a moment alone with her...

But if he thought returning to the same setting would be dull, he was sorely mistaken. The Duck was an entirely different animal after dark....

Milly led with Jerry near at hand, followed by Isabella, with Clive bringing up the rear. Clive was doing the gentlemanly thing and definitely not glancing at Isabella’s ankles as they peeped from her hem at every step.

They wisely avoided the beer garden with its mortal cocktail of dim lighting, drink and archery, and the Thames entrance with its monstrous morass of randily rowdy half-drowned seamen.

The wall of sound that met them when they did enter was gum-juddering! Raw, raucous, caterwauling, the entire pub was in song (unfortunately, just not the same song, or, at least, not at the same time).

Milly had been right about one thing: half the crowd from earlier had been drinking nonstop since the flyting. Apparently, however, they had also invited their friends, and, in some cases, their whole families (in-laws, children, grandparents an’ all). Polly most certainly did not have things in hand (the item she did currently have in hand, somewhere under a table aways to the right, is not fit for polite prose), and any attempt to close early now would likely have required an armed intervention by the Yeomen, and possibly the English Navy.

Indeed, the crowd was now as much vertical as it was horizontal: women flipped their skirts as they danced on tables, some joined by booted menfolk; a fistfight had broken out in the centre of the room, cordoned by cheering pundits up for a wager; beneath the tables and benches, lewd offerings were being made to Asmodeus: Clive gaped as one man poured wine through a giggling maiden’s smock to land in the mouth of another on his back beneath her; and others defied gravity entirely, swinging three-limbed upside down on the candled chandeliers (which Milly had astutely had reinforced for just such an eventuality); a ten year old in a corner was murdering a piano, despite the fact that such a thing had not been invented yet.

Milly took one look at the scene, tutted, muttered something under her breath along the lines of, “can’t... for FIVE minutes...” and swung into action. Grabbing Jerry’s hand, who grabbed Isabella’s, who (much to Clive’s chagrin) did not grab Clive’s, she threaded them through the crowd to one of the less perilous tables at the peripherals, before launching back into the fray to rally Polly and the other barmaids.

Jerry, Clive and Isabella seated themselves. Jerry looked at Clive slyly and stood. “I’ll, er, get the drinks in then...” And then, he too, was gone. Which left Clive alone, awkwardly a seat distant, yet wishing to be closer, from the object of his affections.

Clive was suddenly acutely aware of the old adage: ‘be careful what you fish for!’

Isabella was not looking at Clive, and was instead watching the unfolding chaos with big beautiful brown eyes, her shoe dangling precariously from a scandalously naked ankle. She probably wasn’t deliberately ignoring him, but then, to the amorous mind, everything is deliberate.

Clive did what every good little Jon Duan does when the object of their affections ignores them: he ignored her right back, fixing his gaze somewhere far aways to the right. At first, the indifference was feigned, of course, but then his eye was quite genuinely caught by two strange figures at the bar, strange because they were so still when all about them were in perpetual motion.

Twin birches unmoving in a storm.

They were shrouded in white cassocks, giving them a friarly appearance, and their hoods were drawn up. Yet, there was something odd about the shape of their heads beneath the cowls, as if they were wearing at least one, possibly two, additional headpieces beneath. Their faces were pure darkness, with just the faintest pinpricks betraying that they had eyes at all. And it must have been a trick of the light, but, as Clive looked at them, it seemed as though they were looking right back at him. The air of menace was palpable, like heat from an angry spouse.

It was at moments like this that Clive was at his witless best. He yawned and turned back to Isabella.

But Isabella still hadn’t taken the bait: by now the sheer callousness of his aloof disregard should have had all her tragic female insecurities screaming for his attention. I mean, really, what did a guy have to do to make a girl take the initiative? Clearly, you could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make them dance the rigadoon.

On some deep, instinctual level (an instinct he shared with peacocks and cuttlefish) Clive knew his only hope now was to switch tactics; turn the tables; get her attention somehow; break the ice (albeit of his own making); wow her with his razor sharp wit and repartee. He settled upon an opening gambit so slick it was virtually in free fall:

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“Isn’t Jerry silly?”

Isabella looked at him, slightly startled, as if seeing him again for the first time.

“Pardon?”

“Jerry. Isn’t he silly? Jerry, I mean.”

The verglas snapped. A small smile. Result!

“Crazy, more like!” said Isabella. She lowered her eyes. “Not like you...” She sounded disappointed.

Clive bridled. “What do you mean! I can be kind of crazy sometimes! I once painted a long division sum on a sheep!”

Isabella looked at him anew and laughed good humoredly. “No, I mean it’s a good thing. You’re really… normal!”

Of all the compliments Clive could have wished for at that moment [insert: devilishly handsome / fiendishly intelligent / abundantly fragrant], ‘normal’ was NOT one of them. “Gee, thanks!” he said, crossing his arms with a scowl.

More laughter, and a slither along bench in his direction. “No, I really like ‘normal!’ After all, when you’ve got a Dad who’s a potion-pouring megalomaniac, and friends like... well, Jerry, ‘normal’ is rather refreshing!”

Clive, who wouldn’t have known a compliment if it had sashayed up and sat on his face, remained stubbornly surly.

...until a slim hand planted itself on his arm. Isabella had moved closer! He looked up, and found himself nose to nose, staring into the deepest grey eyes he had ever seen.

“I... I thought your eyes were brown earlier...” he muttered.

“Ah, you found my secret! They change colour,” she whispered, “Some kind of laboratory accident when I was young...”

“Oh!” said Clive, trying to sound rakishly unimpressed. Duan Hon! Duan Hon! “I hope you gave your dad hell for that!”

“He’s never forgiven himself, but I rather like it.” She paused, not breaking eye contact. “You know, Clive, the way you handled those beggars earlier...”

“Ha! Yeah, I showed them what for, didn’t I?”

“No, I mean... you were kind to them. Generous. I’ve never seen anyone give all they have away to the poor and needy before. It’s kind of sweet, actually. Terribly foolish. But sweet all the same!”

“‘Sweet,’ as in, ‘ruggedly sweet?’”

“Clive. Would you like to hear another secret?”

Clive nodded.

Isabella bit her lip. “Do you know what I like to do sometimes when the moon is full and my father is abed?”

Clive’s jaw went slack. “Sleep?”

“I–”

And this, of course, was the inopportune moment when Jerry returned. “Eh, eh! Beer for the gentleman, juniper gin for the lady!” Jerry placed the drinks on the table.

Clive crossed, flicking his eyes pointedly away. “Thanks, Jerry!”

Jerry shrugged. “Don’t mention it! Besides, s’your round!” Jerry plonked himself down slap bang in the narrowing space between Clive and Isabella. “Now, what were we talking about?”

Isabella looked around. “Where’s Milly?”

Jerry waved in the direction of the bar. “Ah, she’ll be busy a while with ’is lot. Looks like three is company!”

Clive recrossed his arms and slouched. “Looks like!”

Jerry looked Clive up and down. “Well, someone’s got the mulligrubs bad! ’Ere, I know what’ll cheer you up! Issy here is a bit of a dab hand at the ol’ tarot reading, ain’t ya Issy?”

Isabella shrank from the compliment. “Oh no, Jerry... Really! I’m very rusty!”

“All the more reason to keep your ’and in!”

Clive jumped at that. “Wait... you can see the future?”

Isabella shrugged, “Well, yes – I mean I just catch glimpses... but, technically, yes. I learnt tarot reading from my late mother, Gypsy Rose Barbara, but...”

Jerry elbowed Clive jovially. “‘Babs’ to her customers...”

Clive was confused. “Why’s she going to be late?”

Jerry looked apologetically at Isabella. “Er… don’t mind Clive, Issy, ’e’s... sou’vern. Hey, here’s an idea – why don’t we find out what the cards have in store for young Clive: the newly minted wannabe undertaker, eh?”

Issy blanched. “Oh, Jerry, I couldn’t possibly! I don’t even have my deck: it’s back home in my room!”

Jerry banged his bottle down hard. “Then by St. Agabus’s golden pate, home to your room we shall go!”

“What!” Isabella shrieked! “You! In Nonsuch House? My father would skin you alive if he caught you, or worse! Have you forgotten? You’re the enemy! Montague to my Capulet!”

Was that a Romeo and Juliet reference? Hmmph! Clive scowled harder! He was the one who wanted to Montague Isabella’s Capulet, so why was she talking about Jerry?

“But he’s not gonna catch us, is he?” said Jerry. “You know every entrance and exit in the entire plot. Besides, I thought the old ghoul slept early...”

Isabella conceded. “He does sleep rather early. He thinks it’s good for his halitosis.”

“Well, there you go! That’s settled then!”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Jerry!”

“Nonsense! I know Clive wants to see where you live, don’t ya Clive?” Jerry elbowed Clive pointedly.

On the one hand there was the mind-inverting terror of what the Alchemist might do to two of Phil Anbury’s men when they were caught apparently in flagrante delicto in his daughter’s bedroom. But, on the other, Clive truly was burning to see what mysteries lay behind the smoky panes of Nonsuch, not to mention the inside of Isabella’s bedchamber...

“Yes! Yes, I do!”

Jerry tapped the table with his bottle. “Drink up then, folks!”

Isabella frowned. “Won’t the Bridge gates be shut by now?”

Jerry grinned. “Tight as the crack of St. Pete! But I knows the guard who’s on tonight, and he owes me a favour...”