NaGeira by Paul Butler

told you of a play recently confiscated, a play depicting rebellion and the assassination of a king?”
    “I’d say it was a good thing—”
    “What?” he yelled before I had a chance to finish.
    “—that it was confiscated!” I stressed quickly. “A good thing you stopped it from being performed.” My heart was thumping. However irrational it was, the governor’s fury could lead me to the hell I had stumbled into when I tried to escape. I knew I would be dancing on live embers until I was safely away from him.
    “This play went further than the spilling of royal blood,” he continued, rubbing his hands together. His voice was hushed now and a knotted vein stood out on his temple. Each word he spoke was like a log to a fire, teasing out an anger that was always fresh, always renewing. “In place of Christian worship there was pagan barbarity. Its characters sought advice not from respectable members of the clergy, but from a coven of witches. What do you think of that? What do you think of the fact that such a spectacle might have played out to the masses a stone’s throw from the centre of this great Christian country?”
    His lip trembled as he looked up at me.
    “I think it a great scandal, sir.”
    “A scandal, you say, yes!” His pale eyes came alive in the candle flame. “But worse than a scandal! An outrage! This play is an insult to our dear Sovereign Queen and Defender of the Faith!”
    “Indeed, sir,” I agreed. “An outrage to our dear Queen.”
    The more his passion rose, the more the governor seemed to forget who I was. He was willing me to concur, visibly comforted when I did.
    “And where, I might ask, if you were the governor of Newgate prison, where would you place the villain who had scribbled such a treason and planned for its public performance?”
    “In limbo, of course.”
    “Of course!” he exclaimed, holding his fists in front of his chest and shaking them in triumph. “In limbo, of course. You have said it!” He grinned broadly at me, his eyes filling with tears. “How correct you are!”
    Then his mood changed again. His lips became pursed and he stooped over his desk, shuffling letters. “But I am not permitted. Can you believe that?” He glanced up, sniffed, then sat down. “He has influential friends in the city—debauched and disreputable courtiers who frequent the playhouses, and keep the company of such vermin. My hand has been stayed.”
    “It is a great pity,” I said, my confidence growing.
    I could hardly blame myself for a little hubris. A few minutes ago I was being threatened with limbo. Now I felt like the governor’s closest confidante. I could feel the confusion of my companions who guarded me.
    “My whip is fastened,” Mr. Jarvis added mournfully. He gazed into the candle flame bobbing on his desk. “My claws are pulled. But,” he said brightening, “I can use his presence to reclaim another.”
    “A good idea, sir.” I said.
    The governor looked up at me and smiled. “I don’t know whether the devil prompts you to such subtle and persuasive answers, young woman. But I mean to find you out.” He gazed at me with the same mild expression for some moments, then continued. “I told you I would make you stare ungodliness in the face and renounce the works of Satan. I need to know there is hope for you, that you are young enough to be purged of the evil that infected you in Ireland.”
    “What are you going to do with me?” I asked. My legs began totremble again and I felt Gilbert move in closer, preparing to catch my fall.
    “I cannot send the playwright to limbo. He is in the least comfortable quarters on the master’s side; that is all I’ve dared to do to him. But I could make things less comfortable for him by sending you to share his cell.”
    He watched me keenly, anticipation lighting up his face.
    I was not sure what to feel and had an idea that lack of protest would disappoint him. So I tried to look worried. And sure enough, he