I waited for the “if” that should have followed, but it never came. He skipped ahead again, nonsensically.
“I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it.” He leapt off the table and ran to the window, thrust it open again. “He’s coming hither; now, i’ th’ night, i’ th’ haste!” He gripped the windowsill with white-knuckled fingers, leaning as far out as he could, eyes flicking back and forth through the bone-bare branches of the trees. “Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder, afraid he might fall if he leaned too much farther, and said, “But where is he?” Who did he mean? Richard? He wasn’t just playing—I could tell that much by the way he was breathing, staring, not blinking.
He dragged one hand across his face and gasped, “Look, sir, I bleed!” He brandished his naked palm, pushed it into my face. I swatted it down, patience rapidly running out.
“Where is the villain, Edmund?” I asked.
He smiled crazily at me and echoed, “Where is the villain, Edmund? A pause, for punctuation, yes? But not the playwright’s—commas belong to the compositors. Where is the villain Edmund? Here, sir, but trouble him not—his wits are gone.”
“You’re scaring me,” I said. “Snap out of it.”
He shook his head, his grin shrinking until it disappeared. “Pray ye, go,” he said.
“James, just talk to me!”
He pushed me back a step. “Pray you, away! I do serve you in this business.”
He shouldered past me, moved rapidly toward the door. I ran after him, caught his arm, and yanked him around. “James! Stop!”
“Stop, stop! No help? The enemy’s in view!” He was shouting by then, and he beat one hand hard against his bare chest, where it left an angry red mark. I struggled to keep hold of his other wrist. “The wheel is come full circle; I am here!”
“James!” I jerked on his arm. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“No less than all—and more, much more. The time will bring it out!” He wrenched his arm away and smoothed the front of his shirt, as if he were trying to wipe his hands clean. “Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion / Of my more fierce endeavor.”
“You’re drunk. You’re not making sense,” I decided, unwilling to believe the opposite. “Just calm down and we’ll—”
He shook his head grimly. “I have seen drunkards / Do more than this in sport.” He took a step back toward the stairs.
“James!” I reached for his arm again, but he moved more quickly, one hand darting out to knock a pair of candles off the nearest shelf. I swore and leapt out of the way.
“Torches, torches!” he cried. “So farewell!”
He dashed into the stairwell and disappeared. I swore again and stamped the candles out. The corner of a folio facsimile on the bottom shelf had caught fire. I ripped it out from underneath the others and smothered the flames with the corner of the carpet. When it was out I sat back on my heels and wiped one sleeve across my forehead, which by then was spotted with sweat, despite the cold March air blowing in from the window.
“What the fuck. What the fuck,” I muttered, and climbed shakily to my feet again. I crossed the room and shut the window, locked it, then turned and eyed the vodka bottle on the table. It was two-thirds empty. Meredith and Wren and Filippa had had some, certainly, but they were mostly sober. James had never been a drinker. He’d made himself sick at the Caesar party, but—but what? He hadn’t had half so much then.
His disjointed words echoed in the empty room. An actor’s rambling, I told myself. Method touched with madness. No meaning in it. I put the bottle to my lips. The vodka burned my tongue, but I swallowed it in one ugly gulp. Watery saliva gathered at the back of my throat like I myself might be sick.
I hastily blew the candles out, then started down the stairs, clutching the bottle, determined to find James. I’d march him out into the bracing air and keep him there until he sobered up enough to make some kind of sense.
I nearly crashed into Filippa at the bottom of the stairs.
“I was just coming up for the vodka,” she said. “Jesus, did you drink all that yourself?”
I shook my head. “James. Where is he?”
“God, I don’t know. He came through the kitchen a minute ago.”
“Right,” I said.
She caught my sleeve as I tried to brush past her. “Oliver, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. James is just about unhinged. I’m going to see if I can find him and figure out what the hell’s going on. You keep an eye on the others.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, of course.”
I pushed the Stoli into her hand. “Hide that,” I said. “It’s definitely too late for James and it might be too late for Meredith, but keep Wren and Alexander sober if you can. I’ve got a weird feeling about this night.”
“All right,” she said. “Hey. Be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Of James.” She shrugged. “You said, he’s not himself. Just … remember what happened last time.”
I stared at her until I realized she was talking about my broken nose. “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Pip.”
I slid past her, out through the hall and into the kitchen. The only people there were third-years, mostly from the theatre class. They stopped talking, looked my way when I came in. Colin wasn’t among them, so I addressed the group at large, raising my voice just enough to be heard over the music from the next room. “Any of you seen James?”
Nine of the ten of them shook their heads, but the last one pointed toward the front door and said, “That way. Bathroom, by the look it.”