I tried to settle on a loveseat as best I could with my silly costume, eager to hear the story. My struggle did not go unnoticed by Mr. Shakespeare. A bemused look crossed his face as he settled on to the chair beside his desk. I tried to bite back my annoyance as I was about to be told a story by one of the great literary masters, The Bard himself. Still, I found myself picking at his little mannerisms as though I were on one of my nightmare blind dates.

"Now," he began as I finally settled my fidgeting, "I promised a tale of tail and bite, which means only the king of beasts shall do. It begins with the glorious birth of Prince Henry Fredrick to King James and Anna of Denmark. The King, of course, wanted to mark the christening of their son at Stirling Castle with an incomparable spectacle even by royal celebration standards. And so, he intended to entertain his guests by arriving at the christening banquet within a chariot pulled by a lion. While the guests were abuzz, the courtiers were far less excited, as one would imagine."

"The courtiers," I nodded as my mind wandered to discerning what a courtier was. I settled on a helper of the royal family.

"The courtiers," he confirmed again with a hint of intrigued skepticism in his voice. "The evening before the lavish event, the lion forgot himself and lashed out; one poor soul was lost, and another is now lame in the leg. So, naturally, they had to cancel the elaborate entrance. No one could quell the fears that the lion would forget himself once more to more disastrous conclusions."

"More disastrous than the loss of a man and maiming of another?" My eyes grew wide at the tale.

Who would think that was a good idea? Had no one learned anything from Siegfried and Roy? My mind whirled until I remembered that Siegfried and Roy would not be around for nearly three hundred years. Suddenly, the loneliness of being out of my time struck me. My shifting mood was not lost on my company.

"Oh dear, I fear my tale was a bit too grotesque for your demeanor. I apologize," he jumped to my side and grasped my hand. "Can I offer you anything? You are as pale as a bedsheet."

His squeeze of my hand shook off the moment. "No, I'm fine. I apologize. I was thinking of those poor men."

"You are a kind woman," he commended as he settled back in his chair. "Now, where did such an unusually refined woman come from?" His lips pursed on a smile as he spoke.

I eyed him suspiciously. Would I be able to spin a tale more plausible than mine for a master storyteller? I doubted it but feared the truth would get me sent to a mental hospital. My meager recollections of the healthcare services in the time of Shakespeare made me want to avoid that at all costs.

I played to his toying. "I agreed to tell you my tale, but I did not tell you when."

"You clever girl," he scolded himself as much as he praised me.

"You are much more lively than I had imagined." I did not mean for the words to spill from my lips, but this William Shakespeare was so young and enticed by fun.

"I am not certain if I am more intrigued that I am lively or honored that I am imagined," his flirting twinkled in his eyes.

"From your plays..."

"From my plays, so you have seen them?" He pressed with the unmistakable gleam of pride in his eyes.

"A few," I nodded, knowing I was walking into a trap that I did not have enough information to manage. "Are you working on anything new?"

He gazed at me for a moment, determining if he wanted to allow me to direct the conversation. His shoulders rounded as he conceded. "I have just begun a charming piece about young love at first sight."

I loudly swallowed as he spoke of Romeo and Juliet.

A chuckle slipped past his lips. "Does young love fall with such a bitter taste that you must gulp it away?"

"No," but my voice came as a failing whisper.

"I sense dishonesty within."

"You seem to be a man with idealist views of love."

"Idealist views of love. You have an unusual tongue and command of words."

My face burned with embarrassment. I had just told the forefather of love stories that he had an idealist view of love.

"I should be going," I managed as I stood and fled to the door before he could impede me again.

This time he did not rise from his chair. His eyes followed me as I escaped from his door. Once safely on the other side, I took as large a breath as my corset would allow. Still, I must have pushed its limit as it moaned and creaked at my expanding lungs.

I tentatively opened the next door down, fearing I would be faced with Ben Jonson next. I sighed a further breath of relief when I found my room before me. I flopped down heavily on the bed and began to rip at my layers of clothes. I felt something that closely resembled myself when I was back in my nightgown. It was the only clothing that didn't make me feel like an overstuffed burrito.

I settled on a plan. The best way to wake up from a dream was to go to sleep. I laid back on what was starting to feel like a comfortable bed and let my eyes flutter shut. My mind whirled through my life in New York, hearing William Shakespeare tell me a ridiculous story about a lion, and now it was time to slip back to reality.