He slipped his arm around her and held her next to him, wondering if he should tell her of his bargain with Arangbar—that she had been released only because he had offered to take her from India forever. For a moment the temptation was powerful, but he resisted. Not yet. Don't give her a chance to turn headstrong and refuse.
"You know, I think you'd like England once you saw it. Even with no elephants, and no slaves to fan away the flies. We're not as primitive as you seem to imagine. We have music, and if you'd learn our language, you might discover England has many fine poets."
"Like the one you once recited for me?" She turned to face him. "What was his name?"
"That was John Donne. I hear he's a cleric now, so I doubt he's writing his randy poems and songs any more. But there
are others. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, a staunch adventurer who writes passable verse, and there's also Ben Jonson, who writes poems, and plays also. In fact, lots of English plays are in verse."
"What do you mean by plays?"
"English plays. They're like nothing else in the world." He stared wistfully into the parched valley spread out before them. "Sometimes I think they're what I miss most about London when I'm away."
"Well, what are they?"
"They're stories that are acted out by players. In playhouses."
She laughed. "Then perhaps you should begin by explaining a playhouse."