11

I KNOW IT MEANS NOTHING. A JOKE. A TEASE. I GREET YOU LIKE A sister. But I touch one finger to my lips, almost able to feel his again.

I stumble through the outer court and into the darkness of the tower gate, across the moat and up the stairs to the queen’s rooms.

Where reality hits me. I kissed the queen’s husband. Coveted my sister’s lover. Ridiculously pictured myself in the arms of the king.

The watching chamber ripples with gossip as I enter. Wyatt says they don’t remember The Château Vert. I should stop assuming that gossip is all about me.

I avoid the queen’s eye as I curtsy before her. I’m sure she can somehow discern what I’ve done. And how much I liked it.

I search for a place to settle, and Jane Parker smiles at me, then covers her mouth with her hand. Her cuticles are ragged. She glances over to where George is ensconced with the gamblers, his wine close by his hand. Tentatively, she pats the window seat beside her.

“Jane.” I sit cautiously.

“Mistress Boleyn.”

“Oh, please, call me Anne.” I’m irritated by her formality. She may be of the duchess’s confederacy, but we sleep in the same bed, for pity’s sake. She lifts her hand to bite the cuticles, but I put out my own to stop it.

“Has Wyatt spoken to you?” I ask.

Jane’s hand freezes beneath mine, and she looks at me like a startled rabbit.

“No.” She casts a glance around the room to see who’s watching, who’s listening. Frowns. “Why would Thomas Wyatt want to speak to me?” Her upper lip twitches at the corner, and she peeks at me from beneath her lashes. “Not that I’m not delighted at the thought, of course. He’s rather gorgeous. And highly beddable.”

I fight back the irritation that continues to grow.

“I don’t think that was going to be his topic of conversation.” Though it might have been, knowing Wyatt. The irritation threatens to ignite and engulf me.

“Oh!” Jane’s other hand flies to her mouth, and I can barely understand the words around it. “I’m sorry. Truly. I meant no offense. And no presumption. I forgot, I mean, I didn’t think . . . I’m sorry.”

She bites the curve of her knuckle and I wince because she doesn’t.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I say, thinking of Wyatt’s rule. Never apologize. Especially when you have nothing to apologize for. And I add, “Stop doing that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“It doesn’t really hurt anymore.” But she puts her hand in her lap and covers it with the other.

“Well, it will make your hands ugly.”

“That’s what the duchess says.”

“Probably the only time we’ll ever be in agreement.”

Jane laughs out loud and then ducks her head, her hands bouncing in her lap as she struggles not to move them.

“However, the reason I asked if Wyatt has talked to you is because he’s planning a masque. An interlude. An entertainment for the king.”

“And he wants me to join?” She sounds surprised.

“You were in The Château Vert.” I manage to say the name without cringing. “It’s not like you’re no one here. Your father is Lord Morley, a gentleman of the chamber.”

“But no one ever notices me.”

“That’s because you never speak.”

“I’m sorry.” Jane shrugs.

Again the unneeded apology. I had never thought about the useless, ineffectual habit of offering an expression of regret. Like bandaging a healed wound.

“But we’re going to change that,” I whisper to her. “Wyatt is penning his own script. For you and me and Mary.”

Jane’s expression is one of delighted awe. “Me and the Boleyn girls.”

I save the best for last. “And George.”

Jane’s smile completely consumes her, and I hope her joy can make a difference in George’s life. Perhaps with Lord Morley’s influence, he can get out from beneath Father’s thumb.

“When do we start?” Jane leans forward—childlike in her eagerness—and I feel a flutter of jealousy.

“I’ll let you know.”

Jane tilts her head at me.

“Are you his muse?”

“Whose?” My mind is full of the king. Of how I would feel if he were participating in—and not just viewing—the performance.

“Thomas Wyatt’s.”

My laugh carries an edge of embarrassment. Jane must think I can’t follow a conversation. I contemplate Wyatt’s inspirations, and his promised poem about me. One that will be passed down through the ages, he said.

But only if I win the bet.

“Hardly,” I tell Jane. “I think women in general are his muse, so he doesn’t need a lot of prompting.”

“Oh.” Jane appears to ponder this. “Well, he certainly seems . . . interested.”

“As I said, Wyatt is interested in anything in a skirt. And I know where my boundaries are.”

“You must admit it though. He is delicious.”

Her face is lit with mischief. But her expression alters in an instant as she spies something over my shoulder. I have to force myself not to look.

“Mind you, that one is striking as well.”

I turn. Henry Percy. His stillness is the complete opposite of Wyatt’s and seems to emanate from a deep discomfort. But Jane is right. Definitely striking. I look away before I can be accused of staring.

“The duchess says that he’s supposed to marry the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter,” Jane whispers. “But they hate each other.”

“Poor boy,” I mutter. The court is full of such stories. My own included.

“Hardly,” Jane scoffs. “He’ll be the Earl of Northumberland soon and will run the Scottish borders and half the country.”

I glance up again at Henry Percy—destined to be one of the most powerful nobles in the country. Destined from birth to be a member of the royal circle. A captive in Cardinal Wolsey’s household. So free, and yet still tethered.

He is an enigma.

And he’s watching me.