56

SPRING COMES IN ON A COLD NORTH WIND, FLUTTERING THE sprouts of new leaves while the heads of daffodils plunge beneath it. Narcissus bowing before his own reflection.

Thomas is kept even busier. I see him less, now that I want to see him more. And the king . . . keeps watching.

I finally work up the courage to visit my sister. To apologize, no matter what Thomas told me. To tell her . . . what? That nothing happened? Nothing has. But I know that doesn’t mean it never will.

I make my way past the courtiers preening in the new sunlight, their feathers and silks bannering in the wind. Pick my way through the crowded lodgings to her door. Take a deep breath. Square my shoulders, as Father taught. And enter.

“Nan!”

Mary doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds delighted. She jumps up and holds me at arm’s length.

“Nan, are you all right?”

Mary loops her arm through mine and leans close. I can smell her hair—the lavender she uses to rinse it. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and the skin of her hand is so smooth.

“Do you love him?” I blurt.

She doesn’t have to ask who.

“Yes and no. I love Catherine more than anything. More than I ever imagined was possible. So I love whoever gave her to me.”

Mary doesn’t know who Catherine’s father is. It might not be the king. And perhaps, just perhaps, the king’s waning interest will not break Mary’s heart. I succor myself with that thought, but it’s like trying to fill an empty stomach with cherry comfits.

“You look pale, Nan. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.”

She pulls me through the door and sits me down by the fire. She moves so smoothly. She is so serene.

“Will you play?” she asks. My lute—Thomas’s lute—is in the corner.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not my Nan.” Mary smiles gently. “Give up an opportunity to play? What have you done with my sister?”

She no longer knows me. She knows nothing of what is happening at court. My sister inhabits her own world, and no one can puncture the bubble of it and intrude.

“I’m nobody’s Nan,” I say, and pinch my lip between my teeth to prevent the tears that threaten. “I belong to no one, Mary.”

“You will marry soon enough,” she soothes, still not understanding. “The Butler marriage would never have made you happy. Shall I ask Father to find someone for you?” She pauses. “Or perhaps the king?”

She says this in a small voice, unsure.

“I think you have asked enough favors of the king.”

“Or perhaps given too many.”

“I didn’t say that, Mary.” I stop short of actually asking for forgiveness.

“No, you didn’t have to.”

“I’m not bemoaning the lack of a husband. I want to belong to myself.”

“You do already. Don’t you see, Nan? That’s why he wants to possess you.”

Men only want what they can’t have.

Mary knows. We hold the moment, caught tight in the stillness at the center of a storm. I am incapable of apology. And she is incapable of censure. Neither of us is willing to talk about it openly.

“I wish I were more like you.” She says it so simply. A statement of fact.

“No one wants to be like me. At least, no one should.” Lost. Alone. Hunted.

Broken.

“No, you’re wrong, Nan,” Mary says softly. “You’re strong. You’re so sure. You know what you want, and you’re not afraid to make it happen. You don’t let anyone walk on you or take anything from you.”

But I do. I did. Percy took from me.

And Thomas could take everything.

Her eyes slide away from mine. Mary has always had what I wanted. Beauty. Charm. Kindness. The king.

“I’m afraid.”

I don’t realize the words have come from me until I see Mary’s reaction to them. Her eyes widen, and she presses her lips together.

“You?” she asks. “Nan, what are you afraid of?”

This.

I’m afraid I was wrong. Wrong about Mary, who never wanted to be better than anyone else; she just wanted to be herself. Never meant to mother me, just wanted to be a mother. Wrong about Jane, because she never deserved my pity. Wrong about George, who maybe never was my friend, no matter how I remember it. Wrong about Thomas.

I’m afraid all the things I’ve said and done will hunt me down and haunt me. Because the thing I’m afraid of is the same thing I told the king would make me happy. The thing I’ve been pursuing through the forest of my own life.

“Love.”