“Who am I in this scenario?”
“You’re my ward.”
“An orphan?” I give her a sideways glance. “Why not pretend you’re my mother?” People have commented on our familial resemblance since Fagin took me in, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to claim we’re related. The suggestion that we could be parent and child elicits a response that’s equal parts mock horror and genuine admonishment.
“Watch it, kid.” She shoots me a look. “I can still pass as your sister. Don’t be a brat.”
Fagin is a beautiful woman. Aside from being tall and lean, she has clear skin and auburn hair swept back into an elegant chignon. While she looks young, no one knows her real age. Not even me. She could be old enough to be my grandmother.
“Why France?” I ask, continuing to admire the look of the pearl choker on my neck. “If we’re infiltrating the English court, wouldn’t it be better to start in England?”
“This is why.” Fagin taps the touch screen on a handheld computer interface. A large hologram schematic of a historical timeline—a bright red line with blue labels for the key dates of Henry the Eighth’s reign—hovers above the table. She uses two hands to stretch the timeline, exploding a few months in late 1532 into a larger view. “King Henry, his lady, and nearly the whole of English court journey to France. The purpose of the trip is to secure the French king’s support of Anne as Henry’s legitimate queen, after he set aside his first queen, Catherine of Aragon. They arrive in Calais on 11 October 1532.”
She launches a separate timeline that spans Anne Boleyn’s childhood. “Lady Anne is more French than English in many ways, having spent a great deal of time in France when she was a young girl. She would likely welcome a young courtier from Francis’s court as one of her ladies-in-waiting.”
“If she loves all things French, she may have some redeeming qualities.” I return to the looking glass and pile my black hair on top of my head, then turn my head from side-to-side, getting a sense of how well this jewelry fits me. Would Lady Anne miss this pretty bauble if I relieved her of it?
“Let me put a finer point on this for you.” Fagin turns and notices I’m wearing the pearls. She gives me a wry smile, like she can see the gears turning in my head. “They suit you. Remember, my dear, the light field creating that necklace will dissipate the moment the simulation ends. The real thing is waiting for you in 1532.”
There’s more than just a necklace waiting for me.
I decide to change the subject. “You were going to put a finer point on something for me,” I say, removing the holographic pearls and placing them back on the velvet-lined tray.
Fagin puts her hands on her hips. “This is the most complex job we’ve ever had, with the highest possible stakes. Once the King and Lady Anne arrive in France, we have little more than a month to get into their good graces and secure an invitation to return to England with them.” She pauses for a moment and her smile broadens. “What do you think?”
“I’ll only need two weeks to get us to England.”
Chapter 5
There’s one thing that never loses its shine, no matter how shitty the circumstances: the crazy shot of adrenaline that blasts through my system as I walk a tightrope between pulling off the perfect heist and getting caught. Even training sessions can be a gas if I’m in the right mindset. When I channel that crazy energy—the lightning-in-a-bottle surge—it’s better than sex. There is the risk that if I stay in the vermin’s court for too long, my rage might suffocate me faster than death by vacuum after being blown out of an airlock.
There’s a familiar twitch in my fingers and as the hologram scene at Greenwich Palace springs to life around me, excitement vibrates in every muscle in my body.
Here we go.
Courtiers mill around the great hall awaiting the king’s arrival. The room is decorated with flowers and banners bearing the Tudor rose entwined with Lady Anne Boleyn’s falcon emblem. There are tables laden rich food, and the wine is flowing. Most well-wishers chat and laugh as though this is a normal party, while others whisper in huddles, casting furtive looks at passersby who might mistake gossip for treason.
This is an extraordinary day for the king. He has overthrown his first queen for a new lady, and everyone holds their collective breath to see what this new order will bring. Having just returned from a triumphal visit to France, today represents the first day of Lady Anne Boleyn’s ascendance to power.
The trumpets sound. People make way for the royal processional. From the depths of a curtsey, I sneak a glance as the king and his pretender queen pass. The hundreds of diamonds Anne wears — they drip from her ears and neck and are embedded in the embroidery of her white linen gown — are only half as incandescent in reflecting the candlelight as her face.
While she is radiant from the joy of her triumph, the King doesn’t gaze at her. Instead, he surveys the room with raptor-like eyes, searching for signs of disrespect in the sea of human faces.
It’s a good thing King Henry doesn’t look directly at me or he would see my rage. The Duke of Suffolk stands within arm’s reach of me. A brief fantasy plays in my head: Snatch his dagger from its sheath, rush the king and his lady, and drive the shaft into his heart, then hers.
Henry mounts the dais. Anne follows, taking her place in a chair next to the monarch’s chair of estate. According to our plan, the optimal window for obtaining the first item on the Benefactors’ acquisition list is the next thirty minutes, as the entire court is occupied with this nonsense. I walk through the room, chatting with Anne’s ladies-in-waiting—God, do they ever stop talking?—so
