“I’m okay,” I reply, cutting off the question before he can ask. My breath calms into soft fluttering breaths.
He smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, that was great. I’m concerned—”
“Really, I’m okay.”
He frowns, then rests his forehead against mine. “Are you ever going to let me in there?”
“What?” I say. “You were just in—”
He places his palm on my chest. Gentle, yet firm. “You know what I mean.”
Damn. This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. Or ever, really. So, I do what I usually do: change the subject. “What if the Consigliere, or his goons, comes back tonight?”
“Not likely,” he says. He doesn’t look happy that I’ve changed topics, but doesn’t press the point. “He knows he made an impression.”
My stomach grows queasy over the possibility the goons could reappear at my bed side. A throw pillow—usually stuffed into the corner of the settee occupied by the interloper—lay discarded on the floor. It’s disconcerting how one small thing out of place can make the entire apartment feel less safe.
“You can stay, if you like,” I say.
“You sure? We both have early mornings tomorrow. I have to be at the docks by seven o’clock to review the ship we’ve been assigned. Don’t you have another training session with Fagin?”
“I’m positive,” I say, picking up the pillow and tossing it back into the chair. I throw a breezy smile on my face, hoping it covers my apprehension. “Fagin can wait. Besides, I want to ravish you again later.”
He glances at the door, then back at me. “I’ll double-check the lock.”
I smile—a genuinely grateful smile—and head for the bedroom. Nico also checks the window locks, then crawls under the covers with me and snuggles up to my back. Within minutes, he’s snoring softly. I’m not so lucky.
After twelve hours in the Sim Center with Fagin and another vigorous tussle with Nico, I should be passed out. As exhausted as I am, my brain is still wired and restless. I could lay here tossing and turning all night as I ruminate on the shit-show my life has become or move to the living room and ruminate there. Since Nico has groggily asked if I’m okay twice in the last hour, I opt for the latter. No need for both of us to lose a night’s sleep.
The Consigliere’s black box sits on the coffee table. I pop the microchip into the Comm Panel on the wall and slip a pair of headphones over my ears to avoid disturbing Nico. The retina screen displays the program catalogue.
“Computer, project all programs beginning with Tudor ER1.”
There’s a soft buzz as the hologram projectors emerge from the ceiling and walls. The three-dimensional image flickers to life on the coffee table, and I sit cross-legged on the settee to watch.
A red-headed teenage girl dressed in Tudor clothing stands near a funeral bier. Her face is sorrowful and even a bit fearful. There are two other women and a young boy standing with her. They’re all wearing mourning clothes. On the platform is a bloated mass of flesh. It almost looks human.
The Observer’s narration begins.
King Henry the Eighth has lain in state in his presence chambers for ten days since his death on the twenty-eighth of January, 1547. After his wife and children—including his heir, Edward—say final goodbyes, the king’s funeral cortege will make its way from White Hall to Windsor Castle for internment, stopping for the night at Syon Abbey.
In his last days, the king commanded one of his attendants, Sir Anthony Denny, to summon Archbishop Cranmer to his side. By the time the archbishop arrived, the King, while still conscious, had lost the ability to speak. Recording H8, one-five-two documents the last exchange between the archbishop and the king.
The scene changes to a dimly lit royal bedchamber. The Grooms of the Stool stand nearby, ready to perform any task required of them. King Henry lays on his deathbed as the Archbishop Cranmer leans on the edge of the mattress, tears in his eyes.
Cranmer moves closer to the king, speaking into his ear. “Your majesty,” he says, “give me some sign that you die in the faith of Christ.”
The room is silent and tense as Cranmer waits for an answer. There is nothing verbal, so he slips his hand into the king’s and speaks louder and with more urgency. “Your majesty, please give me a sign that you die in the faith of Christ.”
A beat.
Two beats.
“There,” Cranmer says in a hushed voice, “the king doth wring his hand in mind as much as he has the strength to do.”
“That is surely a sign of his hearty assent, Your Eminence.” Sir Anthony lets slip a sigh of relief. He nods at something the king holds between his interlaced fingers.”
I stop in mid-bite of another spoonful of my dinner, which has gone cold from neglect. “Computer, where did this file come from? I thought video of Henry on his deathbed didn’t exist.
“Unknown,” the computer answers. “I have no record of this information in my database.”
How did the Benefactors get someone inside the king’s chambers on the day he died? “Okay. Show me what’s in his hand. Increase magnification fifty percent.”
The program zooms in, but it’s not quite enough to see the object the king holds in his hands. “Increase magnification another twenty percent.”
The king’s wood sculpted rosary beads—the one on the acquisition list—emerges into sharp focus. “This better not be why I’m missing a night’s sleep,” I mutter out loud. “We already suspected he had the rosary on his deathbed.”
The recording jumps to the king’s funeral service. All but his son, King Edward the Fourth, are in attendance. The Observer picks up the narration.
Even after Henry’s break from the Holy See of Rome, the Requiem Mass is performed in Latin according to the faith the king practiced in his early years with Queen Katherine of Aragon, further evidence that Henry held to the
