Mary’s face opens up in an expression of incredulous disbelief. “Can any woman have such a life? These are bold words and dangerously close to treason,” she whispers. “Even my sister owes her allegiance to the king, as her sovereign.”
“Where I come from, Mistress Boleyn,” I lower my voice to match hers, allowing the spark of a tantalizing, utopian desire to embed itself in Mary’s psyche, “there are precious few who have not sacrificed their desires on the altar of convention and practicality. An independent life can be had if you want it enough.”
There’s a flicker of raw energy in her smile, and I sense an unexpected yearning begin to form within her. Mary Boleyn, feminist superhero. It could happen.
Mary loops her arm through mine and pulls me toward the dais where the King and Lady Anne now sit. “You should meet my sister and the king. They need to know how you saved me and—” She stops dead in her tracks and turns to give me a blushing smile. She shakes her head in a self-deprecating manner. “How silly of me. You saved me from those wretches, and yet I haven’t been courteous enough in return to ask your name.”
Gotcha. I smile and dip a little curtsey. “I’m Clémence Areseneau. My mother and I are wine merchants. We supplied the Madeira for this feast.”
Mary curtsies in return and giggles. “All the more reason you should meet them. They have high praise for the quality of the entertainment and your Madeira, esteeming it above anything else they’ve tasted during our time in Calais.”
“My mother will be glad to hear it,” I say. “And if it’s entertainment you seek, I write poetry and clever riddles. Perhaps I will perform something for you tonight.” Fagin catches my attention as she dances, and I point her out to Mary. “My mother is the lady dancing with the tall gentleman in the blue velvet.”
Mary gives Fagin an appraising once-over. “She looks more like your sister,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.
“So I’ve been told,” I say, motioning Fagin toward the head table.
“Your mother?” Fagin says when she catches up with me. “I should take you over my knee for that.”
“Try it,” I say, chuckling.
Mary ascends the dais and leans to whisper in Anne’s ear. Anne’s eyes lock on mine for a moment, then she turns to King Henry. They confer for a moment, and the English king gestures to us with an open hand. We stand before the dais, aware that all eyes are glued on us. Fagin and I offer our best curtsies in deference to both kings.
As I look up into King Henry’s eyes, anger sends a scorching trail of bile up my throat.
“And you are...?” The king asks.
“Clémence Arseneau, Your Majesty.” My mouth feels dry. Reflexively, I lick my lips. “Allow me to introduce my mother, Madame Fagin Delacoix.”
“Fagin is a curious name, Madame,” Henry says. “How came you by it?”
“A pet name given by my father, Your Majesty.”
I toss a curious glance over my shoulder at my mentor. Fagin knows everything about me and I know so very little about her; even her true name is a mystery to me. I talk and she pretends to listen, but never offers a glimpse of the real woman behind the austere, professional veneer. When asked something as simple and innocuous as the brand of her signature high-gloss crimson lipstick, the reply is usually, “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
There’s an awkward silence. King Henry commands her gaze, all but willing a truthful answer from her, but Fagin offers only a Cheshire cat smile. Clearly, she’s in no mood to reveal any of her secrets.
“Well, Madame Fagin, if that is how you wish to be addressed,” Henry says. “My sweetheart tells me that you are the purveyors of this Miracle Madeira.” He holds his goblet aloft in salutation. “We commend you for providing such excellent drink for our feast.”
“More importantly,” Lady Anne cuts in, “my sister says you offered a great service in coming to her rescue, and my defense, when she was accosted earlier. We are grateful for your friendship.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Majesties,” I say, swallowing the bitterness sitting at the back of my throat. “My mother and I are humbled and grateful for the privilege of serving the wine tonight.”
“It is a most exquisite drink. Its equal I have tasted nowhere before,” King Henry says. “Truly one-of-a-kind.”
“We would be most happy to bring our wine to your court, sir,” I say. “A more perfect way to herald your new queen I cannot imagine.”
Anne peers at me, barely suppressing the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She seems pleased we’re acknowledging her as Henry’s queen, but I know she’s been privy to many backroom conversations questioning her legitimacy to trust anyone on a first meeting. There is hesitant skepticism behind her eyes.
“What do you say to this request, sweetheart?” Henry asks. “I know how fond you are of all things French. Would you enjoy having this mademoiselle as one of your ladies?”
Anne looks me over, head to toe, before speaking. “Mary tells me they are clever and have many artistic talents. Tell me, mademoiselle, what employment can you offer in return for an invitation to our court? Everyone who attends me has some talent to offer.”
After dozens of Sim Lab etiquette and historical lessons—the endless chivalric games and politics simulations—I know the perfect, honeyed flattery Anne loves. “I offer all of myself to Your Majesty in whatever employment you think suitable.”
She gives me a tolerant smile. “Yes, but what particular talents have you to offer in my service?”
“I can offer talents in many leisurely entertainments, my lady. Singing, dancing.”
“My sister tells me you write poetry and compose riddles,” Anne says. “I’m very good at riddles. Do you have one that would challenge me?”
“Yes,” King Henry says. “Tell us a riddle. If it’s clever enough, you shall have
