“Speak of the devil,” Fagin nods at the acquisition list. “She’s adding more.”
In the bottom-left corner of the screen, the total number of records in the data set begins ticking upward. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight...
The count paused at thirty new items, then continued its upward trend.
One by one, Fagin displays the holograms of each new addition and reads the descriptions. “None of these look like low-hanging fruit: A silver locket containing a miniature portrait of Anne Boleyn painted during her childhood at the French court; Mark Smeaton’s violin and music sheets from the masque performed at Christmas of this year; BOTH goblets used by King Henry and Lady Anne at their wedding— “
“They married in secret,” I say, pushing the hologram image to the left to get a better look at the other side of these jewel-encrusted gold goblets. “No Observers have attended that ceremony. We only have vague dates as to when the wedding actually took place.”
“Looks like you might be the first, Dodger.” Nico sighed. “You’ll have to work that Mary Boleyn connection to make sure you get an invite.”
“With everything on this list, we could be in England for an entire damn year. Some of these items are located in Scotland.” My gut clenches at the thought of staying long enough to watch the birth of the English colonizer—Elizabeth Regina the First. Even as a squalling, red-faced infant, her entry into the world marks the beginning of everything that destroys Acadia.
Destroys my people. My family. I can’t bear the thought.
“The mission takes as long as it takes, Clémence.” Fagin regards me with a cool curiosity; her narrowed eyes convey the same suspicion when she knows I’m up to something that she hasn’t approved. “Also on the list is a letter from Queen Catherine of Aragon—dated in April 1533—smuggled by Spanish ambassador Chapuys to her nephew, the Emperor of Spain.”
“I guess she didn’t much care for your breakfast recommendations.” Nico replied. “This list seems custom-made for exacting vengeance or, at the least, teaching us a lesson.”
“April of next year? The letter to Spain is dated for next... year?” My breathing quickens into sharp, shallow breaths that make my chest tighten like someone is squeezing my heart and won’t let go. “No. No, I can’t stay until April. I can’t stay—”
The claustrophobia I felt in the Sim Lab during the training exercises hits me with the force of a battering ram to the chest.
I don’t remember standing up, don’t remember clambering over the table in front of Fagin to get out of the dining booth, but I must’ve done because the bench sits flush against the wall, and the only way out—if you’re sitting in the corner and someone is next to you— is if the other occupant stands up first.
Nico moves closer. He pulls me into an embrace and I’m surprised to feel wet spots bloom on his tee shirt as my forehead rests against him. Once I notice the tears, I can’t stop them. Great, heaving, sobbing tears spill out onto his chest.
“Hey,” he says softly against my hair. “Hey, come on. I know it’s a pain, but—”
“There’s so much you don’t know, Nico.” Fagin says. She sounds distant, like she’s talking from the bottom of a well. The voice I hear louder than any of them is the narrator from the Tudor hologram files the Consigliere gave me.
“...without Elizabeth on the throne in the sixteenth century, England would not have conquered what would ultimately become...“
What if I’m still here when Lady Anne’s conceives? What if I must watch as her belly swells like a watermelon? Can I watch her child come into this world, a squalling red-faced infant, knowing she is destined to destroy everything I love? I can’t let her happen. I just can’t.
Chapter 15
The portrait miniature is my exact likeness. It’s set in a sterling silver locket engraved with curlicue flourishes. There’s a demure smile on my face—definitely not painted from life because nothing about me is demure—and every color used, even the royal blue background, complements my features in a perfect balance of highlights and shadows.
I wonder how the artist—infamously temperamental Hans Holbein the Younger—painted this image when I know I’ve never modeled for him. This painting is so breathtaking in its delicate lifelike perfection, it feels as though portrait-me could step out of the painting at any moment.
How much would a Benefactor pay for a Holbein original even if it’s of me?
“Our artist is a genius,” Anne says, peering over my fingertips at the portrait. She holds her hands, clasped in front of her. Draped over the top of one fist is a thin leather cord; whatever is attached to the other end is hidden inside her palm.
“I’m flattered, my Lady Marquess, and confess to being quite confused,” I say. “I’ve done nothing to earn this gift.”
“It was my suggestion,” Mary Boleyn says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “My sister planned these gifts for her ladies to celebrate her triumph in Calais.” She wraps her arms around Anne’s shoulders and squeezes. “Since you have an honored position in our circle, I knew you should have one, too.”
I feel the weight of the stares from the other ladies-in-waiting. They’ve not been warm and welcoming, but I’m not here to be their best friend. It’s clear from their side-eye glares and subtle sighs of disgust, they don’t consider me worthy of a gift from their queen. I don’t care what they think. This Holbein original is worth bank to a collector back home.
“Mary was quite insistent that you be included,” Anne says. “When storms over the channel delayed our return to England, I asked Master Holbein to make good use of the time to paint your likeness as discreetly as possible. He only finished his work yesterday.”
I noticed the bearded, block-faced
