“Sister.” Mary Boleyn’s eyebrows fly up into her hairline. “Have you news to share? Do you speak of your coronation?”
Lady Anne notes that I still hold my necklace while everyone else wears theirs. She sweeps my hair to one side and secures my locket in place around my neck. I feel her breath on my skin as she whispers in my ear.
Fagin studies me intently; I can tell she’s trying to work out whether I’m on my game or if she’ll have to do damage control from whatever outburst might be coming.
My blood runs cold. It’s not Anne’s words that hit me with the force of a tsunami; it’s the arrogance bleeding through them like a toxic red tide. Her hubris is overwhelming.
All eyes are on me and I have a choice: lose my shit and strangle her where she stands or play the trusted ally, keeper of secrets. Out of pure self-preservation, I choose the latter, forcing laughter so deep and raucous that I cry real tears. I wonder if they can tell it’s all just an act.
“What is it?” several voices demand at once, laughing in earnest because I’m still cackling and the sound is infectious.
“Le falcon doit consommer le grenadier.” I repeat Anne’s words in sputtering gasps. That part—the wracked breathlessness stemming from disbelief mingled with grief—isn’t an act, but everyone seems willing to think the mania is still laughter.
Fagin, still watching me, moves to stand at my side and digs her fingernails into my shoulder. A silent admonition to pull myself together.
Mouths drop open. There are blank stares. “The falcon shall consume the pomegranate,” I say, translating for those whose French is weak.
Lady Anne smiles and settles into a chair upholstered in crimson and gold. When she asks for a footstool, Madge fetches a red velvet pouffe, and carefully arranges it under her feet. Among the ladies-in-waiting, flickers of recognition begin to spread.
“By the time the king and his lords finish their tour of the coastal fortifications the servants at Greenwich will be done replacing that Thin Old Woman’s pomegranate and crown badge with my white falcon holding a scepter,” Anne says.
Her message is clear: Change is coming. She will displace her rival as Queen of England. A mixture of confusion, shock, and excitement buzzes through the chamber as Anne defers any more questions.
“When the time comes, you’ll know all there is to know.” She smiles and I want to strangle her all the more.
“I think Lady Anne’s pronouncements are a bit premature,” Nico says. “Her coronation doesn’t occur until the end of May next year. She must be talking about the wedding to King Henry or she’s referencing when her child is conceived, which, according to historical holograms, both occur around Christmas.”
“Christmas,” I say, murmuring under my breath. “Doesn’t give me much time.”
There’s a brief silence on the other end of the CommLink. “Enough time for what?” Nico asks.
“Nothing,” I say, murmuring again.
“Dodger?” His voice is more urgent, more concerned.
“Shh. I’m thinking.”
The door to Anne’s privy chamber swings open and George, the eldest Boleyn sibling, sweeps into the room trailed by two servants bearing more food and wine. He’s handsome enough, but the way he leers at the women attending his sister makes me feel like something slimy is dripping down my arm.
“Lord Rochford. Great. Watch his hands,” Nico says. “I saw some footage of him with a few of the French girls in Calais and let’s just say it’s not family viewing.”
I skirt around Anne and Mary, who move to greet their brother, but I’m not fast enough to escape him. He catches me around the waist and breathes into my ear. There’s the strong smell of wine on his breath. It’s not even noon yet.”
“Mademoiselle Clémence, leaving so soon? Every time I seek your company, you run the other way. If you keep avoiding me, I shall take offense.”
“You flatter me, Lord Rochford.” I say, attempting to wriggle free of his vise grip. “I’m a simple maid and not worthy of your attention.”
A tipsy laugh, ending in a high pitch squeal, escapes his throat as he buries his nose into my hair. George breathes heavily against my neck; the sickly sweetness of his breath makes me want to gag. Discreetly trying to free myself from his grasp isn’t working, and no help is in the offing from anyone else in the room.
“But I do fancy you, my girl,” he says. “Come, I’m sure my sister won’t mind if I spirit you away and entertain you with my poetry. But I must warn you, spend much time in my presence, and you may not maintain your honor for very long.”
“Fagin,” Nico says, a note of alarm in his voice. “You gonna take care of this or do I need to pay him a visit later?”
“I’ve got her,” Fagin says softly. She moves closer, keeping an eye on Boleyn’s hands. She can’t make any bold moves; it would risk flaring Anne’s temper.
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” I say, trying to calm Nico. Nico going rogue to defend my honor is the last thing we need.
“Our brother is quite handsome.” Anne’s flashes the kind of smile a bad influence gives as they talk you into doing something rash and stupid. “I think you would thoroughly enjoy his...poetry.”
Mary goes wide-eyed and a delighted gasp gushes out of her. “I agree. George should share his ‘poetry’ with our new friend. Then, she can tell us how she likes it; whether his words are slow and soothing or wickedly hard and— “
“Husband,” a stern voice chides from behind us. “Do you ever tire of making a public spectacle of yourself by molesting young maidens in full view of the entire court?”
George makes an awkward turn,
