Beyond rehearsing the mission tasks—the meticulously choreographed steps of the action plan, critical to get the job done and get out alive—there’s a been-there, done-that feeling from the Sim Lab sessions that bleeds over into reality when I’m finally immersed in the mission.
The taste of roast meats and jellied fruits served from silver platters with gilt edges are familiar, even comforting, because I’ve eaten them in the Sim Lab. The aromas floating through the room—everything from the acrid vapors of an extinguished tallow candle to the spicy-sweet citrus and herb pomanders people wear to stave off foul body odors—are familiar, too.
Legal Observers put their faith in the measure of comfort and security found in this familiar repetition. That view has always been foolish to me because there’s one variable no time traveler can control: the actions and choices of real people. The locals—the term used by Observers for indigenous folks—aren’t just study subjects, they’re also the monkey wrenches thrown into the works.
I guess it’s different for Observers who always color within the mission’s boundary lines. They’re note-takers, dispassionately recording events with a clinical eye for facts alone. They don’t concern themselves with a local’s unexpected actions that might throw a carefully crafted plan off track. There are three hundred meticulously dressed, jewelry-laden, half-drunk monkey wrenches in this room. It’s going to be an interesting night.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall is an odd mix of celebration and funeral dirge. Lady Anne’s supporters are giddy with their ascendancy into the political court stratosphere; those on Queen Katherine’s side mourn as though she’s already dead.
Before I reach the dais where Anne and Henry are seated, I hear a slight hiss as I pass a small cluster of disgruntled-looking courtiers.
“Jezebel.” The woman’s voice is faint, but I’d recognize that word—so pregnant with fully gestated, holier-than-thou judgment—whether it’s shouted from the rooftops or whispered as softly as a prayer at Mass. Many refined, respectable matriarchs in polite New Orleans society hurled that—and worse—at wayward women in the French Quarter when I was a kid.
Then, as now, judgment makes my stomach churn.
“Hold your tongue, woman,” a male voice says. “Lest you get us both thrown into the tower.”
Stealing a glance over my shoulder, only the backs of two heads are visible as a bald man clutches a woman’s arm as he steers her away toward the back of the room. At the front of the room, the king occupies the monarch’s chair of estate beneath a crimson canopy with gold fringe. Lady Anne sits next to him in a smaller chair.
“We’re missing some courtiers,” Fagin’s voice says.
I turn around and walk backward a few steps, searching for her tall, elegant frame. I spot her across the room, approaching Jane Seymour. She pauses and cranes her neck around as she surveys the gathering. “I don’t see the Duke of Suffolk.”
“How could Charles Brandon not be here? He’s the King’s best friend,” I say.
“Good question. Guess who else isn’t here?”
“Aside from Suffolk, everyone who’s anyone seems to be here. The French and Venetian ambassadors are over to your left, gorging themselves on appetizers,” I say. Fagin looks to her left and nods as she spots the pair helping themselves to candied fruit from one of dozens of gilded platters. “The ambassador from Flanders is chatting up the Dukes of Norfolk and Surrey over to your right. And the biggest threat in the room is Anne’s brother. He’s right behind you.”
Fagin’s shoulders sag at the prospect of fending off Mr. Hands. She sighs in relief as George Boleyn brushes past her and, his eyes locked on mine, saunters toward me. His curled upper lip — his exaggerated, gross idea of sexy — turns my stomach.
“Shit.” I move toward the dais, hoping I can outpace him getting to Anne before he catches up to me.
“Chapuys,” Fagin says, finishing her thought. “Ambassador Chapuys of Spain isn’t here.”
“He attended the same mass as Henry and Lady Anne this morning, but it was probably by accident and certainly more for his own devotions rather than a show of support for Anne. That’s probably as much as he could stand for the day. He’s thumbing his nose at the king by not being here, but Henry won’t risk open war with the Emperor of Spain by banishing Chapuys from court over it. Given the circumstances, you can hardly blame the Emperor’s man for not blasting a celebration trumpet.”
“Just letting you know some important courtiers MIA. No telling how these slights will affect Henry and Anne’s mood tonight, so proceed with caution.”
“Roger.”
Lady Anne laughs. It’s a hearty, full-throated sound that resonates from deep within her chest. Everyone around her joins in. It doesn’t seem manufactured or perfunctory. It’s raucous, infectious, genuine joy for Team Anne.
She catches sight of me as I negotiate through several clusters of courtiers and smiles, beckoning me to her side. I pause in front of the table and offer a curtsey to both her and the king.
“Come here, mademoiselle,” she says, waving me to join her on her side of the table. “I wish you nearer to me.” She motions for her sister-in-law, who stands behind her left shoulder, to move.
Lady Rochford stands her ground and communicates her disapproval with a dismissive ‘tsk.’ Anne turns in her chair and looks Jane up and down; her dark eyes narrow. Jane blinks and takes several steps backward to make room for me.
“You look ravishing tonight, your grace. There isn’t a woman here who can compare.” Flattering Anne is an exercise in self-control: sound convincing without crossing the line into sycophant. At least I’m not lying about the dress. It looks similar to the
“What a jewel you are. Every day you become dearer to me.” Anne grabs my hand and presses it against her cheek. “If only you could be another star in Constellation Boleyn, it would be
